Category: Women Publisher: Cook Communication
ISBN-10: 10987654321
Type: Fiction
Pages: 672
Copyright: Oct, 2010
ISBN-13: 9780557404537
An older man falls in love with a young girl he actually wants to adopt.
Bound to Tradition is a literary African novel by a most promising African woman writer, Akinyi Princess of K’Orinda-Yimbo (her nonfiction Darkest Europe and Africa’s Nightmare: A Critical Observation of Neighboring Continents was acclaimed in literary circles as “Book of the Millennium” in 2008). The story takes place between 1952 and 1978. BTT is an unabridged version of the German translation that was published by Droemer-Knaur.
I loved the poignant style and picturesque dialogue – African/Luo as well as contemporary. This is a feat that only an accomplished writer can achieve so effortlessly without leaving the reader in doubt of what is meant. One is not only eagerly, glued to the pages, a smile on the lips and a tear in the eye but also transported to another realm of humanity. I’ve attended her readings to schoolchildren, women’s groups and the public in general at exhibitions. The princess could do a whole hour without the kids fidgeting. The adults want her to continue reading even after the break before discussions. Awesome. Then kids and grownups alike ply her with questions on Africa, Kenya, Luos and the characters in the novel. The author admits that there are autobiographical elements in the novel – BTT being the first volume of a trilogy.
There is something of a political statement in the book, but only in the arena of the human factor and cultural diversities. Fiction that serves to prove a point requires a skilful narrator, or it risks becoming tedious. The princess is such a narrator. Her talents as a writer are good enough to bring this readable novel to fruition. The plot is believable and thought-provoking. The bad guys are “bad” and the good guys are “good”, but always with that cultural diversity that is recognisable as a traditional mindset or even naiveté in all the characters. Here, what’s good for the gander is not automatically good for the goose. This makes the characters globally likeable and real. It could be any two diverse cultures clashing. Take the scene from Khira’s visit to a gynaecologist up in cool Sweden:
In the consulting room she was undressed and helped onto this funny bed. A moment later, to her utter horror, a man walked in.
"Goodday, Mrs Lindqvist. I'm Dr Carlsson."
She didn't shake the offered hand nor return the greeting.
Instead she whispered hoarsely to one of the nurses, "What's this man doing here?"
"This is Dr Carlsson, Mrs Lindqvist," the nurse smiled, stroking her cheek as if she was a pet.
"I didn't come here to see Dr Carlsson, I came here to see a gynaecologist!" she whispered again even more hoarsely, in anger.
"Dr Carlsson is the gynaecologist, Mrs Lindqvist" said the nurse.
????!!!!
She hissed again in her hoarse whisper, "My dear nurse, what’s the matter with you? Are you blind or are you crazy? Dr Carlsson is a man!" She was humiliated beyond her comprehension. She felt like a helpless victim of some savage tribe's grotesque rituals, laid out and held on an altar of some evil gods, being defiled for them, a pregnant sacrifice.
The heroine Khira is a sympathetic young woman very representative of young Africans who try to run away from their traditions and bump into modernity, yet bounce back to who they truly are. One’s tradition and cultures, so the message, cannot be shade off completely. Rather, one is best advised to be a chameleon and blend in with the reigning environment while remaining in essence the creature one is deep in the core. Khira is a heroine all or most young Africans will easily sympathise and identify with. But there will be those who will shake their heads in disapproval or disbelief. Like Khira’s acceptance of her husband’s sexual dalliances – “A man may do what he likes in this respect; he’s only a man!” As opposed to women who are “deities” guarding the planet, upholding the morals of humankind.
This is a book with the message on the passenger seat while the story does the driving, the steering. I highly recommend it. Ideal as a (Christmas) present for families, friends and relatives.
Prof C. N. Coolidge, Munich
Excerpt
When he went to wake Khira up at last, he was once again inundated with apprehension over Frances' pronouncements. He wrapped his arms around her on the bed and rocked her back and forth gently. Repeatedly he asked her whether she really loved him, desperate for reassurance.
"Really, really and truly love me no matter what?" he asked yet again.
Like a mother beast, Khira lived for the protection and guidance of this man as all Luo wives have done and still do for their men. The Fertile Planet had been created by Nature for women to safeguard and populate, and these two duties could not be done without the muscled infants, the glorified prize studs who guaranteed the brawn and provided the siring of sons and daughters. They were to be kept happy and contented almost at any costs. Khira could feel her muscled infant's every vibration, smell his fears, sense any danger that threatened him and tense herself, the African serval, ready to pounce in defence of her own helpless cub.
She took his face between her hands, talking in her intoxicating voice, this time not to entice the male but rather to soothe. "My life. You've never asked this question of me even once since we became man and wife. Now you've asked it repeatedly. Why, my all?"
He rested his cheek between her breasts, closed his eyes and told her about his conversation with Frances. He also pointed out the differences and quarrels they had had over his swap parties, over Dr Carlsson, over baby comforters, over the aristocracy behaving like fish market women.
At last she spoke earnestly to him. "My handsome warlord. You said that our differences act as catalysts to our relationship. Frances may not have used the right words, much less the right method. But she was only telling you how much she feels for you. Love is enclosed in a shell of understanding like a pearl. But when it's tortured by its own hunger and thirst, it breaks its way out of the shell, damaging its own delicate and sensitive smoothness in the process, to go seeking the nourishment it craves. Yet because it's no longer encased in that shell of understanding, love is now like a ship in the tempest of the seas with neither a rudder nor a sail. Or like the caged taking wing. The ship can only be still-bound in mid-seas, or toss and drift, but it cannot sail smoothly. Nor can the caged fly away. My father's daughter's love for her warlord is forever encased in its shell of understanding, son of your father."
He remained silent for a while, then raised his head to her smiling face. Wonderingly to himself in Swedish, he said, "She's too good for me. I don't deserve her." She ran her fingers through his animal fur and stroked his temple, laughing softly at his mumbling but saying nothing more.
And then in English, "Who are you, my soul, who are you?" he asked.
"Your soul, warlord. So," she pushed him gently away from her so that she could get out of bed. "Now I must get ready for dinner and welcome Fran. Come, I'll fix you a drink first, my life."
She led him to the sitting room and sat him on the settee with his drink. And was gone.
"You're like a drug," she said, entering the room. She was dressed in a black outfit that clung to her like a second skin. "I had a good mind to pick up my luggage and leave, yet here I am rooting for my corporeal sustenance. Don't you rise anymore when a lady walks into the room?"
"The new African influence. You look great, hellcat," he grinned, remaining seated.
She walked to the bar and poured herself champagne. "Our little madam still asleep?"
"No, my daughter's father's beloved Mamma is making herself pretty for dinner."
"And you're sure it's a daughter. Well, cheers, and hope you're right."
"She is. I know it from the feeling - my sixth sense that never lets me down. I wouldn't mind a son, of course, but daughters are special, hellcat. Her grandfather told me that a son is a man's strength and immortality but a daughter is his dignity, pride and honour. Now, that's noble, isn't it?"
"You'd be surprised what other men think of daughters, Erik." She raised her glass.
Mamma walked in twenty minutes later in a white silk chiffon sari to find Fran and Erik nibbling on caviar and Melba toast.
He rose and stood with his hands casually behind him, a soldier whose commander ordered to stand at ease. Khira shook hands with Frances. "You look beautiful, Fran. It's like ages since I last saw you. I'm so delighted you could come."
"You look lovely yourself, Khira. And certainly bigger and taller too. I'm glad too, to see you again. You certainly aren't the little girl who accompanied us to dinner at the Milano."
"Time passes by when one loves and cherishes." She indicated Erik, the culprit.
The three laughed still standing, and Fran wondered how and why she had stood up herself in the first place. The bloody pregnancy, she told herself. And studied Khira. The girl was not only bigger and taller, she also had a different air about her. The same natural grace in deportment and modulation of voice, but with a subtle yet unmistakable authority and the superiority that goes with it. She had parted her hair down the middle and braided it in cornrows on either side to the back of her head, then caught and twirled the ends with a silver clasp at the nape of her neck. Then she had woven a platinum and diamond necklace through the braids and the tear-drop diamond dangled on her high forehead between her brows. Every time the diamond caught the light and flashed, it was as if her dark enormous eyes were twinkling. Her breasts swelled out larger than Frances remembered, under the thin tight silk blouse of the sari. The valley between the breasts and the bulging belly was provocatively naked under the veil of the chiffon sari. On her feet were sequinned Indian sandals.
"That's a lovely sari, too. I adore them but I can't for the life of me put them together."
"It's the easiest thing in the world, my dear. The trick is how to do the fourteen folds correctly. I'll show you how sometime if you like."
"A fruity aperitif, my white dove?" Erik broke into their conversation.
"Oh yes, my life. With crushed ice, please."
"At once, Gudinna," he made his theatrical little bow and went to get the aperitif.
Fran sat down at last but Khira remained standing, looking in his wake.
"Won't you sit down, Khira?" asked Fran. More a demand.
"In a moment, my dear. Oh, I'd like to have a word with you after dinner, Frances. We'll tactfully retire to the balcony and have a hen chat, alright?"
"Why not? Good." The woman’s lips smiled but her brows were raised.
Erik came back with her tall glass of passion fruit and coconut milk juice and found her admiring Fran's jewellery. After giving her the glass he arranged a couple of huge cushions for her on the floor next to where he would sit and she finally sat on them, resting her cheek against his leg when he sat down. He cupped her chin in his palm as he laughed at her narration of her experience with the family on the trips they had made to Norway and to Denmark.
Like cupping the chin of a damaged kitten, thought Fran. Disgusting load of nonsense.
Khira touched none of the caviar which to her still tasted "like you didn't want it to taste".
Fran, munching, asked her whether she had met Karin and Khira told her about Karin having married in the spring, a couple of months before the couple's son was born. Then she began to tell Fran about her having met Nadia and made friends with her almost instantly. “She’s a darling.”
At last Mr Flynn announced dinner served.
