December 4^th 1994. Mbarara, Uganda

He walked briskly behind me. Tight, light, almost non- sounding steps. I gripped the straps of my schoolbag, my heart racing with each step. I looked over my right shoulder. He stopped to buy some fruits. I hurried on, determined to disappear among strollers. I was scared of going home with him. The street was getting very cold. I heard one man congratulating him on “…the new juicy things…” He caught up with me and we moved towards the famous Rubindi road bend. Tears began to stream down my cheeks now as I walked into my new life as his fourth wife. I pulled up the collar of my dress and turned my face away from the biting cold.

Some weeks earlier, Maama made the big announcement. The light knock at my door that Sunday morning was so unusual that it startled me out of sleep. The usual wakie wakie for Sundays in Maama’s house was always a loud bang followed by a string of warnings and threats on what would befall those who did not make it for church. So, when a quiet call came in, I panicked, wondering if everything was alright. I quickly grabbed a lesu, and headed for the door, jumping over a pile of laundry that needed folding from about three weeks back.

“Can I come in,” Maama requested. “I have a few things to tell you.” Ho! A few things meant being stuck in the same room for hours on end. We settled into comfortable positions then she started. “Mpozi, how old are you now?” I responded without any hesitation, but with lots of where-exactly-is-this-going on my face. Then she dropped the bomb. “So, have you visited the bush, already?” Now I had to sit up and calculate my next answer. If I had said no, she’d have gone on and on with a lecture about the importance of this activity, how it is done and emphasize the reasons over and over again. If I had said yes, she’d have asked to check my progress.

“Yeah, we did that at school. The matron helped us.” She was elated. She thanked me continually for taking care of myself as a woman ought to. I was still confused where this discussion was leading to when she, as if jumping away from an attack by red ants, whispered “Mzee Rwenkoona will be taking you soon. He has chosen you. Your father says it is an honour and blessing for us. Your husband-to-be is one of the most respected elders in our land. You know that, don’t you?”

I stared at Maama like I was looking right through her heart into the wall. She had to wave across my face to get my attention back.  I was glad when, with a wry smile, she cut the session short with the “Breakfast is ready,” announcement.

 “I will come back,” she said. “To talk more. You have to be well-prepared for the future if not I am to be blame!” I smiled.

“Why?”

This is the question my eyes asked everyone who congratulated me and wished me well. Why do they think I am happy to abandon school? Why do they think I am happy to be a fourth wife? Why do they think I should have no say in this matter? Other girls were busy preparing for the end of year examinations, I was locked away and being fed and fattened for him.  

We turned towards the trees that lined up to his house. He attempted to hold my hand. The disgust, eeish!  Maama’s conversation about ‘visiting the bush’ made sense now. I had to be fully prepared for Mzee’s satisfaction. I wondered if he had done any special preparations for me. My mind was lost in a fantasy. Imagine if I had proposed to Mzee. Would he have let me pay his bride price and married him? Would he be sweet enough to stay home and attend to the chores as I fly around on official duties? Please accept my proposal that you have to stay up late, waiting to serve me dinner or rather breakfast, when I come home in the wee hours. The dreams went on. Maybe if he doesn’t know how to make kalo and perform well in the bedroom I should send him back to his paternal auntie, the Shwenkazi for ‘coaching’.

Mzee Rwenkoona was my father’s age mate. A white-haired farmer with no known relatives. On the days when the kids were not amused by his constant threats to release his dogs on them for ruining his plantation, they mocked him for walking all the way from Rwanda. He often joked that his idea of having many wives was to build his lineage all over again. A jolly, easy-go-lucky fellow who laughed almost about everything including his hunchback that made him look delicately frail. When he talked, saliva formed at the corner of his mouth and he’d quickly wipe it away as he never let “small small things destroy his handsomeness.”

We were greeted by ululations and merry-making. Women, children and men gathered around to see the bride. After a sumptuous meal prepared and served by the women, I was shown to my room. Inside, I broke down, cried and even attempted suicide. I dreaded the nights when our husband came over. The forced kisses sending litres of saliva down my throat. My heart racing at the thought of having his heavy body on top of mine, sweating and panting, rubbing hard against me whilst whispering that he is almost there. I would stare at the ceiling on such days and count till when he’d get done. Nowhere to run to. I’d try to push away towards the wall, but he’d keep coming closer. On nights when I chose the other side of the bed, I’d have to keep pulling away while he kept pushing until I would be at the edge of the bed.

These dark nights brought forth the terrible memories I had of Uncle Blair when I was a child. The most successful and educated man in the clan, we all respected him. If he said “Jump!” you’d ask, “How high?” He lived in the city with his nuclear family and many times we made turns to visit them during school holidays. The exotic foods, the trips to the zoo and other entertainment spaces. We all loved these. But after three visits, I gave up and always let my siblings take my turn. All attempts by them to know the reason proved futile. It happened one day in Uncle Blair’s house in the city. I lay in the couch watching Living in Bondage, a favourite Nigerian movie, when he walked up to me and handed me a neatly-wrapped little gift box.  Hardly had I sat up to examine the beautiful box when he grabbed me, and covered my little lips so tightly with his huge sweaty palm. I could barely scream. He tore whatever stood in his way while I lay there, powerless, tired of fighting and just waiting for the end.

Only Maama knew about this. I told her about my plans of revealing Uncle Blair. I learned I wasn’t his only victim. The muscles on her face were tense now. “But what’s wrong with you Murungi,” she contorted her lips and said, “Now you want to tell everyone that you were raped? You will never get a man to marry you because this will be out there and every man will know you were used.” She paused here before continuing, unamused, “Who would want to marry a woman with such a story?”  After then, I started having nightmares that would startle me out of sleep, drenched in sweat. This wound, time did not heal.

Often times, Nalongo, the first wife would catch me staring at Mzee with disgust and anger. Nalongo was the most respected woman in this homestead. She had an edge over the rest because she had twins. Twins were associated with good luck.  She was about forty years older than me and had to duck to get through the door. I did not see the other wives as much. They spent most of the day in the gardens. Nalongo and I being the eldest and youngest stayed at home to do the house chores. One morning, after we’d both had our breakfast of unpeeled leftover sweet potatoes washed down with hot water and a few grains of teal leaves, she asked, “My daughter, you come and help me with this hair.” She sat in between my legs, I watched her unroll the passion and comfort she found in this home. I continued parting her beautiful semi-greyed mane in silence, separating a section into threes before breaking into a cornrow from the forehead to the back.  I worked in silence. She had on several occasions tried to get me talking. I could not trust anyone in this home. While she was settled and liked where she was, I was nauseated by everything. She noticed me fidgeting. She turned and looked into my eyes for long. I sat there, looking at her motherly stare. She took my right hand into hers and patting it lightly, asked, “Are you really okay here?”

At this point I wanted to hide my face in my hands because I could feel my eyes starting to well up. “Yes, I’m fine!” I lied. My face gave me away.

“You can tell me, you know,” she said. She asked me to join her on the mat where her big frame sat, taking up the whole space. My heart raced. I prod grasses and picked stones on the ground, then rolled them together before playfully throwing them over to the chicken running around.  

“I want to leave,” I broke out, almost regrettably, then started sobbing uncontrollably. We were lost in a warm embrace when Mzee walked into the compound.

“I’ll get you some food,” I said and excused myself. I avoided him at all cost. We only met in bed, when I had nowhere to hide. If the dark, thick-walled and almost empty room were to talk, it’d have had dirty stories.

“I can see she gets along with you more than the others,” he yawned and scratched his moustache absentmindedly.

That night, everyone in bed, Maria met me in the kitchen. She poked at my dress and whispered, “Do you have anywhere to go?”

“Yes!”

“Get ready then.”

It was when I was alone that night that I realized I really didn’t have anywhere to go. I only heard that my best friend now lived in the city. Besides, there was no way I was going to walk out of this village in broad daylight. Mzee himself would come dragging me back home like a lost goat.

I went to bed before Mzee returned from his night out drinking with the men. On such nights, the stale odour of tobacco and malwa would choke me until I whimper. I looked forward to the days when he’d have to visit the other beds. But still a ‘fresh’ bride, he spent most of the time with me or he’d be accused of bringing home someone he did not really want.

I had just blown out the flickering tadooba light, when I heard a light tap on my door. Then a whisper. I unbolted the lock and pushed the nail that supported the lock. The moonlight poured on her face. Nalongo’s shifty eyes said more than her lips. She reached for my hand, and squeezed in a small piece of cloth that looked like it had suffered seasons of dirt. It was brittle, like paper. “Please get one dress and go,” her voice broke the silence. “Mzee will not be back until Monday. This is all I have. I hope it gets you to your friend in the city.”