The Bride Price: An African Romance (Chitundu Chronicles) (4 page)

My drawing is finished. It is a dress I want Ma to sew for me. It has leg of lamb sleeves that bell out above the elbow, and a dipped waist that comes to a point. The color is fuchsia like the African violets I love, not the pale blue everyone calls violet. I am more towards the colors of the sunset. I will wear it for Stephen’s wedding. Esther has asked me to be a bridesmaid and sprinkle the bougainvillea flowers for her processional.  I hope that Joseph will come. I can’t think how to let him know that I will be there. I don’t think Myrna will come, I don’t think anyone has invited her or knows her address except Dodge. ‘She is a past customer now,’ I bet he says. The market is closing and they are lighting the kerosene lamps at the food stands. The mosquitoes are coming out and the bar is overflowing with men.  Here comes Father. Something must have happened to the baby. 

CHAPTER 5
ALL IS WELL

It was late afternoon when Festal and Myrna arrived at Copperfine.  They had taken five days to make the trip, traveling by oxcart over the cracked red earth, and stopping along the way for pieces of fruit, roasted ears of corn, and kebabs sizzling at roadside stands near the small towns.  For Myrna, it was a time to observe who this man was that she had married.  She had left Blancville with a sense of resignation that her life was over. As they continued on their journey, there was an awakening to new possibilities. She grew used to Festal’s habits; of checking on his oxen, loosening their harness, and putting a handful of cotton under the part that was rubbing them. He made sure they had food and water each time the wagon stopped for the night, checking their hooves for a stone and cleaning the yoke to remove the dirt of the day’s pull.

Festal walked a long ways out in the bush to relieve himself. He asked her several times if she needed to stop, if she had enough to drink or was hungry.  He had packed two large wool blankets in the wagon bed and when she wanted, he would stop and she could stretch out.  She was still nervous doing this, and preferred to spend the daylight hours perched on the wagon seat beside him. The first day she watched as the pair of oxen labored, one starting to pull, then the second joining in, each matching the other in their steps, even when they decided to urinate. They were a well matched team, in strength and in temperament. One was a brindle bull and the second a solid red-colored bullock with a white tuft of hair between his set of long horns. They worked methodically along, neither paying much attention to what lay on either side, but very aware of the track they were following, and when it was time drink or to rest.

By the third day, Myrna had lost all interest in the oxen, the cart, or what direction the wagon was heading. Her neck and back were stiff from tension and the jolting of the cart. She accepted Festal’s hand as he helped her down and into the wagon bed.  Festal had never tried to touch her body or to embrace her during the entire trip, and it surprised her.  She didn’t know what she had expected, but it wasn’t this shyness, almost deference that he showed towards her. She saw he was well muscled and his strong back from the wagon bed where she reclined,  and how he slouched with the jolting of the wagon, his spine giving to the jerks and bumps of the unpaved track. Myrna liked the way he handled the animals. They had never had animals at their home in Blancville as the bricks and the firing ovens left no room for grazing or stalling an animal.  The family had chickens but these were kept in a small coop and not let out. Her father had hired a driver when he needed to go somewhere, or used the local donkey wagon and driver to haul in water if they were building an addition to the house.

When they got to a larger town, Festal suggested that Myrna buy a book for herself. He watched her pour over the bookshelves before selecting a slim volume.  “No, go ahead and get a bigger book,” he insisted.

She smiled and said “This is the one I choose.”  He paid for it eagerly and squeezed her hand as he helped her back into the wagon with her small package.  Both of them heard the laughter of the store clerks, and thought it was directed at them.  It was their first transaction as a married couple.

The red and dusty road to Copperfine was rugged laterite with few travelers along the way; each of whom greeted them and asked how the road lay.  The rains, which normally fell this time of year, were delayed and the wind built each afternoon with clouds bunched across the horizon. At first Myrna said nothing, but by the end of the second day she was looking forward to meeting with fellow travelers, no matter how slight the conversation, as Festal had said few words the entire trip.

At night Myrna and Festal stopped at guest houses where the two of them could refill their water bottles and take a shower and they could get feed for their oxen. Each night Myrna brushed the red dust from her hair, which the scarf could not keep out, and wiped her face clean. Then she coated her face with shea butter to stop its drying out. Festal was fastidious with his bathing and smelled fresh, even in the heat. He used a scented dusting powder on his feet which were covered with leather sandals. Then a little pomade for his hair.

Each morning he scraped his face clean of whiskers with a straight razor that he sharpened with a leather strap, but by nightfall it was once again covered with stubble.  They slept in the wagon, as it the nights were dry, and they had blankets to keep out the cold. Festal slept on the seat and Myrna nestled down in the wagon bed, covered in her sleeping cloth and wool blankets.

By the third day, Festal’s face took on a worried, tired look. At the same time, he had a vitality about him that showed Myrna his powerful side that was not to be trifled with. Her lips were starting to crack from the dry heat and she found herself wanting to make sure they did not.  She gathered some shea butter from her toiletries and applied it to them, and to her nose. She frequently had to urinate, and tapped Festal’s arm so he would stop for her.

Festal taught Myrna how to recognize different animals by their silhouette, and how to tell which way they were heading. He could spot an animal on the horizon before Myrna even noticed a herd. Sometimes he answered bird calls with a perfect pitch and listened for their response. 

”None of my relatives live south of Copperfine or we could bed at their place,” Festal explained.

“I like sleeping in the wagon under the stars,” Myrna said.

“Yes. I like to do things in the way I am used to. We can make better time as well.”

Myrna couldn’t imagine traveling any more slowly. But she was in no rush to get to the cattle station. It had been described so negatively to her by her sister. But after a few more days of traveling behind the dust and heat of the oxen, she was ready to arrive somewhere and get down to walk around for a while.

With no increase in words or speed, they slowly made their way towards Copperfine.

How had Festal ever come across Dodge and ended up married to her?  Myrna doubted Festal would share that information any time soon.  For now, it was enough that they were making their way together towards their future home, and where their baby would be born. She stopped for a minute to wonder if Festal knew she was pregnant.  How would he, if she didn’t tell him?  She let that thought drift away with the cloud of red dust the wheels had churned up.  She began to pray, for the first time in her life, that she would know the right things to say and do so that she would have a father for her child.  She hoped he would love the baby the way she was beginning to, even as it jostled along inside her. Why did Festal make no allusion to their coming together or their wedding day? Was he as much in the dark about what had gone on as she was? Then a new possibility dawned.  What if he was not the one who had taken her virginity?  She could not bring herself to use the word rape.  Rape was something that happened in the open savannah when you strayed too far from your tribe or family, or in the dark alleys of an unknown city when men had been drinking—not in your own home in your parents’ bed. If Festal had not taken her…

The cart stopped with a jerk. Festal stepped down from the cart and led the oxen. “We are very close to the cattle station,” he said.  “I don’t want to risk the oxen charging to get home and upsetting the cart, or you. Over there is the post office. If you receive letters, you can pick them up there.  I have never received a letter, as I don’t know how to write.”

Myrna realized now how difficult it must have been for Festal to make all the arrangements for the cattle, the marriage license, and the land without being able to decipher a word.   He had to trust Uncle Dodge for everything, and that was hard for her, his own niece, to imagine.

“If you want to write anyone, just let me know what you want to say and I will write the letters for you.  You will have to drive me to the post office though, as I have never driven even donkeys.” Festal reached over and placed his hand over hers.

Ahead on the top of a ridge was the house he had built. It was a rondavel with curving, smooth dark red walls. Black poles supported the thatch roof. At the base of the walls it was surrounded by a two-foot wide gutter that carried away the rainwater, if it ever came. At the back was a smaller building with a wall around it that Myrna guessed was the wash room.  At the side was a grove of mango trees and a large round cistern taller than a man. It was made from clay and blackened by fire, and had a small spigot with a drain flowing into a catch basin and the vegetable garden below. Near the cistern was a small kitchen with a thatched roof and a low wall circling the fire pit. An iron arm across the fire pit allowed you to hang a pot from it above the coals.  A platform with purple and red bougainvillea climbing its sides flanked the front courtyard. Round black clay pots, sheaves of roofing thatch, and calabash pots sat on top of it. A ladder made of poles lashed with rawhide leaned against the arbor. Under the platform, yellow calabash gourds and green watermelons twined around each other, their shadows making a filigree beneath the arbor. The courtyard in front of the rondavel was about 20 by 40 feet, and surrounded on three sides with a low curved wall of adobe and an opening at the front. There was a small storage shed for their goods and firewood. Her mind took in the scene like a still life painting that would remain in her imagination through the years for its beauty and clarity as she had never seen a landscape quite like this.

Myrna started down from the wagon, and felt Festal unexpectedly swing her up into his arms and carry her into the house, pushing the hand-hewn door open with his knee. 

She was slightly dizzy from the motion and surprised at how powerful Festal was. She was also amazed at his knowledge of a custom she had only read about.  He placed her on her feet in the room and she looked around.  It was tidy and cool with a single bed made of leather strapping against one wall, and a small oval mirror above the table that flanked the opposite wall. The thatched roof was held up by a spoked arrangement of timbers stained with black pitch. The adobe walls were plastered with a coating of white wash.

After her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the neat rows of shelves built into the mud walls forming a cupboard, and the two carved stools near the doorway. The floor was polished cow dung as hard and smooth as linoleum with a curved ledge around the edge which strengthened the foundation and could be used for seating. She walked over to the single window, closed with a dark wood shutter. She could see the door was made of mahogany planks, carved with birds and flowers. It was left open during the day and needed a curtain across the opening to keep out the flies.   This would be her home for her married life.  She loved the simplicity and order of it.

Myrna felt Festal’s eyes follow her as he watched her face. “I’ve got to put the oxen away,” he grunted, wiping his eyes.  Myrna reached her hand out and touched his cheek.  She would need to ask him in a few minutes where the latrine was, but for now, she swept her eyes over the room. She would be happy here, she decided. This would be a house of love. 

By the time Festal returned from unhitching and hobbling his oxen and shoving the cart closer to the storage shed, Myrna had removed her smaller books from the bag and lined them up on the shelves, along with their tea mugs, the enamel plates, and a small package wrapped in red paper. Her clothing was in woven hampers and she pushed them alongside the bed. She pulled her wooden pick from her hand bag and went to the mirror above the table to see how her hair looked. Dusted in red, it reminded her of one of their roosters. She cleaned and smoothed the edges with her pick pulling each curl into its ringlet.

The rest of the day was spent putting away the items from the ox cart and opening the wedding gifts. Each one recalled the friend or family member who gave it to them. There were more gifts than Myrna or Festal had ever received.  She noted them on a list so she could thank the giver when she saw them again.

In the evening after the fire was built, the water heated in the large pot, and the door closed, Myrna reached up on the shelf and took down the red box.  She handed it to Festal.  He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Open it,” she commanded.  He did.  Inside was a leather punch and red cow bell.  Festal was pleased and set them on the shelf beside the books.  He couldn’t think of what to say, but they showed him that she had thought of him and what he might like.  That was enough.

“The bed is for you, Myrna.  I will sleep on the mat.  It is what I am used to,” he said.  Myrna climbed onto the bed with its mattress filled with soft grasses, then she pulled the red wool blanket over her, smoothing out the quilt. After she blew out the candle, she found she was wide awake.  After a few minutes, she asked, “Festal, are you asleep?”
“No.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I am.”

“Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

The following morning, Festal was gone.  Myrna woke to the hee-hawing sound of love-sick donkeys braying in the far pasture below. She pulled her legs from the warm covers. The room was so cold she saw her breath. She removed her nightgown, arranged a
chitenge
around her hips
,
and wrapped up in her sweater. Then she pulled her wool socks on and up her legs before swinging her feet onto the cold polished floor. The room smelled of fresh thatch, smoky pitch, and Brazilian floor wax. In the outdoor kitchen, Festal had built a fire and water was heating. She heard the popping of the firewood as pitch flared up, and smelled the fragrant smoke.