A Love Story Untold Read online

  They continue talking throughout the night, just funny stories and retelling of incidents at first, then I detect a pattern. Each funny story they tell us of an initiate’s past, or a woman or other that had done this or that, they end it with a lesson, though they don’t spell it out clearly.

  Like the story of the little girl of five that was sent on a water run to a brook by herself. Her narrow foot had slipped into a narrow nook between the rocks and she broke it. Had she been nine or older, the incident would have been alleviated. And had her mother escorted her, the child wouldn’t have remained there crying in pain, far away from anyone that would hear her cries until her mother ventured out to look for her. Therefore warning us that at no time are young children of under nine to make water runs on their own.

  They don’t only tell us stories of children, they also tell us embarrassing or unfortunate things that happened to maidens during courtships. Tales of a girl that was so convinced she was in love with one boy, and scorned all the attentions of another who dearly loved her, only in the end for the object of her affections to propose to another, and he that had sought her attentions had moved on broken hearted and found another more welcoming of his affections. The moral of the story that I gather by this, is don’t openly show your fixation to one suitor, but always leave the door to your heart open until you’re proposed to.

  Our meal is finally done, and more gourds of banana wine keep appearing, as we go on hearing tales that are meant to teach us lessons of womanhood.

  They also tell us stories of ruined girls. Girls that had chanced to get themselves pregnant during this period of courtship, while at the Pride Lake outings or out on evening fetes arranged for maidens and young marriageable warriors to attend and mingle.

  By the time the dancing begins much later in the night, our camping site lit by the brightly burning torches around us and the huge bonfire before us, I confess that I’m drunk. It’s the first time I’m drinking wine, not counting the few times I snuck a sip or two from my family’s storage, just so I could know how it tastes. And I guess this too is to act as a lesson on its own, for we are soon to be allowed to intoxicate ourselves, and we ought to be able to hold our liquor, or know our limits.

  Most of us are stumbling as we learn the dances they teach us. I’ve seen most of them already at Wandui’s wedding as performed by his bride’s peers, and I also saw it danced by Weigesa and Matinde’s peers the two times father had held an evening fete at our home in their honour. I’d not been allowed to attend, but I’d hidden behind the royal gooti and watched as maidens and young warriors danced the night away, amid cheerful laughter, talking, singing and drinking. Father will definitely hold a fete for me as well, and all maidens and unmarried warriors in the kingdom shall be sure to attend as he’s king.

  Mother says this period is to be the best time of my life. Barely am I expected to lift a finger to help with housework. The next seasons after my initiation are to be spent shining my washed self with scented oils every afternoon and riding out to a party at this or that home where I’m to spend all evening with my peers, or ride out to the Pride lake where I’m to swim, or bask lazily under the warm sun and flirt.

  The only housework I’m to do during this period is to help with the first meal of the day, water runs and to keep our houses clean. I’m not to pick a single piece of firewood, for fear that my hands might roughen up before I’m married, and hence scare away suitors. I’m not to grind a single grain for the same reason. On the mornings I have free, the older women in my family shall teach me to weave and mold pots and pans, but every afternoon I’m to spend in the company of my peers, being merry and flirting.

  I dread it all already.

  Later in the night, or early morning, when most of us are barely awake and standing, we are led to the shores of River Mara to wash our mud covered bodies.

  It’s dark all around, the glinting of the running waters warning us when we are close enough. The women lead us to an area where a pool of water settles over rocks, broken away from the rest of the the fast running water of the river. We are thus bathing when the boys arrive, though they remain on the other end furthest from us and bath there.

  Then the tauntings begin. This might be the only thing I like about being a maiden. The chantings of taunts and mocks as girls and boys make fun of each other. It first starts between the priests and priestesses in the water with us, but once one boy goes to answer, another girl answers him back, and soons the tauntings are between us initiates,

  I never once say a thing- of course, but I enjoy it all the same, and even a few times find myself cheering happily at something one girl or other among us has said.

  The two groups leave the water at the same time, but walk back their different directions to their camps. In the dark we fumble for our makeshift beds under the warm clear skies. No one is worried about it raining tonight as we are in the middle of the dry summer season. My eyes flutter closed almost as soon as I hit the bed of piled up soft grass.

  Chapter 4

  It’s been fifteen days since I last saw my mother, since I last saw my family. Today, however, my journey into womanhood will come to an end. After this morning, I’ll no longer be a child.

  The thought is as frightening as it’s foreign, looking at my own reflection in the waters of River Mara this clear morning. My large eyes dominate my boney face, short wisps of curly hair now covering my head. I’m just glad not to be bald anymore, for that look had sat terribly on one with features like mine.

  Each night this past fifteen days we’ve washed off our mud here, and each morning we’ve plied mud on ourselves there, shrouding ourselves in ‘anonymity’.

  The first half of the days had been spent learning on how to conduct ourselves during courtship, learning the daring maiden dances, as well as how to please our husbands. It had been excruciating to learn about the art of love making from shrivelled up old women, most of whom are past their sixtieth cycle. After the first evening and morning, we met with the boys again during the second half of the initiation days. That’s because the boys had gone off on their saro spirit run. Before initiation, each male Bagumbe age group must hunt and kill a lion with the use of handmade tools. We’d heard their war songs that first morning as they began their trek North, towards the vast Northern Plainlands past the Bakira brother kingdom, from where they were not to return except with a lion’s carcass hanging between them, as the lion is the Bagumbe kingdom’s spirit animal.

  We heard them loud and clear the day they got back, even though their camp is a distance away from ours. Their shrill triumphant war cries and jubilations had carried all the way towards us, and had awoken something in most of our hearts. Even in my own, there’d been a flutter of something, I suspect the awareness that they truly were men now. Eight boys of twelve or thereabout with crude weapons that could manage to bring down a lion are not boys anymore. They’re something else. They are worthy of being called muras, warriors of our kingdom.

  The latter part of our initiation period was spent learning about housework and crafting. Though the dancing was then restricted to just at night, the days were not as boring as I feared. We spent them competing among ourselves. The priestesses held competitions of whom could light a fire fastest, and eleven fireplaces had been set up corresponding to the eleven of us initiates. I hadn’t won, but it had been fun trying regardless. I was just proud when mine crackled alive, ranking me as the second fastest. Mornings spent lighting fires at home had prepared me for this.

  We also had weaving competitions, food making competitions, and we’d all vote on whose tasted best. We competed at mat weaving and basketry techniques, and each activity was done with a log tied with a cotton wrap to our backs to represent babies. Anyone that dropped the log that represents their baby was laughed at and shamed. I never once dropped my baby, and though I’m improperly built for a woman, I always ranked well in my womanly tasks. That’s the first moment I realized to myself that though my body might no
t be softly cushioned like most girls, I would make for a good wife and mother one day, something I’d never have expected of myself before.

  On this last morning as initiates as we wash our bodies, it’s evident that we feel differently about us. We are mostly quiet, unlike the boys on the other side that are chippering excitedly away, still talking about their spirit saro run.

  “Do you remember when it charged at you, Kurwa?” Someone is asking another.

  “I knew for sure I was dead,” Kurwa answers, the boy spoken to, as I lather the small curls at the top of my head. “Thank you for throwing that stone at its head when you did, Doto.” From the use of the names Kurwa and Doto, I gather that the two boys are twins, for those are names used for twins among our people.

  “You think I’d let him get away with my brother’s hand?” I shudder when I hear Doto’s voice say this. His voice still sounds as young as that of a boy, but his words are now delivered as a warrior.

  “Let’s see where it clawed you again..?” Another boy starts to ask.

  “Don’t open that wound,” is the warning heard from one of the male priests, and the boys are silent for a while, quietly splashing in the water at their corner like us girls.

  “Mogesi you did it,” now another boy breaks the silence by saying with open admiration. “When you clubbed that beast on it’s head..” He draws off here, whistling with incredulity and admiration, and the other boys now begin to praise the said boy, Mogesi. From how they speak, I know they’ll pick him as their musacha after their circumcision.

  A musacha is a leader of each warrior age-group, a role he holds until his death, a very much coveted role, as a musacha seats in with the king and other wasacha and the council of elders and help make decisions pertaining to the running of the kingdom. Each warrior age group has a musacha as it’s leader, and it’s musacha is the immediate army commander that answers to the chief army commander called Isamura. The Isamura only answers to my father the king, and the current Isamura is my eldest brother, Chacha.

  After our wash, we quickly dress up and are hurried back to our camp where the inchama prepare us for our initiation ceremonies. They draw white rims around our eyes just as my sister Matinde had done for me, only this time using white chalk. They also paint our torsos with coloured paints of greens, for fertility, and white for wisdom. Our hands and feet are dipped into orange paint as a symbol of industriousness, while on our backs are strokes of red as a symbol of blood, kinship, and our commitment to our people and our society as we are all bound by the same one blood of our first father and our first mother.

  Once again we walk in single files back to the first mother’s cave.

  It’s even hotter with all of us crouched inside it, it’s fire still burning hot, stifling and bright before us.

  I mightn’t have been informed about this part either, but I’m not entirely clueless. I’ve seen the dark strokes tattooed onto my mother’s inner thighs, as well as those of my sisters. I expected it to be done during this initiation period, before we are reintroduced into society.

  We shuffle on our feet in a slow routine dance we’ve known since we were children, answering in chorus to the priestesses’ songs, as one by one we’re summoned forward, and a tattoo of dark strokes in the shape of a jungle cat’s paws are emblazoned onto the soft flesh of our inner thighs.

  When it’s my turn, I do not hesitate for a moment to step forward. I’ve never really been afraid of pain, that’s a tangible obstacle I can easily overcome. What I’m frightened of is people, and having to interact with them. Those that don’t know me often find something they’d like to pick on about me. I’m happiest when avoiding their gazes, lying to myself that if I don’t see them, they don’t see me.

  I wince only a little when the needle strikes my flesh. I ignore the smell of my burning flesh as the strokes are intricately engraved into my skin permanently- four outward facing stokes before the dark round spot. The same pattern is replicated on my other thigh, and when I step away, the faces of my peers look at me with near admiration, as other than my first wince, I’d kept all signs of pain thereafter bottled up.

  Now my biggest trouble is to remain standing despite the smoke we’re being poisoned with in here. I’m so glad when the last girl is tattooed and the final prayer begins.

  “Bless my own,” we all chorus when the prayer comes to an end, each of us now positively scared that we might faint from the smoke, after all we’ve been through.

  One by one our names are called, and one by one the new maidens of the kingdom step out, while the crowd that has now assembled outside cheers in support. Our families have come to receive us, and every home with a newly initiated maidens shall be partying long into the night tonight.

  “Princess Nyangi, daughter of Maga Muniko, his royal highness!” I can hardly make out my way even as I hear the loud cheers welcoming me. My eyes are red and smarting from the smoke, a few shedded tears blinding me. However an old inchama woman steps up and leads me by my hand towards my waiting family, and I recognise mother’s warm embrace and welcomed musk before I can clearly see her face.

  It’s only when mother releases me to let me embrace my father that the cloud before my eyes has cleared enough to let me see again.

  Father then pulls away and lifts various chains of necklaces that he helps me put on.

  “Father,” I whisper in a gasp each time one chain follows another, heavily jewelled with the most expensive gemstones in the region. The last chain, the smallest one to sit inside the loose rings of chains around my neck, is the loveliest of them all. I gasp as the beautiful silver chain intermittent with chiselled diamond crystals and bright tawny brown topazes all around is clasped around my neck, which it hugs well but not too tightly.

  “Father,” I whisper again, unable to say another word. People are still clapping around us, and I know the next girl won’t be called out until my father is done adorning me. My adorning is taking much longer than those of other girls had, as I clearly have the most number of necklaces around my neck. I pity the girls still inside the cave waiting to be called out, so I breathe easier when father is done and steps back, after placing his forehead against mine in an endearing gesture.

  The people now cheer me on as my family and I step back, my elder brothers lifting me between them so that I sit on their broad hardened shoulders, high above everyone as another girl’s name is called out.

  I hate the attention, but my brothers never put me down. It’s on their shoulders I remain riding throughout the rest of the ceremony as the other newly initiated maidens are called out.

  Once every initiated girl has been called out, the prayer chants and songs begin, and families of the newly initiated maidens bring their gifts of gratitude to the inchama. It’s these generous gifts that ensure the inchama can afford their activities. Gifts of golden bracelets, diamonds chains, expensive silks, intricately woven baskets and mats- most are things the inchama will sell so as to buy all they need for supplies for the next initiation ceremonies, as well as any other expenses they encounter in their servitude to the kingdom.

  The boys’ initiation period lasts five or so days longer than that of the girls does, so today marks just the initiation date for us maidens.

  While most are still singing and dancing, the multitude heads out of the Holy Woods towards their riding beasts, while those that live near walk home while still singing and dancing.

  Mother is very proud, and announces that I’m to ride her mare with her. I ride at the front, unable to stop smiling as the praise songs continue.

  We were a large group when we’d left the Holy Woods, but the further down the Eastern Trade Road we travel, the more we thin out, until finally it’s only my family riding with me as we head towards our home, and the sight of the giant lion heads mounted on top of the giant spears that mark the royal bori is highly welcomed.

  Waiting for me at home are my brother’s wives, my nieces and nephews, my younger brothers, as well as my ex
tended family from other homesteads. My father’s brothers and their wives and their children and children’s children have also arrived to celebrate me.

  The attention is all rather too much for my liking, but I manage to hold my own throughout most of it, mostly because my mother or my elder sister Weigesa make sure to stay by my side at all times.

  One of my cousin plays the long tomba drums that sets the rhythm of the music, while an uncle of mine plays on his entrancing lulu in accompaniment, his commanding baritone leading our songs as the main soloist. A couple of my cousins play other smaller drums that accompany the commanding tomba drum of the leading drummer, while most that have the skill and are willing to, play the shakers in accompaniment.

  The tobo is my favourite instrument, but none in my family is skilled at it. Uncle Mwita can play it well, he that’s playing the lulu. However a band can do without a tobo but can’t do without a lulu. The lulu does make beautiful hightoned music, however it’s notes tend to register on the melancholic end, and if it weren’t for the lively drums and shakers, I’d almost be tempted to cry. So entrancing is the lulu.

  By the time we retire to bed, so late into the night that it actually is morning, birds chirping away cheerfully before the crack of dawn, I’m utterly exhausted.

  I’m heading towards my mother’s gooti where I’ve slept since I was born, when I hear Weigesa and Matinde calling me. It’s only when I turn their way that I remember I’m never again to sleep in my mother’s house. I’m a maiden now, and I’m to share the maiden gooti with my two elder sisters.

  Chapter 5

  Each day I wake up, I realize just how much I love my life. No one ought to be as happy as I am, it just isn’t right.