A Love Story Untold Page 7

  “Father please,” Matinde pleads, her voice fearful, not that of my intimidating sister that I know well.

  “Then be kind to your sister, for that is what she is. You know of her affliction, so I expect you to help her through this night without any more mishap.”

  “Yes, father.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, as I follow after her back towards the brightly lit area of our home, where the music and noise is coming from so late in the night.

  “I know,” she answers after prolonged silence, her hastened footsteps not slowing down.

  “I didn’t mean to..”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she rushes to say this time, turning slightly to the side, though she still doesn’t slow down, as the path winds, and the large royal gooti structure looms right ahead.

  “They were talking to me, forcing me to speak,” I attempt to explain myself, feeling guilty that father threatened her with so grave a consequence.

  “They won’t anymore,” she tells me. “They were just drunk. remain with your peers and keep your head down. Chacha Renchoka and the prince will want to apologise..”

  “Matinde, no..” I say panicked, not wanting to be forced to speak with anyone anymore tonight. I want to go back to being overlooked as people go about husband and wife hunting.

  “Don’t worry,” she tells me once we stop before the flight of stairs leading into the raised royal building. “I’ll keep him company, and Chacha will be busy running after his sister’s skirts..”

  “What?” I ask confused.

  “Just- don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure those two don’t talk to you tonight. Okay?”

  “Alright,” I tell her quietly. “Thank you.”

  “Just keep your head low,” she tells me, before rushing up the stairs. A light drizzle starts again, so I follow after my elder sister.

  Chapter 8

  Everyone among my peers have been talking about this fete incessantly. It’s to be the last youth fete for a long time. Soon the long rains season shall be upon us, and with it the main planting season. It is customary not to hold parties or celebrations during the long rains season, except for the Mbura festival, the feast to the gods to bless our sown crops. This fete shall therefore be the second last party any of us shall be attending for the next three new moons. And for that alone, I’m exhilarated!

  “Princess,” I turn at the sound of my being acknowledged, and find the Nyabasi prince, with his faithful lapdog of a friend beside him.

  “Princess,” Chacha rushes to say, bowing his head to me.

  “Mura,” I answer him. “Prince of the Nyabasi,” I answer the prince.

  “I’ve been hoping to apologise for that night..”

  “It’s fine,” I rush to say.

  “No it’s not,” he says instead. “If we knew who you were we wouldn’t have..” I start to turn away, wanting to ignore whatever next he has to say, as I do not want to listen to someone that doesn’t think bullying a woman is wrong, unless she’s of royal blood.

  “Where.. I’m talking to you!” He says sharply, though his voice remains low, obviously not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention, especially because I’m turned away as he speaks to me.

  He’s persistent though, hurrying around me to stand before me, forcing me to meet his eyes.

  “I’m talking to you!” He grinds at me again, obviously not used to being ignored. “Don’t turn away from me when I’m talking to you,” he urges again.

  I look anywhere but at him.

  My eyes are searching the courtyard for my sisters. Weigesa, or even Matinde. Since father threatened to shame her on her wedding day, Matinde has being especially nice to me.

  “We just wish to apologise, princess,” his friend now speaks up kindly, his eyes finding mine. They are kind eyes, not hard and arrogant- and entitled like those of his friend.

  “It’s alright,” I mutter, looking flittingly from his eyes and then back to past him, not wishing to meet anybody’s gaze at the moment, unless I must.

  “No it’s not. We frightened you at your home,” the prince goes on to insist, commanding my attention despite my obvious disinterest. “It was just harmless fun, that was obviously not well received. And for that, we deeply apologise. We are muras, the spears of our brother kingdoms. We were born to protect, not to frighten our own.”

  I could roll my eyes right about now. I’ve never met with a more arrogant people than Bakoria warriors. My brothers are cut from the same cloth. Talking with so much fervour about their god-given duty to protect us women and children.

  “Like I said, it’s alright,” I manage, looking anywhere but at them.

  “I just wish..”

  “Brother, my prince,” a voice calls from behind me, and I turn in time to see the legendary female warrior walk from behind the large bonfire we are gathered around.

  It must be warm wherever she’s from, and is why her body glistens from the thin layer of sweat that has formed on her skin. She’s tall, as tall as my brothers, and her shoulders are wide too, wider than I’d expect on a woman as lean as she is. The muscles on her arms, chest and thighs ripple with tamed restrain as she walks over.

  Diagonally across her chest, running from over her right shoulder, down between her firm breasts and disappearing to the left side of her waist, is a leather strap holding the zebra hide shield I know she has strapped to her back as expected of all Bakoria warriors.

  On her hand is her long shield as she walks over to her brother. Princess Gati is her name. The oldest daughter of Maga Meremo, the king of the Nyabasi. It is rumoured that she longs to take the oath of Gake wa Maga, and help her brother rule the Nyabasi Kingdom in the future.

  “Sister, my princess,” her brother rushes to say with open reverence and admiration.

  “My princess, nyarmura” Chacha says with an almost wistful voice, if I’m not mistaken. He then ups and rushes off into the crowd as though wishing to avoid the beautiful female warrior. Rather unexpected, considering how much attention she commands from the general male crowd in here.

  “Princess of the Nyabasi,” I quickly say, bowing my head low.

  “Maiden,” she says looking at me flittingly, before turning to her brother.

  These Nyabasi are rather arrogant! I’m thinking to myself as I start to walk away.

  “She’s Maga Bagumbe’s daughter,” her brother says quickly from behind me.

  “Princess,” his sister calls after me. I nod, not bothering to turn around as I want to find yet another corner to hide in.

  We are in Nyabasi, at a party the king is holding for his daughter, the nyarmura, and is why we from Bagumbe have journeyed so far east just for a party.

  I had no desire to come, but a king’s invitation is only to be ignored if one is ill. My parents would hear none of it, mother calling me out at the cough I attempted to fake, scaring me by telling me that I was tempting the gods by faking to be ill. No one in their right mind would tempt the gods. It’s best to steer clear of their path, and the brightest Bakoria is the one that lives their whole life without attracting their attention.

  I am swinging in time to the music as I walk across the Nyabasi kingstead’s royal gooti so as not to stick out of place. It is larger in floor area than ours, but slightly shorter, as it appears to only be three times the average roof height. Ours is a lot taller, so much so that the patterns formed by the circular truss plan are almost indiscernible.

  I see a good place where I can hole up and remain invisible for the rest of the night. There by the stacks of gourd filled with millet mead and banana wine. There are hundreds and hundreds of them, so I’m sure the drinks won’t be running out even if this party was to go on for two more nights.

  A satisfied smile covers my face when I slip unnoticed behind the stacks, glad for their cover. From this vantage point, I can spy on the party and not be seen. There is my elder sister, dear Weigesa, finding it hard to stray far away from her betrothed than she has to. Mat
inde is doing great as expected. Half of the kingdom is in love with her, and the other half wants to be her close friend, to be associated with her.

  Yes, she’d make a great queen one day, were she to marry the Nyabasi prince. Only I’ll be sorry for them. I doubt the two most eligible people have any deep found feelings for each other. Not like my parents do, and in my opinion that’s the ideal married couple. They may make good friends, but I know Makena does not hold Matinde in much higher regard, and vice versa. It’s almost as though they’ve resigned themselves to a predestined fate that states that they ought to be together, whether they wish it or not.

  It’s fun watching it all from here, quite a lot of fun. It has changed my determined aversion to these parties and fetes I must attend, being that I’m now a maiden. I do enjoy myself, in actuality. I also learn a lot that I normally wouldn’t were I among them all evening as is expected. Like watching Mogesi, a Bagumbe warrior of eighteen run after Matinde who won’t even spare him a flitting glance. I also catch eye of Chacha Renchoka, the Nyabasi prince’s best friend, staring at the warrior princess with open longing. His interest is slightly different from the interest I see on the other warriors’ faces as they acknowledge the warrior princess. I don’t know much about love, but he clearly has very strong feelings for her. Sad, for when she takes the Gake wa Maga oath as rumoured, she won’t be marrying anyone for a long time, most probably never, for she’d have to wait until her brother’s rule is over.

  The band of musicians take a pause, and some of the warriors and maidens decide to take a turn at making music. Some of them are quite skilled at it, like the young maiden that takes up the tomba drums. At first most jeer at her, as women are frowned upon from playing the large drum. But once she starts drumming, the whole hall is silenced for a moment as they listen entranced. And then the loud whooping and cheering starts as all begin to dance to it. The rest of the youth trying out at the band attempt to keep up with her drumming. They do a poor job of it, but the dancing and cheerful mood goes on the whole time the band is on break.

  Next time the band is on break, when someone else attempts to take over the tomba drums, he is jeered, as all start asking for the maiden to take to the drum again. She does give the crowd what they want, and entertains them with a couple more songs. Her face lights up as her hands drum away, clearly enjoying herself as well.

  There’s something about the way she doesn’t play the tomba drum in the conventional way that is mesmerising. The tomba drum is the loudest of instruments in a band, its beat the pacemaker and its player the one that determines the rhythm for the whole band. However the tomba drum is often played at a much slower tempo, while the rest of the smaller drums tend to be faster and higher pitched. The Bakira maiden playing the tomba drum is however doing it a little differently. I study her hand movements intently as the band setup isn’t that far away from where I hide. Her left hand is playing conventionally, but her right hand plays as though it were playing the smaller drums- faster, interchangeable rhythms of varying intensity, creating a whole different tune altogether. But the band is once again back from their break, and the maiden in question is back to swinging and dancing away with her peers.

  I am so distracted, and is probably why I did not notice him come my way.

  “I’ll let my sister know how boring you find her party.” I turn startled at those words to find him appraising me with amusement.

  “I..” I start to say, but then stop when I realise that I’m not entirely sure of what I ought to say.

  “You’re a woman of few words. A rare quality,” he says chuckling, after waiting for me to say some more, and finally choosing to give up. I’m not sure of what to say to this either, so I choose to remain silent again.

  “Are you still angry with me? Is that it?” He asks. I shake my head at him.

  “No,” I tell him, reverting my eyes to the party before me.

  “You just don’t like me,” he states.

  “Of course not, prince,” I say. “I like..”

  “You can’t even finish that statement, can you?” He says chuckling. “Listen, I’m really sorry.”

  “I told you, it’s alright,” I try reassure him.

  “I’ll believe you only if you agree to dance with me.” I start shaking my head even before he’s done speaking.

  “I don’t..”

  “Everybody dances,” he hastens to say.

  “I’d rather not tonight,” I tell him. He keeps quiet for a while now.

  “You are still angry..”

  “Please, just leave me alone..”

  “You’re very childish. Holding grudges is typical of children..”

  “Then please don’t talk to this child!” I snap with an even lower voice, catching sight of some Bairege warriors coming over to pick yet another gourd of millet mead.

  “I’ve never met with a more insolent..” he starts to say curtly, but then seems to change his mind.

  “Have a wonderful night, princess,” he says briefly, before rising and walking around the barrier of gourded drinks.

  I breathe easier again when he lives, and enjoy the rest of the night hiding, watching the others.

  I think it’s my favourite party as yet.

  Chapter 9

  A running child bumps into me from behind, and I turn in time to see his contrite face.

  “Apologies, my prince,” the young boy says, his face filled with shame.

  “No worries,” I promptly tell him, widening my smile so as to reassure him. “Run along now and play with your friends. Just be sure to avoid this area, alright?” He nods at me, his narrow eyes opened as wide as they can be.

  It’s on these rare moments that I see the allure of children, that that has hearts melting at their sight. He appears to have witnessed four or five Meretis, if I’m not to be mistaken. His curls are yet wild and unruly, not having gotten to the age where he starts caring about his hair as any self respecting Bakoria male does. I smile to myself, knowing that in about three or four meretis, this young boy shall begin attempting to braid his hair as he sees Bakoria warriors do.

  “This is the grown ups’ area,” I add, to which he promptly nods, and then turns to run the other way, his millet costume drenched and in a shawdy state from his evident tumbles in the mud.

  I can’t help but laugh when I see him meet up with other hundreds of boys in costumes and slide down the muddy slopes that lead to the entrance to my kingstead below. I remember a time when I too was so young, and would happily slide down muddy slopes with my younger brothers and neighbours during the long rains season.

  The whole kingdom is gathered here today at my father’s home to celebrate the Mbura festival, a feast honoured to bless the gods and spirits and pray for a plentiful harvest. There are about a thousand Bakoria men, women and children gathered here today, despite the incessantly pouring rain.

  It’s been raining continuously for days now, intermittently between heavy downpour and light drizzles. We, Nyabasi people, have now been cut off from our other brother kingdoms, apart from the Bairege to the east, because the River Mara that borders us is flooded, and the bridges have all now been covered up by water.

  “Dangerous territory, looking with such forlorn at playing children, son,” my father’s voice booms over to me. “It means that you are starting to think of your own family,” he proceeds to mock me.

  “Of course not, father,” I rush to correct him. “In all honesty, I was just envying them.” This sends all the warriors sharing the table with us laughing, including my father.

  “I miss the days I could sledge down that slope,” I add laughing.

  “Haha, yes of course! Then you and your brothers would be almost indistinguishable from each other, with your bodies and faces covered in dark mud when your mother called you in,” father continues the narration. “How hilarious her face always was as she scolded you while scrubbing your faces in the rain..” father lets off as he is now laughing too hard to keep speak
ing.

  Soon the table is alive with everyone recounting stories of their escapades as young boys during the long rains season. And in almost each case, their mothers had chased them across their homesteads, and upon catching them, they were imprisoned in their arms and roughly washed under the rain, before being forced into their mother’s gootis to warm up before a fire. Our mothers don’t seem to have been that different, if you think about it.

  I then get momentarily distracted as my eyes catch the kingdom’s maidens around the musicians, dancing away while in cheerful laughter, seeming to sing a song about the rain and fertility. Their words of prayer to the gods are not of interest to me at the moment, as their body movements are. It’s father’s hearty laugh that breaks through my trance, making me turn his way to find him openly laughing at me.

  “Oh to be young and unmarried!” Father says, sending the elders and members of the kingdom’s council laughing when they catch eye of what has me so distracted. I turn back to them laughing.

  “Have you set your eyes on anyone as yet..”

  “Father! My saro is just on its fifteenth cycle! I still have time..”

  “Calm down, son. I’m just asking as an interested father,” father rushes to say. I look back at him apologetically, opening my mouth to apologise, but he just waves his hand once, letting me know that I don’t have to.

  “I’d just like to know if anyone has caught your eyes as yet.” I shake my head in answer.

  “There are many that have caught my eyes, father,” I tell him shrugging, to which he chuckles yet again.

  “What great problems you have, son. Picking out a wife from hundreds of young women more than willing to marry you in all the four kingdoms- great problems indeed!” We both laugh at this.

  “What about that youngest daughter of Maga Umbe?”

  “The child?” I ask with disdain.