Children belong to the father...or do they? Part 4

"Hey people, can you see that I stuck my finger in my own eye the day I pulled this bright girl from school and gave her in marriage?" Sirima snarled as he pointed to his daughter.
"Sirima, your blood pressure. Please, calm down," one of his wives advised.
"Sirima, God recompenses each one of us for our deeds. You did a good thing," Madinah said. "Marriage is a woman's dignity and you did what any good father would --."
"Nonsense," Sirima interrupted her. "The girl was smarter than all the boys in her classroom. Maybe all girls are not meant for smoky kitchen. Don't you all go to the maternity ward? Who is the nurse practitioner there? I thought it was a woman, hum? Maybe I should have listened to Hawah's teachers not you people. My daughter would be a nurse today, with everybody respectfully calling her Madame."
"Sirima, God has a different plan for everyone."
"Madinah, don't add to my pain. You people always invoke God to excuse your failures. You all got me into this."
"Okay, but there is no reason to despair. Let's send a delegation to Tandja. I'll join it so we can apologize to Tandja for Hawah's shortcomings and she will reenter her marriage," Madinah offered.
"No way. She is not going. Not back to a marriage to that halfwit. I was the one who disregarded talks about their son's mental unfitness. Look how they pay me back. My daughter is going nowhere."
On that, Sirima rose from his seat and stormed out of the room.

Children belong to the father...or do they? Part 3

Hawah began reading.


"Dear Sirima,


I pray that this letter finds your family and you in peace. I wanted to bring to your attention the event that took place here in my home. It is about Hawah and Manda's marriage.


It has been nine years since we brought the kola nuts and since Hawah has been here. After all of that time, she hasn't been able to assimilate into our family. According to Bakaro, none of the other women in the house can claim her as a friend. When it comes to Bakaro herself, she has been abused all that time by Hawah, day in, day out through that time. If it weren't for the kindness of our three other daughters-in-law, she would have died of chagrin a long time ago.


Now, Manda, my poor son. There is no husband and wife relationship between him and Hawah in the bedroom. I won't go beyond that except to say that Sedi being the only child they've had all this time is proof, if you need it.


My in-law, before I continue, know that my respect goes out to you. At this time however I regret to have to say that we're returning your daughter to you. She is released from the binds of matrimony we had placed on her. 


God's will is our will, and yours.


Sincerely, 


Djegui Tandja."

Each word drifting off Hawah's lips dissociated her further from the person on the yellowed notebook paper she held between her fingers. For a minute, it felt as if she was reading for one of the many neighbors who routinely enlisted her help when they received a letter. She looked at the words again. This couldn't be her they were talking about but she had no power against accusing in-laws, she thought. She took a deep breath, exhaled and clinched her jaws, readying herself for her father. Slowly she raised her head, blinking repeatedly to push away the tension in her temples.

Children belong to the father...or do they? Part 2

Before sundown that day, the dust-covered minivan carrying Hawah pulled into a swarming auto station in the town of Kani, toward the northern edge of Cote d'Ivoire. She climbed down and hung her luggage straps to her shoulder. It was a single satchel containing all she now owned in this world, two sets of clean clothes, an additional pair of shoes, her national identity card and a CFA 500 francs bill safely tucked in the folds of a weathered clutch. In the clutch, she also carried a folded envelop, a letter from her in-laws - ex in-laws - to her parents.

She walked the three mile distance to her parents' home where her unexpected arrival sparked a joyous clamor quickly followed by concerns. She showered, ate and remained in the room she once shared with her sisters. It now served as a storage and occasional guests room. Right after sunset prayer her father sent for her. She reached for the letter in her clutch and inserted it into her bras. 

Outside, a small assembly had already formed. Her mother and her sister wife - her father's other wife - sat side by side, a similarly afflicted demeanor on both their faces. Beside them, Madinah, one of Hawah's aunts mouthed a greeting and invited her to the stool near hers. Her paternal uncle was present along with another man from the community. 

"I invited you people here today as family and also as witnesses because I think something grave has happened," Sirima, Hawah's father began. 

"May God protect us," his brother replied. 

"Ameen!"

"Hawah has arrived here earlier today. I haven't heard from our in-laws ahead of time and none of us has called for her. So something is going on." Sirima paused and turning to his daughter, he asked, "Hawah, did they commission you with a message?"

"Yes," Hawah mouthed. Slowly, she reached for her camisole and pulled the envelop out.

"You are the literate one, so read it!" her uncle said.  

Hawah's arm folded reluctantly back toward her. Her trembling fingers fumbled and scrunched the paper until it finally opened. She cleared her throat, planted her elbows into her lap to gain control over her tremors, then she began. 

AT THE OTHER END OF THE STREET

The above was the prompt in our class a few weeks ago. My piece went like this:

At the end of the street was a narrow alleyway. We were not allowed there as children. Most adults didn't go there and none wanted to be seen in the vicinities. Some did venture behind the formerly white cement wall now rendered ochre by the flying dust from the unpaved road nearby.

They were men. Oftentimes, they went there at night but sometimes they did in bright daylight. They all acted the same way. They'd appear to wander past the compound, with no mind to the dusty walls and what bellies behind it. But you could always tell by the way they casted furtive glances to their surroundings. Then they'd suddenly turn into the gateless courtyard through a small entrance.

I knew it. I saw them. Like most children I watched the comings and goings of those men and I giggled. My mom hated them. She said that they needed to learn to control their pants. I wasn't sure what she meant but I think I knew. The mini skirts behind the mysterious dusty wall were telling.