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 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. 

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

Note: The following is a short story I'll deliver in a couple of short posts. It needs no special foreword only that I'm interested in your comments and your opinion on who children belong to should it come to picking one parent over the other. How is this matter decided in your culture? Stay tuned!

"I'm prepared to leave but I need my son," Hawah murmured.
"Who? Your son? Sedi is going nowhere," Bakoro, her mother-in-law cried out.
"But I can't leave him behind."
"Oh, you sure will. You're being divorced. Sedi is staying with his family."
"But I'm his mother, Bakoro."
"My son is his father." Bakaro's words fell, blunt like the open palm she raised and dropped down like a hatchet.
Hawah's eyes puddled with tears. From the wooden stool she crouched on, she had a profile view of her husband, Manda, languid as always. Never spoken up for himself since she'd known him. He sat there without a word even at his own divorce hearing. He was the epitome of the submissive child, now submissive man. He grew up in his parents shadow, especially his mother's. He toed the line even when she blinked. She decided what he needed and obeyed. He was debilitated by his self abandon to her that most people thought he was mentally handicapped. So when his parents found him a wife, he went along. Hawah showed up, tall, light skinned with a finely sculpted facial structure, freshly pull out of school by parents who believed that the dignity of a woman was in marriage. He was so intimidated that he always acted clumsily with her but somehow he managed to have a son by her, throwing one more being under Bakoro's rule. His hunched back remained of stone as his mother ranted on.
"My grandson isn't budging. Did you bring a child with you when you came?"
"Bakaro, please, calm down." The man who spoke was one of three elders who came to settle the divorce. They shared the divan with Hawah's uncle. Across from them, sitting beside his father on a bench, Manda still gawked at the ground beneath his feet. "Ndeh, my daughter, everything has an end but Almighty God's reign. It is the conclusion of this assembly that it is the end of your marriage to Manda. You'll have to return to your parents' house. The boy will stay here," the man added, caressing his short salt-and-pepper beard. His words were calm and serious.
"Eh, Bah, please beg them not to do this to me," Hawah wailed.
"Ndeh, children belong to their father. That's our custom," he said - his voice slightly cracking in the face of her pain.
Hawah slid to the ground. She moaned the sound of a wounded soul. Her pleading eyes ran to Bakaro sitting by the living room exit. This woman she had cooked and cleaned for day and night sat, lips curved in despise. Beyond her, she could see other women in the midst of their usual conjectures by the well outside in the courtyard. Her world was crumbling around her. She crawled toward her mother-in-law.
"Ndeh, there is no point in this. God's will is greater. You need to accept it," another one of the elders said. "Get ready, a taxi will transport you to the bus station."

On The Other Side

On the other side was my writing prompt from yesterday. I had arrived late to class and had no option but to write something brief and hopefully make sense. Here is what my pen laid on paper.


ON THE OTHER SIDE, freedom. She was married off at age thirteen. Her first baby showed up sixteen months later. Not even forty days after that, he tore through her and laid his seeds; two this time. Nine months later, twin boys arrived. She didn't love them, neither did she love the daughter before them, all fruits of his loins.

For seven painfull years, she squirmed under his sweaty body every night. Early on, she'd learned to retrieve behind the curtains of her mind from the first thrust up her belly. She would go the market, cook and clean, all in her head to forget his panting visage over hers. For her, he had remained a stranger, a stranger her parents had shacked her to, till death and death was were she was headed, for freedom on the other side.

Tying the knots

In most African customs, "tying the knots" is business between the family as opposed to a contractual ceremony between the two individuals concerned in western culture. It is preceded months earlier with the cola nut ceremony. The envoys of the groom's family meet the bride's family and in a small meeting, they obtain the promise that the girl they're seeking will be reserved for them. During this meeting, the bride's family receives a number of cola nuts and cash to seal the deal. 

In most west African societies, the actual tying of the knots or "tying of the marriage" as we say, is often performed in the absence of the groom and his new bride. Marriage is not considered a simple union between two people. It is a solemn engagement between family units, of which the groom and bride are just representatives. The male members of the families usually meet in a big gathering.  The setting is usually circular with the bride's family on one side and the groom's on the other, surrounded by their friends and other well wishers. The eldest member of each family speaking through a griot negotiates and irons out the specific terms of the marriage contract.

The dowry is set. Traditionally it used to be in a requested number of grams of rough gold and livestock. Nowadays, the cash is set in CFA Francs. The average cash dowry is no more than CFA 100,000 -approximately $225- a symbolic amount paid to the bride on behalf of the groom. The bride will also receive lose fabric, usually yards of wax print material. Her family may also request a cow for her fathers -the bride's father and her paternal uncles- which, after tough bargaining may be paid in nature or the equivalent value given in cash.

The bride's family will request a boubou -big traditional outfit- for her father or a respected uncle. Similarly, the mother(s) of the bride -her mother, mother sister wife and her aunts- will be given lose fabric or cash as a marriage gift. 

Once an agreement has been reach in the negotiations, then the bride's hand is officially given in marriage. 

This marriage contract does not get into the determination of what is expected of the partners as husband and wife. Instead, the rights and duties are presumed understood and may be reiterated in the family's advices to their son or daughter and during the blessing portion of the ceremony.

The "tying of the knots" usually precedes other ceremonies such as the "head washing" we cover in a previous post.

The Head Washing Ceremony (End)

As you would sit a child down, the matron gently lowered her in a sitting position. Half way through the motion, she raised her back in the standing position. She lowered her again and just like the first time, she raised her again. The third time around, Mariama was fully sitted on the stool. This ritual symbolises preparation to sit firmly in one's marital home.

The drums stopped for a moment. One of the women stroke up a new song and the other joined in. The drummers beat their instruments again. Dipping her two hands in the bucket, the matron said an expression, which is translates as "In the name of God", then she washed the bride's hands, then her face. Three successive times, she dipped her hands in the bucket and passed her wet hands on Mariama's hair front to back, front to back. She took the right foot out of the new sandal, washed it, repositioned it in the shoe. She took the left foot and did the same.

This ceremony is calling head washing but is not limited to the head. The washing of these parts of the body is for purification. It symbolizes the bride coming pure to the marriage.

A woman then handed her the towel, she patted all the washed areas dry. Sitting in the circle with her head covered back with the topa scarf, Mariama could hear the women clapping and singing a several songs over her. She barely heard what they were saying. She felt in a sort of out of body experience. All she felt for sure was the excitement that she would be soon with her new husband.

The women slowly walked her back to her mother's room. From there, after dinner, she'll be taken to a house a couple of streets away. A room has been prepared for her and her new husband for the next seven nights and six days so they may spend time together. They'll be catered to, visited by family and friend's and the celebration will continue around town until then. They will get to know each other personally, physically and emotionally. It's her family's wish that the early morning hours of that first night, the matron comes out with a blood stained white sheet to announce that she had saved herself for marriage.

In the next post, we'll address the tying of the knots.

The Head Washing Ceremony

The taxi pulled up in front of Mariama's house. One of the older ladies gathered the scarf a little closer around Mariama's face and cautiously led her out of the vehicle. Mariama guessed that she was the matron. A female griot coming in their direction, started singing the eulogies of the bride's family, the family she was marrying into, the past glorious moments of the ancestors. The crowd grew progressively bigger as Mariama was led into her mother's room. Through the narrow slit left where the matron's hand was holding the scarf under her chin, she could see that a crowd of men was already under the big acacia tree. She knew they were ready to tie the knots or as they say around here "tie the marriage".

Blogger's note: The "tieing of the marriage" is one of the most important rituals, if not the most important ritual during this African wedding. I'll elaborate on it in a distinct format in a future post.

The matron sat her on the edge of the bed and with the help of an aunt and another woman she didn't know, they changed her clothes to an indigo Topa long boubou (west african caftan) and wrap set. A matching topa scarf was put over her head. Her aunt brought a brand new pair of plastic sandals. The matron physically put each foot one after the other in the new shoes.
"The sun is going down. We need to go." She said.

Mariama had a vague idea of what would happen for the next seven days but she knew she'd be learning many unspoken things about her culture along the way.

A small crowd of women waiting in the living room, joined and formed a circle around her. There was now two griots singing. She could hear the drums beating louder. Some women were clapping to the rhythm of the drums. In the middle of a big circle, two young ladies were trying to outdo each other with various energetic dance moves. The matron was holding her scarf and a corner of her boubou to prevent her from falling. She slowly led her to a 12 inch high stool in the middle of the women. A new shower bucket containing water was waiting; beside it, a new towel neatly folded in a wicker basket. The only men present at this stage of the ceremony were the two drummers and some boys, curious about what all of this ruckus.

The matron stood her with the stool a couple of inches behind her feet and facing her, she held her by the shoulders.

To be continued...

Kidnapping the bride

At dawn, Thursday morning four of Mariama's mates enter her family home. It's still early and everyone is whispering so not the awaken the rest of the household. Furthermore, this was a secret mission and it was important for all involved to take the utmost care not to be discovered, at least until close to the of the day.

Mariama was already dressed and waiting in her mother's room. She wore a beautiful new wax print skirt set sewn by the tailor around the corner and a pair of plastic sandals. Her mother ushered her to the steps and with tears in her eyes she watched as the group of young ladies walked away shrouded in the early morning fog. One of the girls handed Mariama a red flower-patterned scarf to cover her head and shoulders and shield her identity. With felted but determined steps, they walked back to the street towards a destination up to that moment, unknown to Mariama. They were headed to a house owned by one of her companions' aunts. The companion's name was Ami. Brandishing a cellular phone, she explained that she'd called her aunt on her cell phone the night before and obtained the green light to hide the bride at her house.

Ami was a leader and that was always obvious to anyone who met her in a group of her peers. Like Mariama, she was 16 but shrewd beyond her years. She had never set foot in a classroom, didn't A from B that didn't seem to be an obstacle for her. She had her feet planted in traditions but her head swarmed with sounds and colors similar to the ones poking every western teenager's brain. In addition to a cell phone, she carried a "made in China" iPod full of western music and stars. One would expect her to be a trouble maker but she wasn't. She had about her something foreign to this place.
"I know what I want in life, you don't. I do things on my own terms," she'd often say, laughing at her friends.

The girls walked twenty five minutes and finally sneaked into a small beautiful villa on the outskirts of town. Ami's aunt was waiting for them.

To be continued...

Henna Night

Mariama couldn't believe this. All her unmarried childhood friends were gathered in her "little mom's" room. Little mom is the nickname given to the second or any subsequent wives or one's father. In a corner, half a dozen teenage girls were making music with an overturned calabash filled with old clothes. They were pounding on it with their closed fists and singing songs for the occasion. The best voice led the songs and the rest accompanied her with very rhythmic claps and a joyful chorus. One young lady held another calabash in both hands. The item was decorated with multiple cowry shells attached to three to five inches strings. She'd throw the calabash in the air twirling it three to four times clockwise and one time the opposite way. Her very coordinated hand tricks added a distinguished beat to the musical performance taking place.

Although some of the songs were about how the young bride would miss her teenage life and her family, Mariama was happy. She had butterflies in her stomach thinking about her new husband. Her hand was given in marriage a year before. Now 16, she couldn't wait to start her new life. The marriage was prearranged as was the case most of the time in her culture, but unlike most brides she knew her future husband. She had at least since him physically around town before she was informed she'd be marrying him. Also, in accordance with the rituals, in the past three months he visited her every fourth Saturday. They always met with a circle of his and her friends around tea and delectable braised meat prepared for the occasion. Any one on one exchange was under the watchful eyes of others.

She liked him. He was 23, unmarried and handsome. She couldn't believe how lucky she was. Most girls she knew went into marriage with their heart bleeding in silence, forced to live with someone they did not choose and whom they did not like when they finally got to see physically.

Sitting on a grass rug right on the floor of the now packed and noisy room, Mariam extended her hands and feet one after the other to a young lady who was creating intricate patterns on them with thinly cut adhesive strips. Once both palms and feet were covered with this artistic tapestry, three other young women joined the first one. Each one took a member and started applying thin layers of the henna paste prepared with henna powder, water and a little bit of sugar -someone suggested the sugar to add intensity to the color. When the application process was done, the ladies covered her hands and feet in plastic wraps, loosely tied strings at each wrist and ankle to secure the wrap, then slid oversize socks over them. She was then helped to the bed were she'd spend the night trying not to smudge the henna work by keeping her palms open and not moving too much during her sleep.

Outside, the street was blocked off. Dozens of mostly women family members, friends or simple acquaintances formed a big circle, some sitting on benches rented for the occasion, some standing. Two drummers energetically beat their djembe (pronounced jay'm'bay). Beside them a wood fire was burning. This was used every half hour or so to warm up the leather part of drum and sharpen the sound of the instrument. A professional singer was hard at work singing family praises and historic feats while women spontaneously entered the circle and danced. The singer was rewarded with a deluge of banknotes for the public. All the while, young girls walked around and served sweetened ginger juice refreshments and cookies made by Mariam's family.

The celebration went on until midnight. It was around 1:00 am when the last of the spectators dispersed. The same thing will go on again on Wednesday night before the big day on Thursday.

To be continued...