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.

Male Ear Piercing in Africa

A woman without ear piercing doesn't exist in my culture. Perhaps I need to be less categorical. Members of my ethnic group, the Soninke, have spread to far reaching corners of the world. I have cousins in Szechuan China, Sydney Australia and God knows where. I heard of a relative in Norway. I wonder how he survives; our roots are in the sweltering Sahel Desert and it's hard enough for me to survive the "play-winter" in North Carolina.

Back to our subject, ear piercing is a must for women in my culture. By their seventh day of life, every little girl takes a trip to the mean lady who runs needles through their fleshy lobes  and the ones of rare little boys too.

So yes, I lied to fend off repeated request from one of my sons. I told him piercings are forbidden for boys in our culture. He knows the truth now and understands it. Boys' piercings have special meanings and are generally a single hole to one ear. They do not wear a ring in it.

The only pierced man in my family was my father's oldest brother. Sometime during early childhood, he was said to have been struck by a deadly disease. His ear was pierced as a ritual to cast maleficent spirits away. He lived well into his eighties sporting a pierced right lobe envied by the males in our family's younger generations.

Male piercing for most ethnic groups in West Africa is a sort of talisman performed only in critical situations to avert evil and sometimes to attract good fortune. It's never for looks!!!

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...