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.

Kidnapping the bride ( End )

Ami knew she and her friends were somewhat in control. The sun was rolling West and time was getting shorter. The ceremonial head washing of the bride had to be performed before dusk. She knew the search party was, by then,  relentless.
One after the other, the groom's best friend, aunt and Ami's mother called. All but her mother, were asking the same questions, irrated at times and seeming concialatory right after. She was a though negotiator. She remained calm at all times, getting on their nerves even more. Her mother was silently proud but she called to ask her to be reasonable in her demands and cut a deal. The aunt called immediately after having been reassured by Ami's mom that they will surrender the bride.

"Ami. Where is the bride?"
"Not so fast auntie. You need to pay up first. 7,000CFA francs" said Ami very assertively. Why 7,000? She didn't know but does that's what she wanted. Her friends were in awe.
Ami's mother wished she were as just like her daughter in many ways. She would always regret that her own upbringing made her too submissive and too respectful of anyone older, especially the ones who took that as an opportunity to hurt her. Now as an adult, she was also too guarded to the point of being what she herself characterised as emotionless most of the time and she was proud of her daughter for not being her in that sense. She admired that she was nice but very confident and spoke her mind when she needed too.

"You lost your mind, daughter. No one has ever paid this kind of money for ransom."
"I think you'll be the first, auntie. Can you call us when you have the full amount?'' she calmly asked the voice at the end of the line.
"Eh, eh, eh!" She heard the older lady exclaim. "Today's kids have no respect for neither their elders nor traditions. Look at this one, holding up a wedding for money!" she seemed address someone around her.
"Auntie, with all due respect, this is also part of our traditions. I respect you but we are the brides friends and we are entitled to compensation for loosing her. So our money..."
The groom's aunt realized that threats will not work in this case. She tried manipulation.
"2,500CFA when you bring the bride back or tell us where to find her. When I have her picked up and you girls get your money."
"Auntie, I respect you. 6,000CFA, nothing less."
The old lady was given 5,000CFA by the grooms family earlier that morning to face any demand for ransom. She was hoping to bargain down so she could pocket some of that money. Unfortunately it looked like she got the wrong adversary this time.
"3,000 is all you'll get."
"Then Auntie," Ami said calmly, "call me when you have all the money and I'll send someone to get it." She hung up and all the girls were still "high-fiving" and chatting when the cell phone rang again. This time it was one of the groom's friends. The aunt had asked for more money and they have it. The old lady badly beaten and bruised by Ami's negotiating skills decided to remain out of the rest. The girls made arrangements to have one of them walk fifteen minutes away to receive the money. Once she did, she'd let the search party know where to find Mariama and alert her friends.

Half an our later, the bride was rushed back in a dusty taxi to her house, sandwiched between two older ladies in the back sit and one of the groom's friends in the front beside the driver.

 Look for the Head Washing Ceremony in the next posting....

Kidnapping the bride (Cont.)

"No...I don't." Ami stuttered. She was shaken by the stern voice a few seconds. Suddenly, gaining her usual zing, she shot back.

"What if I did?"

"If you do, you need to bring her back immediately!'

She looked at her friends gathered around her and listening in. Rolling her eyes, she replied to the voice she now recognized as the no nonsense aunt of the groom. Ami is never intimidated though.

"Auntie, I don't have her. I'll let you know If I find out anything about this." She added:"Allo, allo...allo." Then she clicked off.

The girls burst out laughing at this mischievous trick. All knew that this was not the end of it. Amy wasn't phase by the threats. Everyone knew that the bride is never returned without a ransom. They were still talking and laughing away when the cell rang again. It was the aunt, less threatening this time because she too was caught off guard by Amy's boldness. She knew full well the communication did not end earlier because of poor reception.

"Ami, my daughter. I have serious reasons to believe that your friends and you have the bride. We need to have her back. The sun is going down and I don't think you want to bring shame on your family for the being the reason why this wedding didn't happen today. Daughter, do the right thing, bring her back."

Ami wasn't going to give into the guilt trip and also she was a little ticked by this lady's patronizing speech. She wasn't a little girl and intented to go into serious negotiations with the search party but not until they stopped treating them like a bunch of gullible teenagers.

"Auntie, I don't have her. I don't know what you're talking about. I'm getting upset because you're accusing me of derailing a wedding. I'll hang up now." She closed her pink flip phone and laughed, twirling in her cute wax print maxi skirt set.

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...