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."

The Boss

The Boss was a prompt I was given in one of my writing classes. Here is what I came up with.

He's not the boss of me. He thinks he is. Parading his beer belly in the usual overstretched Saharan shirt, the buttons of which threatened to fly off with every chuckle, he patted a space beside him on the sofa.
"Sit down," he said. His breathing menaced to choke him.
He had money from here to Monaco and back, and two beautiful wives at home but still chased after countless young women like me. I know it but I don't care.
God has created only one of my dad's kind of men. The rest is an ignominious bunch of pigs. The neighbor who tucked his hand under my pretty flowered shirt when I was five, maybe six.
My uncle who once tried to wrestle me to his bed when I was just giving him a peck on the cheek. What about my father's own friend who lured us to his house when his berry trees bent under the weigh of their ripened fruits. And oh, my fourth grade teacher who touched my nascent breasts. They all must pay.

OSUSU, A Traditional Way Of Saving In Africa

Growing up, I knew it as tontine - the adapted french word or parri  a local word for this age old practice on the African continent. A friend told me it  was called Osusu in Nigeria. I immediately liked how the word sounded, hence the title of this post.

For generations, women in Africa have assembled in clubs - small or large - once a week, once every two weeks or once a month. It's an opportunity to socialize over good food and music, more importantly to collect contributions for members.

The contribution amounts are set and equal for everyone. They are generally nominal - 500, 1000, 2000 CFA - amounts reflecting the financial means of the women in the club, roughly 1 to 4 US dollars. They can be much substantial for women of more capable means. Some clubs collect wax print fabric instead. All the collection for one meeting is remitted to the person in line on a predetermined order tracked by the administrator and president.

Parri, as I've known it since childhoold, is a traditional mean of saving for African women. Women use the monies or fabrics collected to begin businesses, clothe their children and themselves, and save for the future of their families. Nowadays, the system has expanded to include some men clubs and has developped in big business in many African countries.

If you have knowledge of such associations in other countries, I'd like to hear from you. Please, share they appelation you have for it and how it works. Our world is amazing. It's always a joy to hear about the way other cultures live their daily lives.

The African Head Wrap

The head wrap - with it's varying colors and shapes - often times is an essential clothing item that inject a zing in an African woman's accoutrement. However, it is more than just another garment in most countries in Africa. In Muslim areas, it is a requirement for all females, young or old, in addition to or in lieu of the flowing scarf head cover.

Moreover, just like the red dot sported by women in India and a couple other East Asian countries, the scarf is sign of marital status. Women in several west African countries are required to wear a head wrap at all times -except in their own room or within the familial house - once they get married. Still widely respected, this practice nevertheless is being less and less observed by the younger generations. A great number of women sport head wraps not because of the cultural or religious requirement but simply as a fashion statement. They come up with creative ways to tie exceptionally gorgeous fabric pieces into amazing head gears.

Link to head wrap images below

http://www.google.com/images?rlz=1T4ADSA_enUS367US367&q=african+head+wrap&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=univ&sa=X&ei=9PF4TbPrGvOD0QGY-fzLAw&ved=0CD4QsAQ&biw=1259&bih=576  

Kidnapping the bride (Cont.)

The kidnapping of the bride is part the local custom. It is the way the bride's childhood friends express their feeling about this friend who is getting ready to leave their circle and step into adulthood. They are happy for their friend so it's not a sign of any ill feelings; rather, it's a way of temporarily jerking the groom and his family around and laughing at their expenses. It's a sort of power trip because they remain in control until the ransom is paid and the bride is returned to her in-laws to proceed with the rest of the wedding ceremony.

Ami's aunt welcomed them with open arms and a good breakfast. They gobbled down the "cafe au lait" and buttered bread plus a delicious creamy wheat porridge in the living room unbeknownst to the morning crowd headed to the market. For the rest of the day, they would have to be careful not to be seen from the road outside the gate. Once their hiding place was discovered, they would have very little leverage and might have to surrender the bride without getting paid the ransom.

Ami's uncle made them promise they would by his silence. A third of the ransom was what he wanted. He was just teasing. He left for work sometime around eight. Soon after, Ami's aunt followed, leaving her maid to care for the girls in her absence.

Ami's aunt was a rarity in the community. She had been to school up to tenth grade and successfully passed the end of grade test. Her parents were reluctant in sending her to high school because the facility was in the nearest city. Girls were usually allowed to go away from their parents sight so she had stop her education and get married. She was almost 18 and at her that age she was considered an old maid around there but a very envied one, she was. With her middle school education and her husband's connections, she was hired as a secretary. As a beautiful, educated woman working in an office, she was the canvass for Ami's life. Ami wanted to be at least like her. 

Once her uncle and aunt left, Ami started gathered her friends. The plan was to have some fun until around 1 or 2 o'clock if no one found them until then, she, Ami and another girl would go out and let themselves be found. If they couldn't be found, they couldn't negotiate, neither collect any the ransom.

"Ready for fun," Ami harangued.

She turned the radio and began dancing. A couple of the girls followed. Soon Mariama shed her shyness and joined in. They danced and laughed for a while then started a conversation about man, marriage and dating. In a society where girls are required to remain virgins until marriage, each girl sounded as ignorant and down right childish as the next girl. They were aware of their naivete and poked fun at each other for trying to sound expert on a matter they knew they only had wild guesses. The sole TV channel in the country transmitted from 12 noon to 2 and from 6:30 to 11:00 pm. They watched the midday news and musical show that followed. It was right at the end of programming that Ami's cell phone rang. They later found out that in exchange for a few coins, a neighbor's little boy had told the search party he'd seen Ami with a girl that resembled the bride-to-be.

"Ami, you Mariama, don't you?" An angry voice asked.

To be continued...