The Bride Price: An African Romance (Chitundu Chronicles) Read online

  Festal was old. How could her mother bring up the subject of the bride price for her brother while at the same time talking about Festal? Her brother was twenty, marrying a girl his age, yet Myrna was expected to marry a man three times her age. In addition, the man lived far away from Blancville, so there would be few, if any, visits from friends or family.

  Festal had never been to school. She couldn’t imagine him being a good match for her. Then Myrna remembered that she was pregnant, and what alternative did she have? She could be the hero for the family, or the shame of the school. Both women stood facing each other in complete silence, then Myrna felt herself nodding her head up and down in submission. She would marry Festal. Her mother left the room immediately to give the news to her husband and Dodge that their daughter had accepted the offer and was ready to be married.

  A month later the transaction was nearly complete. The only thing left was the wedding. Cattle had been exchanged, along with the title to land in Copperfine, food and cloth, a sewing machine, and the enormous three-legged cooking pot that had been Beatrice’s wedding gift from her mother. When Myrna saw the pot being given to her, she cried, feeling that she was now bound to her mother by a history of submission and sacrifice. Like the pot, she would be useful, durable, and a legacy.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE WEDDING OF MYRNA AND FESTAL

  Beatrice’s hands worked to help Myrna slide into the muslin wedding dress she had sewn for her with her new treadle machine. It was snug, especially across her breasts, but there was no mention of these changes. The young girl’s eyes were dazed. Her full head of hair was pulled back from her face with a braided coronet and curls hanging down on either side.

  Beatrice recalled her own wedding day; she was also married at fourteen. Her brother Dodge had been desperate to raise the bride price for his own engagement, and had pressured her to marry Bishop. She had not attended school and her own dreams were gone— erased like Myrna’s dreams of being a doctor. Beatrice had wanted to become a seamstress and design dresses that would appear in catalogues. Instead, she became a wife and mother at fourteen. Life had turned out all right for her. Bishop had been a kind husband. Now, after fourteen years of marriage, she could not imagine a life without him.

  Beatrice saw how upset Violet was about the wedding. She stood beside her sister Myrna biting her lower lip to stop from breaking into tears, and frowning the entire time. Beatrice could not separate the girls, in spite of calling Violet several times to assist with different chores. Violet made it clear to everyone how she opposed the marriage and the dreams Myrna would be giving up. She was outspoken and was going to ruin everything.

  “Violet, I need you to go to the market now and run the stall. I have to keep working on this dress. Take the money box with you and pay attention to the bills. There are counterfeits being passed.” Beatrice handed Violet the moneybox and ignored the attitude of the girl. She knew this was no time to correct her manners; it was all the girl could do to avoid sobbing. She leaned over her treadle machine and studiously pedaled away, feeling the baby shoving against the fabric as she pulled it away from herself and pushed it under the needle. After twenty years of marriage, Beatrice was thirty four years old, and in spite of her age, she was a beautiful woman. She had produced seven live children, and was carrying her eighth. She knew her husband would rest easier when they had the money for the bride price, although neither of them discussed what a godsend it would be. She maintained herself in the community, and Festal would be some distance away, but she had heard no ill of him, and information traveled rapidly in this country of few newspapers and fewer radios. If Myrna had gone any further with her education, she would not be as eligible for a wife. She was pretty full of herself as it was. Beatrice stifled this thought and concentrated on her sewing. She could imagine how beautiful her daughter would be going down the aisle in her white dress and veil. She takes after me when it comes to her features and her carriage. I never had her confidence though. She must have gained this from her schooling. She has always been a girl who speaks her mind. We need to get this wedding completed as soon as possible. Babies don’t wait.

  Violet knew her mother did not want her to talk to Myrna. She was angry about that as well as being angry with her sister for not telling her about this engagement. She was also angry at her mother for the part she played in all this drama, and angry at losing her best friend to adulthood. As for Festal, she reviled him for taking Myrna away, and Dodge for executing the plan. She called her uncle a predator, knowing that Myrna had not realized she was his next transaction. Violet refused to stay in the room if Dodge was present.

  At the market, Violet dawdled, making her way slowly to the stall where her mother usually set up their mat ready to sell the vegetables. She wandered from row to row, making her way to the clothing section. A lacy bra hung on a rack, catching her eye. It looked expensive and when she looked, it was. But she had never owned one, nor did her mother. She pulled out the money she had been saving for the choir tour and bought it for her sister. It was a token of womanhood and romance such as she had seen in magazines at the beauty salon. She wanted her sister to know how much she loved her. She wrapped it in paper and put it in the hamper of clothing they were preparing for Myrna’s trousseau.

  When Bishop hugged his daughter on her wedding day, Myrna noticed tears in his eyes. Neither of them spoke a word about the arrangement. Myna knew her father had his regrets about not earning enough to keep his daughter from being given to the highest bidder; that Dodge had manipulated them into this union for his own profit, and that Bishop lost another child.

  Myrna wanted her father to know the pain she felt, the pain of leaving her dream of an education behind. She wanted him to see her sacrifice and say it wasn’t necessary, that she could stay with them. Instead, she heard her father tell Festal that he knew he would value this woman, that he was welcome to come and stay with the family at any time.

  Bishop wanted to hear that Festal loved his girl. He didn’t say how relieved he was that his daughter relented to marry Festal, saving her family from losing their business and position in the community. Now Beatrice could give birth to this next child in a hospital. There would be a second wedding with Stephen and Esther, and their younger son, Thomas, could continue his schooling.

  Bishop walked his daughter slowly across the grass, leading to the small arch covered in bougainvillea. The head pastor was away and an unfamiliar associate pastor filled in. Festal waited for Myrna and as she approached him, she saw him wipe his eyes with his handkerchief. Then the pastor looked down at his notes and began the ceremony.

  “Myra, do you take this man to be your husband?”

  That is not even my name. I am not even here.

  “I do.”

  Myrna repeated the vows after him as she looked at Festal and how uncomfortable he was standing in front of the crowd of well-wishers. Sweat appeared on his forehead, and he flinched in his tight-fitting suit. The wool gabardine was too warm for a late February day. Myrna allowed Festal to place the ring on her finger. She did not have one for him. The pastor asked them to turn and face the crowd.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Festal Phiri, I now pronounce you man and wife.” Myrna could hear the Brahmin cow wailing in the distance and saw the tears well up in Violet’s eyes as the bouquet of red lilies was handed to Esther. Esther would now be able to marry Stephen. It was finished.

  There were hugs all around. Many small gifts had been set on a table. Myrna didn’t recognize many of the people who came to congratulate her, but she kept hold of Festal’s hand. The photographer wanted them to stand under the bougainvillea arch, but Festal pulled Myrna over to the large baobab tree which was flowering. Festal leaned over her and whispered “The baobab is our family totem.” The photographer took a single black and white photo. He wanted to take more, but the couple was reluctant. They were led by the pastor to the head table and took a few bites of the food heaped on their plates. Everything was rushed and
yet time stood still. Myrna listened as Uncle Dodge proposed a toast to the newlyweds, and did not even look at him as she heard him describe the happy couple, and how generous Festal had been, and what a dutiful daughter Myrna was to her family. Dodge wished them a fruitful marriage, and many children to bless their home. It was a commercial for his matchmaking skills. Painless pandering. The guests raised their hands and ululated with the message.

  Myrna did not want to be here any longer than necessary. It was over. She gave her mother and father a cursory hug, then hugged her sister and her brother Thomas. She gathered her belongings and loaded them onto the cart where the presents had already been packed. Festal was right behind her, helping her keep her balance and steadying her as she mounted the seat of the oxcart.

  The couple headed to Copperfine, the iron pot trussed to the back of the wagon with its three legs in the air, even as the newlyweds wondered who they had joined themselves to, and were afraid for the unveiling.

  CHAPTER 4

  IN THE MARKET

  I am stressing over this wedding of my sister and cannot get it out of my thoughts. It could have been me. I know Myrna never saw it coming. Here I am sitting on a mat of reeds in the market tying onions by their stems into a swag while I wait for my mother to return. The market is smaller today than it is on the weekend, or when the holidays are about to begin. And so is my world. The row where I sit to sell our vegetables is facing the hand pump where most people come to fill their clay water jugs. Our space is back from the puddles of mud that surround the tap, so I can stay dry. Flies hover above the moist ground, and especially near the meat market, which is at the far end of the row.

  That must be how it is everywhere in Copperfine where my sister will be living. Each week I see an animal being hauled live in a wheelbarrow or driven with whips to the butchery. Sometimes a goat is held by its hind legs like a wheelbarrow itself and walked to his fate. It reminds me of Uncle Dodge with his forced marriages. When I see the animal go by standing on its front legs, its head nearly touching the ground and the owner holding on to its back hooves making it go where it doesn’t want to, and joking at its helplessness to escape his grip, I want to scream. There are always a couple of sparse-haired dogs with curling tails and dribbling tongues sidling alongside, waiting for a scrap to fall their way when the animal is butchered. By noon, the meat is finished. If you buy it later than that, it is covered with flies, spongy and sizzling with germs.

  Our spot is sunny and clean. I used to smell the fish, the open sewers, and the rotting produce when I first came here to help my mother. Myrna would tell me to look at the colors of the people’s clothing, the beautiful fabrics hanging on the rail near the tailors, their machines humming away as they pedaled out a new skirt or shirt, and the textures of all the produce; yam leaves, pinto beans, red peppers, green lentils, and golden rice. Just near the clothing section, the hair dressers sit, plaiting the hair of women. They have a mouth full of hair ties, and various hairpieces hanging behind them. Sometimes on the branches of a tree an old towel hangs frayed, and a woman sitting with her head cocked to one side for hours, is being braided up in an acceptable style. There is always laughter and an audience that encourages her. That is when I first came up with the idea of sketching what I saw.

  At first I just did pencil drawings of the fruits and donkeys with their carts of firewood. I would color them in when I had materials to make paints. It allowed me to take my mind to another place without leaving the market. In the past year I have started making portraits. They are not complicated, just lines and shadows to recall the features of the people I see. There are many faces in the market, people of all ages and classes, or their servants, looking to secure good prices, or to sell for a profit what they have produced. The face that keeps coming up in my mind is that of Myrna with her large eyes and her trembling mouth. I don’t even want to think of Festal.

  The women in our row make little piles of produce on their mats and arrange them to attract attention from the shoppers. My sister used to tell me how magical it was to see brown burlap sacks of beans and lentils change into neat designs of color and texture, encouraging people to notice and buy. It is not so magical when you are the one shucking rotten layers off the onions so someone will choose them. I try to recall people’s names and smile at them so they will remember our stall and come to shop.

  After eight hours of sitting in the sun, I am ready to do something else. I have to concentrate to make a sale and count the change correctly. It is easier than taking care of baby brothers, I have to say that. I always hope I will meet someone interesting in the market, but women are the only ones who seem to shop for fruit and vegetables. I stay away from the area where the local beer and fetishes are sold. There are plenty of men and flies hanging out there, but they are not the kind I want to attract. My mother handles the weekend market, where more sellers and buyers come from further away.

  Eight months ago I watched my sister Myrna go off to boarding school, wondering at the time how she could find it so interesting to sit in class all day reading books. I know she has wanted to be a doctor ever since our sister Eunice died, so she worked hard at her studies. She learned to read when Stephen was in school because she made him teach her. She saved food from her breakfast, or biscuits from the market to give him in trade for teaching her everything he learned in class. As soon as he got home from school she would borrow his books, making use of the late afternoon light to read the assignments. Soon she was doing his essays, and the teachers were remarking how good they were, and questioning who had written them.

  A tutor finally visited the house to encourage my father to let Myrna attend class. Then the government stepped in with a scholarship after she received the highest marks in the region on her exams. But this time Myrna has left for good. It’s final. Finished. She married that man Festal that Uncle Dodge dreamed up for her, and she is on her way to the cow town of Copperfine. I am not lonely. There are sellers to gossip with. I have worked in the market with Mother since Myrna started boarding school. I have friends in the market and I have my brothers to keep me company. Not Stephen, though. He is tied up with Esther day and night. My friends in the choir always want me to come visit them and sing for their events. My mother and father are at home in the evening, Dad counting up the receipts for the day, Mother mending the boys’ clothes. We could talk about what is going on in our family or our country. I could get a newspaper and read it to them. But we don’t. We usually just get ready for the next day, as there is always more work to be done. We don’t talk about Myrna. My father would cut that off pronto. What I want to understand is how Myrna married that man Festal. He is way out in the bush, he’s old, and he can’t even read.

  When he was here, he didn’t even talk. I watched how he used his hands to eat his food, picking up pieces of meat and sauce with his long slim fingers, and wiping the drips off with his pointer finger. I saw how he looked at Myrna as she used her napkin and her cutlery, ignoring him. She was so proud of her school uniform and wore it every day, even when she was home. It meant she was somebody going somewhere. I think she felt safe in it. Invincible.

  I am in charge of the market stall today while Mother attends a funeral. She makes the most money on onions, although she doesn’t grow them. Our brick yard is slow right now because people can’t afford bricks that are fired. We have stopped adding any cement to them and even the tailings that we burn to fire them are hard to come by. Tobacco is not selling well and people are raising less of it. When people have no money they just cut mud bricks out of earth and use them. If we had more money, Myrna would still be here and she would be in the school studying biology and critical thinking. She said she wanted to learn how to think and make important decisions. I asked her, “Don’t you think we know how to think already?”

  ‘“No,” she said. “We just hear something enough times and we think it is true, or even our own idea. We don’t question it and we repeat what we are told. We learn by rote met
hod. We are a nation of clichés. I want to learn the truth about life and how to decide for myself. Right now, we don’t even know what we have or what we are missing. We are like the termites that turn up precious stones and heave them out of their towers of mud.”

  Myrna is two years older than me. She is very strong and not afraid to say what she thinks and what she wants to do. When we played together she could come up with a hundred games, while I was still thinking what I wanted to do. So how could she marry that man? I just didn’t see it coming. She was happy when she came home for Christmas break. We were having a good time, just sleeping in our special room, or sitting on our carved stools in the courtyard near the kilns, shucking the hard corn from its cob and spreading it on mats to dry. We roasted groundnuts on a sheet of roofing and sketched out fashions we could make out of scraps from our mother’s sewing. Even taking care of the little brothers was fun when there were two of us. Little did we know, Ma and Uncle Dodge were hatching plans to marry Myrna off.

  I think our brother Stephen knew about the plan because he was so flattering to Myrna, asking her advice and getting her to like his girlfriend Esther, and totally ignoring me, even though I am just about as old as Myrna, and I certainly have a better fashion sense. So why were they just asking Myrna what she thought about their bridesmaid dresses? She won’t even be one.

  I don’t think my Dad knew of the plan to marry Myrna off, because Myrna has always been his favorite. Ever since my sister Eunice died of the runs, Dad has wanted there to be a doctor in our village and Myrna was on her way to becoming one. He backed her when she won the government scholarship and stood up to my mother, even though he worried about Myrna going to a school that was all boys.