by Mike Resnick
“You may speak,” I said.
“It is about the Kenyan woman,” said Wambu.
“Oh?” I said. “I thought the problem was solved.”
“It is not.”
“Did she not present you with her khanga as a gift?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“You are not wearing it,” I noted.
“It does not fit,” said Wambu.
“It is only a piece of cloth,” I said. “How can it not fit?”
“It does not fit,” she repeated adamantly.
I shrugged. “What is this new problem?”
“She flaunts the traditions of the Kikuyu,” said Wambu.
I turned to the other women. “Is this true?” I asked.
Sabo nodded. “She is a married woman, and she has not shaved her head.”
“And she keeps flowers in her hut,” added Bori.
“It is not the custom for Kenyan women to shave their heads,” I replied. “I will instruct her to do so. As for the flowers, they are not in violation of our laws.”
“But why does she keep them?” persisted Bori.
“Perhaps she thinks they are pleasing to the eye,” I suggested.
“But now my daughter wants to grow flowers, and she answers with disrespect when I tell it her is more important to grow food to eat.”
“And now the Kenyan woman has made a throne for her husband, Nkobe,” put in Sabo.
“A throne?” I repeated.
“She put a back and arms on his sitting stool,” said Sabo. “What man besides a chief sits upon a throne? Does she think Nkobe will replace Koinnage?”
“Never!” snarled Wambu.
“And she has made another throne for herself,” continued Sabo. “Even Wambu does not sit atop a throne.”
“These are not thrones, but chairs,” I said.
“Why can she not use stools, like all the other members of the village?” demanded Sabu.
“I think she is a witch,” said Wambu.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Just look at her,” said Wambu. “She has seen the long rains come and go 35 times, and yet her back is not bent, and her skin is not wrinkled, and she has all her teeth.”
“Her vegetables grow better than ours,” added Sabo, “and yet she spends less time planting and tending to them than we do.” She paused. “I think she must be a witch.”
“And although she carries with her the worst of all thahus, that of barrenness, she acts as if she is not cursed at all,” said Bori.
“And her new garments are still more beautiful than ours,” muttered Sabo sullenly.
“That is true,” agreed Bori. “Now Sabana is displeased with me because his kikoi is not so bright and soft as Nkobe’s.”
“And my daughters all want thrones instead of sitting stools,” added Sabo. “I tell them that we have scarcely enough wood for the fire, and they say that this is more important. She has turned their heads. They no longer respect their elders.”
“The young women all listen to her, as if she were the wife of a chief instead of a barren manamouki,” complained Wambu. “You must send her away, Koriba.”
“Are you giving me an order, Wambu?” I asked softly, and the other two women immediately fell silent.
“She is an evil witch, and she must go,” insisted Wambu, her outrage overcoming her fear of disobeying her mundumugu.
“She is not a witch,” I said, “for if she were, then I, your mundumugu, would certainly know it. She is just a manamouki who is trying to learn our ways, and who, as you note, carries the terrible thahu of barrenness with her.”
“If she is less than a witch, she is still more than a manamouki,” said Sabo.
“More in what way?” I asked.
“Just more,” she answered with a sullen expression.
Which totally summed up the problem.
“I will speak to her again,” I said.
“And you will make her shave her head?” demanded Wambu.
“Yes.”
“And remove the flowers from her hut?”
“I will discuss it.”
“Perhaps you can tell Nkobe to beat her from time to time,” added Sabo. “Then she would not act so much like a chief’s wife.”
“I feel very sorry for him,” said Bori.
“For Nkobe?” I asked.
Bori nodded. “To be cursed with such a wife, and further, to have no children.”
“He is a good man,” agreed Sabo. “He deserves better than the Kenyan woman.”
“It is my understanding that he is perfectly happy with Mwange,” I said.
“That is all the more reason to pity him, for being so foolish,” said Wambu.
“Have you come here to talk about Mwange or Nkobe?” I asked.
“We have said what we have come to say,” replied Wambu, getting to her feet. “You must do something, mundumugu.”
“I will look into the matter,” I said.
She walked down the path to the village, followed by Sabo. Bori, her back bent from carrying firewood all her life, her stomach distended from producing three sons and five daughters, all but nine of her teeth missing, her legs permanently bowed from some childhood disease, Bori, who had seen but 34 long rains, stood before me for a moment.
“She really is a witch, Koriba,” she said. “You have only to look at her to know it.”
Then she, too, left my hill and returned to the village.
* * *
Once again I summoned Mwange to my boma.
She came up the path with the graceful stride of a young girl, lithe and lean and filled with energy.
“How old are you, Mwange?” I asked as she approached me.
“38,” she replied. “I usually tell people that I’m 35, though,” she added with a smile. She stood still for a moment. “Is that why you asked me to come here? To talk about my age?”
“No,” I said. “Sit down, Mwange.”
She seated herself on the dirt by the ashes of my morning fire, and I squatted across from her.
“How are you adjusting to your new life on Kirinyaga?” I asked at last.
“Very well,” she said enthusiastically. “I’ve made many friends, and I find that I don’t miss the amenities of Kenya at all.”
“Then you are happy here?”
“Very.”
“Tell me about your friends.”
“Well, my closest friend is Kibo, Koinnage’s youngest wife, and I have helped Sumi and Kalena with their gardens, and—”
“Have you no friends among the older women?” I interrupted.
“Not really,” she admitted.
“Why should that be?” I asked. “They are women of your own age.”
“We don’t seem to have anything to talk about.”
“Do you find them unfriendly?” I asked.
She considered the question. “Ndemi’s mother has always been very kind to me. The others could be a little friendlier, I suppose, but I imagine that’s just because most of them are senior wives and are very busy running their households.”
“Did it ever occur to you that there could be some other reason why they are not friendly?” I suggested.
“What are you getting at?” she asked, suddenly alert.
“There is a problem,” I said.
“Oh?”
“Some of the older women resent your presence.”
“Because I’m an immigrant?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Then why?” she persisted, genuinely puzzled.
“It is because we have a very rigid social order here, and you have not yet fit in.”
“I thought I was fitting in very well,” she said defensively.
“You were mistaken.”
“Give me an example.”
I looked at her. “You know that Kikuyu wives must shave their heads, and yet you have not done so.”
She sighed and touched her hair. “I know,” she replie
d. “I’ve been meaning to, but I’m very fond of it. I’ll shave my head tonight.” She seemed visibly relieved. “Is that what this is all about?”
“No,” I said. “That is merely an outward sign of the problem.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“It is difficult to explain,” I said. “Your khangas are more pleasing to the eye than theirs. Your garden grows better. You are as old as Wambu, but appear younger than her daughters. In their minds, these things set you apart from them and make you more than a manamouki. The corollary, which they have not yet voiced but must surely feel, is that if you are somehow more, then this makes them somehow less.”
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked. “Wear rags and let my gardens go to seed?”
“No,” I said. “I do not expect that.”
“Then what can I do?” she continued. “You’re telling me that they feel threatened because I am competent.” She paused. “You are a competent man, Koriba. You have been schooled in Europe and America, you can read and write and work a computer. And yet I notice that you feel no need to hide your talents.”
“I am a mundumugu,” I said. “I live alone on my hill, removed from the village, and I am viewed with awe and fear by my people. This is the function of a mundumugu. It is not the function of a manamouki, who must live in the village and find her place in the social order of the tribe.”
“That’s what I am trying to do,” she said in frustration.
“Do not try so hard.”
“If you’re not telling me to be incompetent, then I still don’t understand.”
“One does not fit in by being different,” I said. “For example, I know that you bring flowers into your house. Doubtless they are fragrant and pleasing to the eye, but no other woman in the village decorates her hut with flowers.”
“That’s not true,” she said defensively. “Sumi does.”
“If so, then she does it because you do it,” I pointed out. “Can you see that this is even more threatening to the older women than if you alone kept flowers, for it challenges their authority?”
She stared at me, trying to comprehend.
“They have spent their entire lives achieving their positions within the tribe,” I continued, “and now you have come here and taken a position entirely outside of their order. We have a new world to populate: You are barren, but far from feeling shame or grief, you act as though this is not a terrible thahu. Such an attitude is contrary to their experience, just as decorating your house with flowers or creating khangas with intricate patterns is contrary to their experience, and thus they feel threatened.”
“I still don’t see what I can do about it,” she protested. “I gave my original khangas to Wambu, but she refuses to wear them. And I have offered to show Bori how to get a greater yield from her gardens, but she won’t listen.”
“Of course not,” I replied. “Senior wives will not accept advice from a manamouki, any more than a chief would accept advice from a newly-circumcised young man. You must simply”—here I switched to English, for there is no comparable term in Swahili—“maintain a low profile. If you do so, in time the problems will go away.”
She paused for a moment, considering what I had told her.
“I’ll try,” she said at last.
“And if you must do something that will call attention to yourself,” I continued, reverting to Swahili, “try to do it in a way that will not offend.”
“I didn’t even know I was offending,” she said. “How am I to avoid it if I’m calling attention to myself?”
“There are ways,” I answered. “Take, for example, the chair that you built.”
“Tom has had back spasms for years,” she said. “I built the chair because he couldn’t get enough support from a stool. Am I supposed to let my husband suffer because some of the women don’t believe in chairs?”
“No,” I said. “But you can tell the younger women that Nkobe ordered you to build the chair, and thus the stigma will not be upon you.”
“Then it will be upon him.”
I shook my head. “Men have far greater leeway here than women. There will be no stigma upon him for ordering his manamouki to see to his comfort.” I paused long enough for the thought to sink in. “Do you understand?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“And you will do as I suggest?”
“If I’m to live in peace with my neighbors, I suppose I must.”
“There is always an alternative,” I said.
She shook her head vigorously. “I’ve dreamed of a place like this all my life, and nobody is going to make me leave it now that I’m here. I’ll do whatever I have to do.”
“Good,” I said, getting to my feet to signify that the interview was over. “Then the problem will soon be solved.”
But, of course, it wasn’t.
* * *
I spent the next two weeks visiting a neighboring village whose chief had died quite suddenly. He had no sons and no brothers, and the line of succession was in doubt. I listened to all the applicants to the throne, discussed the situation with the Council of Elders until there was unanimity, presided at the ceremony that installed the new chief in his ceremonial robes and headdress, and finally returned to my own village.
As I climbed the path to my boma, I saw a female figure sitting just outside my hut. I drew closer and saw that it was Shima, Ndemi’s mother.
“Jambo, Koriba,” she said.
“Jambo, Shima,” I responded.
“You are well, I trust.”
“As well as an old man can feel after walking for most of the day,” I responded, sitting down opposite her. I looked around my boma. “I do not see Ndemi.”
“I sent him to the village for the afternoon, because I wished to speak to you alone.”
“Does this concern Ndemi?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It is about Mwange.”
I sighed wearily. “Proceed.”
“I am not like the other women, Koriba,” she began. “I have always been good to Mwange.”
“So she has told me.”
“Her ways do not bother me,” she continued. “After all, someday I shall be the mother of the mundumugu, and while there can be many senior wives, there can be only one mundumugu and one mundumugu’s mother.”
“This is true,” I said, waiting for her to get to the point of her visit.
“Therefore, I have befriended Mwange, and have shown her many kindnesses, and she has responded in kind.”
“I am pleased to hear it.”
“And because I have befriended her,” continued Shima, “I have felt great compassion for her, because as you know she carries the thahu of barrenness. And it seemed to me that, since Nkobe is such a wealthy man, that he should take another wife, to help Mwange with the work on the shamba and to produce sons and daughters.” She paused. “My daughter Shuni, as you know, will be circumcised before the short rains come, and so I approached Mwange as a friend, and as the mother of the future mundumugu, to suggest that Nkobe pay the bride price for Shuni.” Here she paused again, and frowned. “She got very mad and yelled at me. You must speak to her, Koriba. A rich man like Nkobe should not be forced to live with only a barren wife.”
“Why do you keep calling Nkobe a rich man?” I asked. “His shamba is small, and he has only six cattle.”
“His family is rich,” she stated. “Ndemi told me that they have many men and machines to do their planting and harvesting.”
Thank you for nothing, little Ndemi, I thought irritably. Aloud I said: “All that is back on Earth. Here Nkobe is a poor man.”
“Even if he is poor,” said Shima, “he will not remain poor, for grain and vegetables grow for Mwange as for no one else, as if this is Ngai’s blessing to make up for His thahu of barrenness.” She stared at me. “You must talk to her, Koriba. This would be a good thing. Shumi is very obedient and hard-working, and she already likes Mwange very much. We will not demand a large b
ride price, for we know that the mundumugu’s family will never go hungry.”
“Why did you not wait for Nkobe to approach you, as is the custom?” I asked.
“I thought if I explained my idea to Mwange, she would see the wisdom of it and speak to Nkobe herself, for he listens to her more than most husbands listen to their wives, and surely the thought of a fertile woman who would share her chores would appeal to her.”
“Well, you have presented your idea to her,” I said. “Now it is up to Nkobe to make the offer or choose not to.”
“But she says that she will permit him to marry no one else,” answered Shumi, more puzzled than outraged, “as if a manamouki could stop her husband from buying another wife. She is ignorant of our ways, Koriba, and for this reason you must speak with her. You must point out that she should be grateful to have another woman with whom to speak and share the work, and she should not want Nkobe to die without having fathered any children just because she has been cursed.” She hesitated for a moment, and then concluded: “And you should remind her that Shumi will someday be sister to the mundumugu.”
“I am glad that you are so concerned about Mwange’s future,” I said at last.
She caught the trace of sarcasm in my voice.
“Is it so wrong to be concerned about my little Shumi as well?” she demanded.
“No,” I admitted. “No, it is not wrong.”
“Oh!” said Shima, as if she had suddenly remembered something important. “When you speak to Mwange, remind her that she is named for my sister.”
“I do not intend to speak to Mwange at all.”
“Oh?”
“No,” I said. “As you yourself pointed out, this is not her concern. I will speak to Nkobe.”
“And you will mention Shumi?” she persisted.
“I will speak to Nkobe,” I answered noncommittally.
She got to her feet and prepared to leave.
“You can do me a favor, Shima,” I said.
“Oh?”
I nodded. “Have Ndemi come to my boma immediately. I have many tasks for him to do here.”
“How can you be sure, since you have only just returned?”
“I am sure,” I said adamantly.
She looked across my boma, still the protective mother. “I can see no chores that have been left undone.”
