CAGING THE LION - by Kuna Nyan

This morning, my mother informed me that my husband and his family would be coming to collect their bride in a week time.

To say I was flabbergasted would be an understatement. The word “husband” reverberated throughout my entire. I screamed in horror, or tried to because when I opened my mouth no sound escaped. Finally through a clammed up throat I somehow managed to croak;

“Husband! Maa, what husband? What husband?!”

“Don’t be silly, yours of course” she promptly replied.

Taking a deep breath I tried to calm myself, I knew that the must be a mistake somewhere. Maybe maa hadn’t performed her morning ablutions yet; she was always disoriented until she had completed her ablutions. Yes, that must be it! She probably thought she was talking to Nyima, my elder sister. Well morning ablutions or not I had to put her straight at once. So taking another deep breath I managed to explain to her that I was Jatoa, her youngest girl who was not married and not even promised in marriage to any man yet. With a look of annoyance she snapped that she knew perfectly well which of her daughters she was addressing and angrily demanded to know if I was trying to insult her intelligence or to imply that she was going senile.

Shaking my head in denial I insisted that she had it all wrong. I was the first girl in the family to go to high school, the one who was getting ready to pass the WAIEC with flying colors, the one who was about to win the scholarship to study Business at the London University Business School! I was the one who would return a world-renowned businesswoman and help turn our small village into a rich and vibrant community! I was the one who was going to achieve more than anyone could ever imagine!

By the time I reached the end of my litany my voice had reached a crescendo and the whole household and more had been drawn to the scene by my screeching. Now they stood, encircling my mother and me, their eyes lit with excitement as they shuffled each other for space, the older ones periodically shushing the younger who wanted to know what was going on. The air was so charged with excitement and expectant dread that anyone who came upon the scene would assume that a boxing match, equal in importance to that of Holyfield and Tyson was about to take place.

As I stared back at the crowd in defiance and I saw pity and sympathetic fear reflected back, it occurred to me that making such a big scene and attracting so much attention might not have been the best way to go about this problem. But by then it was a bit too late as my mother adjusted her stance. Arms and legs akimbo she stared at me steadily, then slowly from head to toe and back again after which she rolled her eyes and gave a long hiss. Simultaneously, the crowd began to murmur as the older women shook their heads, looking at me in disappointment. My heart, which had already been beating quite hard, increased its tempo. I had never before defied my mother but I had been witness to the shameful end of those who had been less than respectful to their elders. Nevertheless I was determined to see my course through, no matter what may come.

As my mother adjusted her lapa, she calmly asked me that, did I really think that after all my husband had done for the family she was going to tell him to hold on because his ungrateful wife wanted to fulfill some little girls’ dream? After helping to put food on our table, buying us the house and even paying for the education that I was preaching to her about! Were we going to repay him by denying him his wife? Then she looked me in the eye and explained.

“From the day he married you almost fifteen years ago he has given us nothing but support. Every time we needed help he gave it to us. All that he has given us, if added together, will even be double your bride price! He should have come for you long ago but because you are our last born gave us more time. Finally it is time for you to go and you dare to stand here and be outraged! You should be more than grateful!”

“So what you are saying is that you sold me! My life for your comfort!” I angrily retorted.

I never saw the slap coming but I heard it, a great swooshing sound that filled my senses even as I felt the pain on my cheek. Looking up I screamed that I hated her. Her response was another slap which almost brought me to my knees. I felt tears gather behind my eyelids but I pushed them back, refusing to show any weakness as I stood my ground. Clenching my fists I spoke through gritted teeth, insisting that I was not going anywhere, was not getting married to anybody until I had completed my studies. And when the time came for me to be married, it will be to some one I love and who loves me, not someone who has bought me.

Without any indication whatsoever my mother burst out laughing, she laughed so hard she had to sit down. Holding her tummy she repeated “for love!” over and over again. Abruptly she fell silent, got up and stood right in my face, poking me in the chest she declared;

“You will do as you are told!”

The dam of frustration burst out of me and I began to scream. As I shrieked that I will not do it, that I will not be treated like a piece of cloth exchanged from one hand to the other, the crowd slowly parted and out came Papa. As the last words left my mouth our eyes met and what I saw caused me more pain than I could have ever imagined. This was the man whom I loved more than any other on earth, he was not only my father, he was my teacher, friend, confidant, my ever present supporter. He was the one who had always looked at me with love and pride but now all I saw reflected in his eyes were disappointment and disgust. I lowered my eyes, not in respect but rather because it hurt so much to see the look of pity mingled with anger on his face. Then I heard him speak with all the authority of his years.

“You will be ready for your husband next week”,

“You will not complain again about this”,

“You will apologise to your mother and also to the rest f the community”,

Looking out into the crowd he concluded;

“And we shall never speak of this again”.

Blood rushed up into my had and I felt like I was drowning, my throat clammed up again and I could hardly breath. I felt laden, like I had been chained from top to bottom. I could not speak, could not move, and could not think. I was removed from this world, thrown into a vacuum filled with silent screams dancing all around me. Then from afar I heard a voice, calm and articulate say,

“Yes Sir, I am sorry Sir”.

I never saw my father walk away, I did not notice the crowd disperse, and I did not even realize the hours had gone by.

Now I lie in bed staring into nothing, I close my eyes and hugging myself tight I whisper into the night what I had been expecting my mother to say when she called me so long ago this morning.

“Happy fifteenth birthday J, Happy birthday”

The tears finally come. They gush out of the deepest part of me, falling fast and furious like a waterfall, pooling on my pillow and forming a halo of despair all around me.

With the owls hooting, the crickets singing, the drunkard talking at the top of his voice and the scent of sweat and firewood smoke drifting in through my window, I feel my world contract and the duty I will have to perform envelops me. And so I mourn for never to be fulfilled aspirations, I mourn for loss of freedom. The freedom to dream dreams, the freedom to think big, the freedom to be big and the freedom to even try to be more and do more. I am caged in by responsibility, locked away by the debt I owe to his family; I am chained with the love and fear I feel for my father. Yet still, I try to keep hope alive but I can feel it slipping away underneath a blanket of pain and disappointment.