Mosana - Part 1

MOSANA

EPISODE 1

I'M going to tell this story from my point of view, because it is only my point of view that matters, the only viewpoint that will ever matter. Before you call me proud, sit up and listen, as I tell you where I’ve been, where I’m coming from, where I am and all it has cost me. Listen, before you judge.

My name is Mosana, daughter of Nvibe. My mother’s name was Lissena, but her name was never mentioned and I never knew it till she secretly, silently wrote it for me in the dust one day in the kitchen. It was the only thing she could write in our dialect, Mishi. They never called married women by their names in our village, they called them by their husband’s names. So my mother was called Ima Nvibe, meaning Nvibe’s wife. Well, actually, the literal meaning is “Nvibe’s property”. That could mean anything from a pin to a dog. My mother was just a thing. My father just called her “woman”.

Needless to say, a girl child was valueless where I grew up. We were things to do house chores, and then later, be owned by men. So if you had any hope of being valuable or relevant in any way, you had to get married as quickly as you could. If you were slow about it, your parents would see about the speed at which you entered a man’s house. My own mother married at 13. And that was because she had succeeded in hiding the fact that she had started menstruating for only a year. Her mother caught her and hurled her to the nearest drooling man who wanted her. The earlier you menstruated, the earlier you were sent off to a man.

And that’s why I hid mine. That is, the fact that I’d begun to menstruate too. But unlike my mother, I had luck on my side. You see, my mother helped me hide my menses. And I hid for three years. I don’t know why the gods cursed me with menstruation at just eleven years old. My mother panicked the day I showed her my bloodied panties. She dragged me into her room and whispered harshly in Mishi, tears already pooling in her eyes, Ule Apa nivu ko!

Your father must never find out.

I didn’t have to be told twice. I knew what it meant. And at age eleven then, I already hated the male gender for what they were and what they represented in our community. I wasn’t anxious to get married off. I didn’t think I wanted to get married at all. But my father would have finally gotten the excuse he needed to kill me if I had ever voiced that out loud.

You see, he could never have a boy after Mama had me. Or any other child for that matter. My theory is that his drinking had destroyed what little he had left of sperm cells in his body. No one could drink like my father and still sire children. I was a lucky number. Or you could say unlucky, for me. But if I hadn’t been born, my mother would have become a cast-away. She would have been branded worthless and been done away with. Because where I come from, not being able to have a child was worse than not finding a man to give you his name. No one would have the considered the man, whether, just maybe, it was his fault that the woman could not conceive. No, it had to be the woman. So you could say that it’s a good thing I came. To save my mother at least.

My mother was a saint. She prayed, cooked, took care of me, did a lot of farm work (because my father was usually too drunk to lift a finger most of the time, except when there was group farming for the men). Mama was the only reason I didn’t stab my father in the gut. She always told me I carried my father’s temper. I figured I’d use it to kill him. But I couldn’t do that. Because they would kill my mother too. If my father were to die mysteriously, say by an “accident”, my mother would be blamed. Unless they could find a legitimate cause. If they were to find out it was me, they would kill me, then kill my mother. Either way, my sweet Mama would suffer for my sins. I wouldn’t have that.

So I bore it all, both her pain and mine. I satisfied my anger with her soothing words each time the bile rose up in my throat. Kuch kuch, ma pele. Esa wamna.

Be calm, my love. It will be well.

But it was never well. It just got worse and worse. My father used and abused her. Each day I saw her spirit break and try to revive. I think she started dying the day she married my father. It wasn’t hard to figure out. She swallowed it all though, daily. She was basically a doormat. She took all his blows without a word, spread her legs without a word, cleaned his vomit without a word. I recall the day he demanded for her while she made my hair.

I have stubborn hair. Only my mother possessed the supernatural abilities to tame my mane of a hair. It’s the kinkiest kind and it takes a bit of work to get it into a plait. Mama didn’t mind though; she enjoyed weaving it. She always said it was like breaking kernels.

So one day Mama was plaiting my hair. She had just started to comb it out when my father approached us. I felt her hand stiffen on my head, but she relaxed and continued. Or at least, tried to relax. She must have seen something on his face because she greeted him quickly, as soon as he was within earshot. I greeted him too.

‘Mukeli, Apa,’ I said.

‘Mukeli, Bonko.’ Mama said.

For your benefit, I’ll tell you that Bonko means Lord. And not like the Lord Jesus whom you worshipped because He loved you and died for your sins. Bonko meant something more sinister. It meant slave lord. Taskmaster. Owner. Lord in every sense of the word. Master of your soul. It was what we called our chief god, head of the pantheon of gods we had in our community, Ali Bonko. We were supposed to refer to our husbands in the same vein.

Papa came near and did not return our greeting. Instead he spat out his chewed tobacco and uttered one word.

‘Ta!’

I knew he was referring to my mother. He rarely spoke to me. He usually commanded me through my mother. I was insignificant. The only times he spoke to me were in monosyllables and that was usually when my mother wasn’t around.

Come, he said. In one word. And like a sheep dog, my mother heeded her master. He led her to her quarters at the back of the main house and…

At the time, I didn’t know what had taken place. All I knew was, when my mother came out, she was shaking and dishevelled. Her clothes were out of place and her eyes were wild. My father had come out before her and had headed straight for the road, no doubt to the drinking parlour. When she saw me looking at her, she stopped and took time to smooth out her clothes and arrange her hair. When she came nearer to me, she was breathing evenly and even attempting a smile. Without a word, she took her place again behind me and continued with my hair. It was when I was a few years older I understood what had taken place that day.

My father had raped my mother.

Correction, my father raped my mother. In the continuous tense. Because that wasn’t the only time he did it. And that wasn’t the first time either. And my mother took it.

If I hated my father before, I now had the devil’s eye out for him.

I had always fantasized about killing my father. I’d thought of a lot of ways. I’d also thought of how I’d help my mother escape. Like I said earlier, a murder plot would not be complete without an escape plan for me and my mother, or only my mother at least, because my village would make sure someone took the fall for it. But while I always came up with sound killing techniques, my escape plan was never perfect. I had heard of other villages afar off, which sometimes came to some of our village festivals. What I wasn’t sure of was whether any of these villages would hide us. We had no friends. Everyone was afraid of Ali Bonko and worse, our king, Mai Buni. There was no way we wouldn’t get caught.

So for the meantime, I satisfied myself with fantasies, all the while hoping for salvation. I listened for any opportunity. I watched the march of the kuyunu through the village, waiting for news of war or any form of conflict. As brutal as the soldiers were, they were the source of gossip in the community. Contrary to popular culture today, the women were not allowed to be gossips. Discussion among female groups was prohibited. The soldiers, as they patrolled the village, brought news of far and near to the men of the houses. How the women and children got to know was through the perfected art of eavesdropping we had all developed. As long as you were not caught. If you were caught, you got a beating.

So I waited, watched and listened. I wasn’t given to prayer like Mama, but I nursed hope in my heart. It would happen soon. Someday I would be free.

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Hey you!

So that's the first instalment in our journey. Be sure to stay tuned, coz we're just getting started. Mosana is not done yet!

xoxo,
Ava.