The Bride Price: An African Romance (Chitundu Chronicles) (30 page)

The children did not notice the substitution as it had been some time since they had any interaction with their uncle. She told Beautiful where the latrine was, but asked him to use an enameled  pitcher which she would empty each morning and night, so they followed the same routine she had kept with her brother Lamont.

On Sunday morning, Whenny attended the service along with her grandchildren. She was able to put an offering in the plate

“Pastor, I would like you to have this watch. It was my brother’s, given to him by our father. I cannot read or write, and I have no need of it, but I would like you to have it.”

“Thank you, Whenny. I will pray for your family when I look at it. It is beautiful.”

“You have been an angel to me when I had nowhere to turn. I am glad I had something to give. I will have to go now to serve my customers. Our guest is doing well and sends his greetings.”

“Tell him I will come and see him soon. Thank you again.”

Whenny left before the service ended to go and set up for the afternoon’s customers.

Once her customers were busy with their drinks and the music was playing, Whenny stopped in to see Beautiful.  He was feeling better and sitting up in the bed, with his newspaper in his lap.  He had lit a kerosene lantern and was happy with the room, the bed, and even the activities of the bar. She gave him greetings from Pastor Reuben.

“How long have you been in business, and where are you from?”

“I started this business when my husband died, about a year ago. My brother needed assistance, and so he helped me and my grandchildren.”

“Are you from this area? You seem to have a different accent.”

“You are right.  I grew up further to the north. My mother could not raise twins. She was worried about us surviving, my brother and I, so she separated us and gave me to a relative. That brother I have not seen since. My aunt died and I was passed to another family. I moved around and even worked in homes of foreigners until I was given to my husband as a second wife—his first wife was barren. And now I am a business woman caring for my grandchildren.”

“Thank you for taking me in. I am glad I am of use to your family.  My name is Beautiful.”

“I am Whenny, and you are welcome.”

Whenny brought him yam chips and a hardboiled egg, as well as three chicken wings.  She asked if he would like sorghum beer, but he said tea would be better. She wanted to ask him about his work, where he had taught, and other questions. But she would wait until he wanted company.

Monday was Pastor Reuben’s day off.  He stopped by the Last Laugh Bar to check in on Whenny and to comfort Beautiful. Whenny welcomed him and took him to the room. “Pastor, I am feeling much better.  The woman has taken good care of my needs. How can I thank you?” Beautiful said.

“This is not my doing. Thank God.  I am glad to see you comfortable.  Is there anything I can bring to you?”

“If you ever have a bottle of lotion, or some oil for my skin, that would be a great comfort.  It pains me and will not stop. Also, if you have any drawing paper, and a pencil, or charcoal, this place is interesting and I would like to sketch some of the customers, as they are pretty occupied, and I should be able to get some good likenesses. I haven’t felt like drawing in months, but the creative spirit is coming back.”

“I’ll see what I can do. It will be a week before I am able to get out here again.  Is this a good time for you?” The pastor asked.

“Yes. I am better earlier in the day, but not too early. Thank you, Pastor.”

Whenny let the Pastor out and fastened the door.  She had overheard the part about the oil for his skin and thought she might be able to fix something for Beautiful out of shea butter and cooking oil, with a little cinnamon to give it a fragrance. 

She checked in on the children and told them to bring her their clothes so she could wash them. Each of them stripped down and handed her their shirts and skirts, then wrapped in a sleeping cloth to wait until the clothing was washed and dried.  They had a little radio they could listen to as the day passed and the clothing dried on a bit of wire fencing near the fire.

The still was warm with its fermentation, the chickens were scratching away in the yard, and the Last Laugh Bar would  be filled up with evening customers. There was time to get her hair plaited, if her friend Bernice would remember and show up.  It was Whenny’s big treat to have someone work on her hair to make her  feel she was attractive, and catch up on the news. She was so grateful to have the security of a man staying in the house, even though she could not share this information with anyone. She switched her metal ring to another finger as a reminder to not mention the trade she had made.

Bernice walked down the edge of the road headed for The Last Laugh Bar. She saw the enormous red lips of the sign  at the end of the street, and the ball sparkling in the sunlight. Whenny was her only customer for the day, and she had stored up good gossip to share.

Whenny kept an eye out for her friend and when she saw her coming, which was easy to tell, given the bright auburn hair color Bernice was sporting, she gave a sigh of relief.  This had been a good week. True, Lamont had been late, but he was suffering, and his death was expected.

Beautiful made Whenny feel safer and needed, and the grandchildren would soon have enough food to eat and enough money to get them all a pair of sandals. Whenny was a frugal woman, but knew enough to save for a dry day, of which there had been many in her life. Bernice saw her waiting and waggled her hips to acknowledge her. They were soon talking, with Whenny propped on a kitchen chair, her hair sectioned off for a traditional plaiting. She had poured a glass of Fanta for her friend and was sipping the remainder of the bottle. She didn’t want the children to see her—as they would all ask for a sip and she had only bought one bottle.

“What’s it going to be today?  A bridge, a tower, or maybe a wall of spikes?”

“Bernice, I leave it up to you. Make sure I can sleep on it though.  I am not so foolish as to think I can perch my neck on a neck rest for the night, at my age.”

“Woman, I have no idea what age that would be.  Are you ready for the shaved widow’s cut, or is there still a little life in this old body?”

“You are right. I am glad to be alive.  Make this hairdo the “I am grateful” hairdo. Whatever that would be.”

Bernice cocked her head to one side then began to braid.  She had no one to help her and it was six hours later when she finished. The hair was crisscrossed into a pattern around the crown of her head, with a basket of neat rows ascending to the back. Just at the top of her head, the hair narrowed into a smaller pattern of tight weaves, then sprung free into a fan of black, before being gathered together again at the base of her neck.

Whenny did not own a mirror, but she could see the upsweep in the one Bernice had brought, and loved the way it accentuated her eyes and her forehead. She could see her long curled lashes and the curious amber eyes that so many people remarked on. She felt pretty, and loved, and hugged her friend, asking, “How much do I owe you?”

“Didn’t you ask for the ‘I am grateful hairdo?”

“Yes.”

“Then there is no charge.”

“What!?”

“Aren’t you grateful?”

“Of course. I am very grateful.”

“Then we are both happy. I wish you well with your business, and I will see you again soon. I am going.” The women hugged and Bernice headed back up the street, her auburn flame of hair nodding from side to side as she walked.

When Whenny brought Beautiful his dinner of
nshima
and fried bream, he whistled at the transformation the hairstyle made.

“Who is this impala woman coming into my room?  Am I dreaming?”

Whenny laughed at the young man flattering her, and was even more pleased when he asked if he could sketch her picture. That evening as the grandchildren walked in their clean clothes to buy penny candy, Beautiful captured the silhouette of the bar keeper with his graphite pencils. Beautiful told her he had studied art at the school in Burrisfuro with a great teacher named Bwalya Leibitsang.  He had lost contact with his tutor, but the man had inspired him to become a teacher. Bwalya’s wife taught math, and that is what he taught when he became a tutor. He had always wanted to thank the couple for the education and inspiration they gave him, but he didn’t know how to reach them. He would make a note of this in his journal before going to sleep.

Beautiful was tired, but pleased with the results, and couldn’t wait to show his portrait of Whenny to Pastor Reuben the next visit.

Reuben came down River No More Street on his bicycle, balancing a tray of art supplies and a pad of paper. He wore jeans and an argyle sweater vest over his striped shirt. When he saw Whenny, he did a double take. Her hairstyle took twenty years off her age, especially from this short distance. 

He looked at the drawing Beautiful had done, and asked if he was willing to do one for him, if he wasn’t too tired, and was willing to work from a photo.  Reuben wanted to surprise his mother with the gift of a portrait of herself and his father. 

“I can do it if you give me plenty of time, and are not in a rush.  I have been feeling good these past days, but I can’t guarantee anything.  And thanks for the lotion. It really helped.  My skin is not so painful,” Beautiful said.

“I will get the pictures for you.  And as for the lotion, I didn’t get around to that. Whenny must have provided it. I can’t take any credit.  I did get you some drawing supplies. They are in the sack at the end of your bed when you are ready for them.”

“Thank you.  And thank you for locating Whenny. She has been a godsend. I am better than I have been in months.”

Reuben saw the children sprawling on the blanket inside the sitting room as he left, and waved to them. They were looking clean and better fed. He silently blessed Whenny for the work she was doing with them and with Beautiful.

It was over a month before Reuben brought the pictures for Beautiful to use to make a portrait for his parents. Meanwhile, Beautiful had been having strange dreams each night. He described it as a vision of a small girl with a pure heart. He fell asleep thinking about her. She shared with him how her life had ended when she was five. At first, Beautiful would ignore that she wanted to talk to him, and he would think it was a manifestation from hearing the children at play outside his room—never seeing their faces.

One day, Beautiful took out his drawing pencils and began to sketch how the dream child appeared to him. As he continued with filling in her outline, as well as her features, and finally completing the details, the dream became very vivid. He decided he would record what he had been told the past month, and see if it made sense to anyone else. He had to tell it from her point of view, as she was speaking directly to him, or another who might want to listen to her story. Beautiful was a Believer, but this dream was so real, it also had to be acknowledged, and who better than himself to fill her need? He wrote down her words in his notebook.

Hello.  My name is Lily Wonder.  I wanted to find someone to write my story because I never lived it.  You see, I died when I was 5 years old.  My mother named me for her dreams that never were fulfilled. She is thinking of me tonight, and I have to return to her. If you or someone else will write this story, she can read it and know that I will never really die.  I will be here waiting for her and all who care to join her someday. I know I have sisters and brothers, and my aunts and uncles as well.  But this is about me, Lily.  My story, as told to me by my mother Myrna, and verified by my father, began at Christmas time. My father recalled that it was a year of drought.  More than half his cattle died, and he was never sure whether the rest would be
hainted
.  Demons and witches thrived in the bush and  covet what a man holds  too closely.  I am getting ahead of myself, for you see, you really have to start my story with my grandparents. They were quiet people who did not stay inside much, but lived in the open savannahs watching their cattle and telling stories.  Their history was a long and winding path that led them to contentment, much as I hope my tale will do.

No one owned two sets of clothing.  Everyone raised cattle, searched for honey in the bush, had a dog or two that helped them in their work, and married when they could afford a wife. For some, the bride price forced them to delay, and they saw other men getting ahead with sons and a legacy.  That is what my father hoped for when he heard about my mother.

Myrna was a girl raised in the larger village on the outskirts of town. She was a beauty, they say.  She had rounded features and a dazzling smile, full hair that was soft and luxuriant.  She was loved by her parents and at an early age, she began to attend school. The colonials were ruling the country then. She went about in a raffia skirt, playing with her friends and enjoying her life. She had a desire to learn, and so she bribed her brother Stephen, who was attending school, to teach her from his books. He did. She soon could read and write and was writing his essays for him.

When she was thirteen, she was awarded a scholarship to go on to secondary school.  My coming ended that part of her life.  She did not complain about it, for she had me. From my earliest memory, I sat on her lap tracing letters in my palm, hearing about English flower gardens, and learning how people lived in other parts of the world.  She taught me to sing my alphabet, and count out my beads.  I knew my father had wanted a boy, but he too was willing to see me learn to read and to tell him stories of things he had never heard about.

My father was always tired when he came back from caring for his cattle.  He did not ride a donkey or horse and walked miles each day to find them pasture and clean water.  He would notice if any of them was dropping weight or needing medicine.  He made his own medicine from the baobab tree bark. I always wanted to know how each cow was doing.  Since he loved his cows, I paid special attention to learn their names and talk to him about them.  I talked to him in front of the fire until my mother called me to the hut to sleep.