Moses Isegawa - Abyssinian Chronicles

The glitter of the cars seemed to heighten the tension and the intensity of locust nibbles in Serenity’s thorax. After all, he was the one about to be weighed, decanted, measured, tested, approved of or rejected.

At Virgin’s parental home the atmosphere was formal, reflected in the white tunics and different kinds of jackets the men wore, and in the wraparound, ankle-length, short-sleeved busutis the women donned. The hosts stood in the red-earth courtyard like polished crockery on a polished tray. The weedless coffee shamba in the background looked like a worn decor for an old oft-rehearsed play. The apparent richness of the visitors’ attire and the shine of their cars conspired to give Virgin’s parental house a woebegone look, the walls looking a century old and the iron roof, red with rust, a century and a half older.

The guests were ensconced in sofas covered with white tablecloths to hide their diversity of make and ownership and present a uniform image. The women sat down on exquisite mats made in all colors of the rainbow, which, combined with the soft browns, soft greens, and soft reds of the women’s busutis, challenged the solemnity of the occasion. Extra cheer was lent by a necklace here, a bunch of bangles there, pearls here, a fake gold watch there.

The strain of their life and their beliefs was deeply etched on Virgin’s parents’ faces in stark configurations, some of which called to mind tribal scars common in the north of the country. The father was small but strong, a frank expression the main asset of his face. The mother was tall and thin, exhibiting great fortitude and perseverence. If they had on broken-heeled shoes, it did not show, and even if they did, the significance would have paled in the light of the black-framed portraits of the pink-faced, haloed Holy Family. The child Jesus had an expression too serious for his age, and the Virgin Mary had soft features encased in thick-petticoated garments. St. Joseph, exhibiting the silent anguish of an aged cuckold too timid to confront his much younger wife with the severity and implications of her crimes, was standing behind his wife and child in his eternal red anarchist’s tunic. Any lingering frivolity would have been canceled out by the portrait of Jesus on the cross, all thorns, all wounds, all blood, occupying a prominent position facing the door.

On this occasion, Serenity was not expected to say much, and in fact he hardly said a word, because he had a speaker to plead his case in the court of Virgin’s family and friends. While his speaker went about his job, Serenity was being examined by the members of Virgin’s family, very carefully but tactfully. Meanwhile, he could look anywhere he wanted, except up at the roof, which revealed coin-sized portions of sky in places — this because a well-bred person never embarrassed others. For much of the time he kept his eyes on the food and drinks, which he consumed or pretended to consume. He could cough or clear his throat, but not so noisily as to attract undue attention. He could not clean his nails, or attack his teeth with his fingernails, even if a piece of meat as large as a pinkie got lodged between his front teeth. In such a case, he could excuse himself, stand up, hold the hem of his tunic and go outside. To pick his nose, he had to do the same. To fart, belch, scratch his armpit or his groin, he had to follow the same procedure. He could not ogle the womenfolk. He could not address them directly. He could not contradict or correct his in-laws, on fact or error. In general, he had to portray a lamb on the way to the slaughterhouse or at least a wolf in a lamb’s skin.

As he went through the motions, he became sure of a few things: (a) he was unimpressed, thus unintimidated, by his brothers-in-law; (b) Virgin’s sisters and relatives in general would be treated as they treated him; (c) one of Virgin’s paternal aunts, if his memory or the introduction was right, was gorgeous. She and he were probably of the same age. She had not looked down or looked away when the power of his gaze made her aware of his eye. She was a bit oval in the face, a contrast to the round faces of the family, and her big clear eyes, her high forehead and her not so severely restrained, hot-comb-straightened hair gave her an outstanding look. Her long, subtly grooved neck reminded him of his sister Tiida. There was an extremely vague resemblance to Virgin, maybe in the set of the mouth, or in the mouth-nose combination, he could not say. Her smile, which he had seen twice, on both occasions directed toward another family member, burst with the flash of a splitting coconut, the white, smiling teeth seeming to flow and brighten the dark brown facial features. To heighten the tension, and to make sure he had been noticed, he ignored her for some time, looking elsewhere, concentrating on the drinks, and then broke the spell by looking her way over his glass. He caught her eye once again. The third time he tried he found her place empty. She never showed up again until the moment of his departure.

Virgin had appeared only once, to welcome and greet the guests. He imagined her standing in the garden or among the coffee trees, dealing with whatever she was feeling. She had not crumbled or cracked under the pressure. For that you could trust the Catholics: they knew how to instill character, and how to hone it like a knife on an age-old whetstone.

It took Serenity a whole week to deal with the refraction of reality occasioned by so much sudden attention. By the time the second visit beckoned, he was relaxed enough to welcome it. Now he felt like a well-to-do teacher addressing a crowd of well-behaved but needy pupils. The nibbling teeth of gastric and thoracic locusts that had terrorized him on the previous occasion were gone. Women were cheap here in the central region, in contrast to the cattle-rearing peoples in the west and the north, where bride-price could rise up to one hundred head of cattle. Here people asked for calabashes of beer, bolts of cloth, tins of paraffin, ceremonial chickens, a lump sum of money and a few other minor things. Bridegrooms often felt compelled to outdo themselves in dazzling displays of generosity. The overriding feeling Serenity had on this bride-price setting and paying day was that these people could use a bit of financial help, if their beliefs allowed it, and the safest way to secure it would be by asking an exorbitant bride-price.

This time around, he and his father were in for a pleasant surprise: these people had no intention of exacting self-enrichment in exchange for their daughter. They asked for very little. It seemed so embarrassingly cheap that when the groom’s team withdrew to confer, the two glittering cars swollen in front of them like bizarre money chests, they had no option but to put on a garish display of generosity.

Grandpa wanted to donate a cow and a calf. Serenity, however, wanted something more visibly urgent: a new roof. It was bound to last longer anyway, impervious as it was to nagana and other cattle-killing diseases. There was disagreement between father and son. To help break the deadlock, Mbale, Virgin’s eldest brother and officiating brother-in-law, was summoned. A firsthand torture victim of roof-leakings and of the recurrent youthful nightmare that they would wake up one night trapped in a roofless house, Mbale sided with Serenity. He was then charged with the task of whispering the gift in the family’s ear. Virgin’s parents were opposed to this overt desecration of the temple of matrimonial holiness — their daughter was not a cow to be sold for the glorification of Mammon — but the rest of the family moved in with full force. Who among them had not dreaded family visits in the rainy season? Who among them had not thought of helping the family out by roofing the house forcibly if necessary? This was the occasion to do it. Afterward, when the wedding was over, it would be too late.