Chapter 184 - Zenzele, My Love part 3

"Zenzele!" Mother calls, her voice ringing out in the oppressive heat of the savannah.

I am squatting beside a crude shelter I have made of sticks and leaves. A hawk blinks at me from the opening, his eyes shiny and round like lithops seeds. I have named him Ombo, which means fly, though he can no longer fly. I found him flopping in the grass a short distance from our hut several days ago, his wing broken, and I have been tending to him ever since.

I jiggle the earthworm I have brought for him to eat, holding the wriggling creature between my thumb and forefinger. "Here, take it," I say, and Ombo cocks his head to one side, but he does not come forward and take the meal.

"Zenzele!" Mother shrieks, and I twitch the worm at the hawk impatiently. Mother is calling, and she punishes me when I do not answer quickly enough to suit her. She carries a little green switch with her everywhere she goes, and she swipes it across the back of my legs when I am slow. Not enough to cut into the skin, but it stings! Oh, how it stings! With nine children, and another on the way, Mother has no patience for dawdlers.

"I am coming!" I yell, and I rise from the grass like a gazelle, neck craning. I throw down the worm and wipe my fingers on my skirt. The earthworm twists in the dirt in front of the little hut I have made for Ombo, and the bird finally pops his head out of the shelter and seizes the worm in his beak. Satisfied, I run home. The shadow of my long legs—all knees and scabs—scissor back and forth on the dusty ground.

"Yes, Mother?" I pant.

Mother stands in the doorway of our home, a hut made of grass and sticks and mud. Our house sits beneath a great acacia tree. It is much cooler in the shade.

My little sister, Waceera, ogles me from Mother's hip, chewing on her chubby fist. She has been fussy today. Teething, Mother says. My little brother, Mtundu, peeks at me from behind my mother's legs.

"Help Zawadi carry this food down to your father," Mother says.

Zawadi is just inside the entrance of our hut, arranging food upon two platters-- cooked vegetables and fruit and the seared flesh of an antelope. The smell of it makes my mouth water.

"Where is he?" I ask.

"He is down by the river," Mother answers, hitching Waceera up on her hip. "Bobangi has returned to ask for your sister again."

Bobangi has come again? I think, with a mixture of amusement and contempt.

He is a male from a nearby village, a people who call themselves the Msanaa. He has already come to visit us several times this season, hoping to persuade Father to let him marry my eldest sister.

Not yet, Father always tells him. Mother and Father hope that Bobangi will get frustrated and forget my sister. Bobangi is too old for her, Father says. Not only that, Bobangi already has two wives. Patanisha would be the lowest ranking wife if she were to marry the Msanaa. His older wives were sure to be jealous. But Bobangi is persistent. He does not give up on Patanisha.

We are Msanaa, too, only we do not live among our kind. They are a fierce people, always eager to make war with other tribes, or so Mother says, and that is why Father is not more firm with Bobangi. He is afraid to say no. He only tries to delay the man, hoping to give Patanisha a little more time to grow up.

The thought of seeing the Msanaa men is exciting, like poking a snake with a stick. The Msanaa men are dangerous, Mother says, but I think that I would like to have a fierce husband someday, a mate like one of the Msanaa men who sometimes comes to visit with Bobangi, instead of a man like my father, who is quiet and thoughtful and indulgent.

Mother and Father say I am too young to think of husbands, but I will be a woman soon. Already, my breasts have begun to bud. Soon, my uke will bleed, and I will be old enough to bear children.

Bobangi has come to visit many times, but sometimes he brings others with him—his sons, his brothers, his cousins. Perhaps I will catch the eye of one of them, and he will come back to ask Father for me as well. I would like to be married. I would like to have many children.

"Ma! I want to go with Zenzele," Mtundu says.

"No, Mtundu, you are too little," I reply.

He pleads with Mother to go, but she just swipes at him with her free hand. "You heard your sister!" Mother snaps, and Mtundu runs to his bedding on the far side of the hut. He is crying loudly, but it is only pretend tears. He thinks he will get his way if he cries. He usually does.

But not today. Mother is nervous. She does not like Bobangi, who walks upon the earth like it is an enemy that he has conquered. She lived in the village of the Msanaa when she was a girl—long, long ago!-- but she has grown accustomed to my father's peaceful ways. I think my father is the only man she is not afraid of.

Zawadi rises and hands me a basket of food. "Here, carry this one," my sister says. "Don't drop it."

"I won't drop it!" I say indignantly.

Zawadi is always so bossy!

"Do not tarry, or make eyes at any of the men," Mother cautions us. Waceera watches us solemnly, then begins to feed from Mother's breast. Mother winces as Waceera's new teeth nip her tender nipple.

"Don't bite, Waceera!" Mother scolds the baby.

Holding our baskets, Zawadi and I laugh, and baby Waceera releases Mother's teat to laugh along with us, her little white teeth shining.

We promise not to dally, or flash our eyes at any of the men, and then we march down the path to the big rock by the river, the place where Father goes to talk business when other men come to visit.

"Don't make eyes at any of the men!" I say in a high-pitched voice, swinging my hips back and forth.

"Don't shake your poo-maker at them either," Zawadi teases, and we both laugh.

We march down the path, both of us swinging our poo-makers back and forth in an exaggerated manner, giggling and bumping against one another. I drop some food off my platter-- whoops! Wiping the dirt off it, I put it back with the rest, and then we laugh about that, too, because the meat fell into some animal dung.

"Let's give that one to Bobangi," Zawadi whispers conspiratorially, and I nod.

"Yes! Bobangi gets the poo-poo!" I snort.

I have to wipe the tears from my eyes, I am giggling so hard.

As we near the river, we compose ourselves. Here, near the water, the short grass and gangly bushes give way to a thicket of tall elephant grass. Elephant grass is dangerous. It is high and dense, and hides all sorts of dangerous predators—snakes and lions and black-backed jackals. It is probably safe because there are zebra and antelope grazing fearlessly not too far away. The dogs that guard our home will usually start barking when predators come near as well, but still, we are cautious.

Zawadi begins to sing in a loud voice and steps into the elephant grass, following the path that Father and our visitors made through the dense growth earlier. I follow, joining her in song. Most predators will run away from people, so long as you are loud and bold and do not act afraid.

Most of them.

We make our way through the grass, singing loudly. Up ahead, we can hear our father. Father says, "No. No. I told you, Bobangi. When the dry season comes next year. She will be old enough then, and she will make a better wife for you. She is still too much of a child. She likes to play, and is lazy with her duties."

Father falls silent as we come out onto the bank of the river.

The river is just a narrow rill here at the end of the dry season. Soon the rains will come, and the river will swell, but for now the waterway is narrow and muddy, and the earthen banks are hard and scaled, like the skin of crocodiles.

Father is sitting in his favorite place at the foot of a large gray boulder. There is a smooth, square shelf at the base of the rock. Father sometimes jokes that the spirits made that rock specifically for his butt. It is a cool and shady spot, thanks to the thorny acacia that crowd along the bank of the river. Father often comes here to watch the animals graze on the savannah. It is a peaceful place, like his heart, with a view that stretches for days and days… all the way to the great blue hills, where the savannah ends and the desert begins.

The makaya duni, Father calls those giant hills.

The edge of the world.

Sitting with Father are three other men. Bobangi I know, but I have never seen the other men before.

One of them is a young warrior, his body lean and wiry with muscle. He has a fierce countenance with a great number of intricate scars etched into his cheeks and chest. I feel a thrill of excitement as I take in his stern features. He has large glaring eyes and flared nostrils, a broad mouth and full lips. He sees me staring at him and grins, sliding his hand up and down the shaft of his spear. I drop my eyes, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"What are you doing here?" Father asks sharply. I jump to attention. He is looking back and forth from us to the men who have come to visit.

His normally placid expression is tense today, and I wonder why he is so nervous. He cannot be afraid of Bobangi. Bobangi comes all the time to beg for Patanisha. Perhaps he is troubled by the handsome young newcomer, or the other man who has accompanied Bobangi, the old one with the wooden discs inserted in his earlobes.

"Mother sends food for our honored guests," Zawadi says, repeating what Mother has told her to say. "Their journey home will be less wearisome with their bellies full."

"Put it down here and leave us," Father commands, his voice curt. "We are discussing important business."

As I kneel and place the basket of food on the ground, our guests sigh in appreciation. The smell is rich and good. My belly gurgles hungrily. I turn the platter a little so that the meat that fell in the poo is nearest to Bobangi.

"Your wife is a gracious host," the old man with the ear discs says to my father, reaching for a piece of fruit.

I rise beside Zawadi and we share a secretive smile, then I catch the young warrior staring at me again. He is naked but for wood hoops around his wrists and ankles and a decorative sash worked with bone and bright blue stones. His eyes rove up and down my body.

Feeling bold, I stare back at him, admiring his lean, strong physique, his shiny dark skin and elegant body markings. I wonder what his name is and what tribe he belongs to, but it would be impertinent of me to ask. It would embarrass my father.

I would be happy if a man like him wanted me for a wife, I think. I wonder what it would feel like to have him lay upon me, as Father lays upon Mother. To have the dark, furry organ that hangs between his thighs sliding in and out of my uke. It must be pleasurable. Mother lets Father lay on top of her nearly every night.

Father dismisses us and we scurry away through the thicket. As we retreat, I hear the men resume their conversation, but I cannot understand what they are saying over the rattling of the elephant grass. It sounds like Father is shouting though-- which is a very unusual thing for him to do. It makes me feel a little nervous, but men are strange. They are moved by passions that are mysterious to me.

Father should let Bobangi have Patanisha this season, I think. She is already a woman. With Patanisha gone, there would be more food for everyone, and I would be second eldest sister. Also, she is lazy and bossy. All she ever does is lie around and shout orders at all the other children.

Ah, well… it is none of my concern. I will be grown up soon enough, and then I will be the one who gives all the orders!