Against My Customs ✔

Chapter 1

  Eight months before....

"Nwaii ji, nwaii ji, nwaii ji." The men chanted as they danced around the fire, shorts hanging from their hips and a wrapper tied across their chest, knotted at the top of their shoulder.

The older men sat down on the laid-down raffia mats, their eyes shining with pride at the ceremony.
The warriors of the tribe stood beside their king, a steel sword in the pouch of their hips.

The king's head was covered with a crown of leaves, beads and thick cloth. His eyes were covered with the beads, his brown skin looked darker under the moonlight. He was muscular than the other kings.

I wish he looks at me.

His wife sat beside him on a smaller chair, wearing an over-decent clothing. A stripped purple and dark blue gown adorned her sulky skin, a thin piece of cloth covered her head, shielding her face from the tribe. Beads and metalworks shined under yhe moonlight, aroind her ankles, wrists, neck and head. It was evident she was well taken care of. 

The younger wife sat on his other side. Her clothes were proof of her title: The mother of the King's only son. The ceremony was to also celebrate the King's son, that was earlier, before the sun had set. The King's older wife bore him four girls, when his new wife, a daughter of his chief, bore a male, she was disregarded soon after.

I never expected the King to be brown skinned as the past Kings had always varied from white, to Clay skinned or Ashen, directly from a royal descendant. Trained and nurtured from a tender age to have the qualities of an exemplary king.

To be grakaya.
Honest.

The ceremony was also for a marriage.  A lady sat on a flat rock wearing a while top, with a yellow printed motif on her wrapper. A long thin white cloth covered her from her head down to her legs. The typical wedding attire.

Her face was lightly decorated with thick white clay and dried powder leaves. Lines of chalk ran down her forehead to cheeks, the Tribe's symbol on her face. Her mother sat with her in tears, speaking in hushed tones. Advising her on her new life as a married woman, on her husband's pleasure and future children.

I was among the women behind the Older wife's hut. The old women sat on a raffia mat shouting at  younger girls cooking, their voices were raised high in anger and frustration at some of their clumsiness. 

A few of us grumbled, itching for an opportunity to make a snide remark for them to take over, but that would land us a hard slap of the cheek.

I wanted to talk openly, inspite of the consequences.

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The ceremony was for the birth of the new son, the official pledging of the King, a marriage and passing through of the elders. The Tribe celebrated numerous events at a time, they believe in rushing everything when possible.

Earlier, the son has been named, blessed and protected by the gods.

Tonight, the new king would claim his official right to the throne, his new seat as the ruler of our tribe.

Tonight, her marriage would commence; the chief's precious daughter would get married to the luckiest man in our tribe.

Tonight would be the passing through ceremony, for the old women celebrating their new lives as the new elders.

My grandmother is turning 80.

Once tonight is over, my best friend is going to get married to her. Then I would only be permitted to speak with the young girls. The young ladies in this tribe only talk about men: their achievements, their social status and physical appearance. The ones they wish would notice them, their dreams and stupid fantasies that didn't fancy me.

I hated talking about men, but I love talking to my man.

He's not yours anymore. He never was and he never will be.

Maybe the men in my tribe seem too familiar, that could be why they seem to bore me. My spirit ached for adventure, to get out of this Tribe. Out of their cages and stupid customs.

"Inaraya?" I looked towards the direction of my name being called.

"Bira kitu?"  I answered.
Yes mother?

"Casa das maz." She said and turned back to my grandmother.
Check the food.

I turned to the pot over the burning wood of fire. Using the leaves on the floor, I opened the pot, avoiding my delicate hands. The soup irritated me, vegetables in the soup, but I had to eat it or my mother would raise an alarm.

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My best friend, Mayanta, is the only young male allowed to talk to me.

Perhaps the tribe thought we would get married. We were closer than peas in a pod when we were little.

But things would change tonight.

Mayanta sat on a wooden stool, his soon-to-be-bride on a flat slate. The sand stained the white shawl used to cover her body. Mayanta's pearly white teeth flashed a smile as the married men slapped his back in admiration. Content. Happiness. Respect.

When the eldest of the men stood up, he went to the Mayanta and his new wife slowly.

Painfully, to me.

The razor in his left hand was shaking badly. He took her wrist, slowly made a deep cut. Her blood ran down her wrist. Calmly, he held her hand to Mayanta's mouth, making him drink her blood according to the traditions.

Soon the blood stopped, just as her wrist had swollen up. Mayanta's hand was also taken and the same was done to him.

As his soon to be bride started drinking his blood, I looked away.

I was heart-broken.

Even though I never admitted to liking Mayanta, the feelings would always there.

I could have stopped the wedding, but I didn't want to.

The marriage was over, or like we call it.

Gastana ko mata.
Marriage is over.

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    -1022 words-

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