A good son

Author's Note: A brief foray into "historical" fiction, inspired by my trip to the Kisumu Museum.

The bundled fibers of her broom were leaving ruts in the floor of the simple hut, she swept with such ferocity. “Our son, Oyemengo! Our son is seven! How much longer are we to live inside your father’s gates?”

“Mke,” he soothed as he took the broom from her. “Mke, you know I cannot ask father. He and the elders must decide it is time.” He pulled her to sit next to him on the sleeping platform built into the gateward wall. “I am a man, Mke. I want to leave my father’s place as much as you do.”

“But my clan is preparing to leave, Oyemengo. My father will be shamed if he is not allowed to pay my bride price before they go.” Her hands trembled as they rested on her thighs. Oyemengo’s father was an important man, as was Mke’s. The shame of not paying such a high bride price would be considerable.

Oyemengo took one of her hands, “When do they leave, Mke?”

“They wish to spend two more long rains here.”

He squeezed her hand gently. “Then there is still time.”

“Papa! Papa! I’ve been practicing!” A young boy, all muscle and sinew was flopping about the hut, twirling a slightly bent stick of wood.

“What is that you have there?” Oyemengo grabbed the stick mid-swing, preventing himself from a nasty concussion.

“It’s a pole, papa. A pole for our new home.” Mke turned her face away as her husband looked accusingly in her direction.

Oyemengo pried the stick from him, propping it against the wall of the hut, and put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “That time is not yet come, Mtoto. You must not anger the elders.”

Wriggling out from under his father’s hand, he gave an impish grin. “Of course not, papa, it is a strong pole, fit for a spear, that is what I told everyone I was making.”

Oyemengo laughed, “Ah, my son, yearning to be a man already. Perhaps a fishing pole, little one.”

“Take me fishing, papa, please?” Oyemengo could not refuse the grinning brown eyes and promised his wife there would be tilapia for supper as he gathered his pole, spear and basket. Father and son ducked out of the cool darkness of the hut and into the afternoon sun.
--
Oyemengo and his family continued as they were in the eldest son’s hut, called a simba, getting hopeful every time an elder would make his way through the main gate and into the home of the first wife. At every occurrence, Oyemengo would stand outside his hut waiting to be beckoned into the men’s hut nearby. But the conclaves there never pertained to him and never required his presence. It soon became known that his father was preparing to take a 4th wife, a widow from a neighboring tribe not too dissimilar in age to Mke.

Oyemengo and his son were out far in the bush, gathering fowl traps they had set earlier that week, when Oyemengo heard a branch crack behind him. Gripping the knife at his waist, he pulled his son in front of him and turned, unsure of what he would encounter.

The tribal elder grinned at the tight grip the young man had on the machete. “You are a good father, Oyemengo, protecting your son.”

He straightened from his crouch and motioned to his son to head back to the village. “Thank you, sir. I try to be.” He stood with head bowed.

“It is hard being a father, living in your simba as you do?” The man’s eyes bore into him as he weighed his response.

“It is not a hardship to please my father and the tribe, sir.” He looked plaintively at the older man, his sincerity obvious on his features.

He waited patiently, the silence becoming heavy under the scrupulous gaze of the elder. “You are a good son, Oyemengo, pleasing your father.”

The elder turned to leave, and after his footfall was no longer audible, Oyemengo dropped to his knees, machete falling to the ground, holding his head in his hands. “Mke will be so angry with me. What have I done?”
--
“Here you are, back with the traps already. Some nice birds, my husband!” She took the basket traps from him and turned to tend the fire inside their home

He ran his hand over his face, “Thank you.” He ducked his head to enter the hut, with a soft, “Mke? I need to…” His son’s voice stopped him mid-sentence.

“Papa! Look the elders are here.”

Oyemengo and his son watched the elders enter his mother’s home. Mke ran to the hut of the second wife to get any knowledge she could. The elders could not be here to discuss the business of the fourth wife; that was settled and done. The women were joined by the third wife and were still huddled together when the first wife left her hut. She walked slowly but deliberately to Oyemengo. As she traveled across the compound, the elders and Oyemengo’s father moved into the men’s hut. The smell of their tobacco reached Oyemengo before his mother did.

“Go, Oyemengo. The elders wish to speak with you.” There was a spark in her eye as she watched her handsome son straighten his shoulders and head for the men’s conclave.

“You three, stop your gossiping and tend your fires. We have many hungry men to feed tonight.”

They bowed their heads and scurried away.
--
Once inside the men’s hut, Oyemengo was unsure what he should do. The elder he had spoken to earlier in the day, noticed his discomfiture and motioned him to take a stool and sit.

Without much in the way of preamble, his father’s voice soon filled the hut, “You have been a good and dutiful son, Oyemengo. May your homestead be blessed.”

He went back to puffing on his pipe as Oyemengo carefully surveyed the tribe elders around him. Their smiles and nods affirmed that he and Mke would be allowed to start a home of their own. He swallowed the lump in his throat before speaking, “It is easy, father, to be dutiful to such a father as you. May my son hold me in such esteem as I you.”

“You care to have a smoke, Oyemengo?”

The elders laughed. “Let him go, he and his young wife must celebrate.”

As Oyemengo ducked out, he could hear the men teasing in the way that all men do, all over the world, about the youth of his father’s bride-to-be. He shook his head, thinking “Would that Mke and I can leave before that happens!”

Walking sedately back into his hut, he swept Mtoto up in his arms. “Start practicing on cutting poles, my son!” Mtoto began dancing around their little fire as Mke continued trying to stir her stew.

She reached out and placed her warm palm on Oyemengo’s cheek. There were tears shining in her eyes, “A very proud day, Oyemengo.”
--
As is custom, Oyemengo chose a brother of his father to help him with the planning and preparation for his homestead. The men, joined often by Mtoto, were clearing bush and stripping logs and stockpiling the supplies needed to build Oyemengo’s Hut of the First Wife. The location of his home was a closely guarded secret, known only to Oyemengo, his mother, his uncle, and a clan elder. The supplies they had been preparing were left in the bush, so as not to lead anyone to the selected spot. Secrecy was the only protection against someone bringing evil spirits to lie in the ground and trouble Oyemengo’s family forever.

Mtoto worked very hard, practicing with his father’s axe to make a perfect pole. When he got too much underfoot, Mke sent him in search of eggs. They required a number of them to set into a fowl basket on the day of the move. When he returned he saw his father and uncle carrying two large trunks of powo tree. Oyemengo soon set to work stripping the bark. “Papa, that tree looks different than the ones you and Uncle have given me to cut poles.”

“Yes, son, it is. This is for two very special poles. Can you guess what they are?” His nimble fingers continued peeling stray pieces of bark, his knife loosening strips as necessary.

“The pole near where your head lays when you sleep?” Mtoto was crouched on his heels, chewing on a blade of grass, head tilted off to one side, squinting against the sun as he watched his father.

“No, son, though that is a good guess. What are the two most important poles in our new hut?”

“Ummm…” He rubbed his palm against the side of his face, as though to put a new thought into his brain.

Oyemengo placed his large palm on the top of the boy’s head, nearly covering his entire skull. “It’s okay, my son, the time has not yet come for you to think about your simba. These are for the door posts.”

“Do they have to be stronger? Is that why they’re different?”

“No, Mtoto. Feel the trunk without its bark.”

“It doesn’t feel rough, with splinters, like the other poles.”

“That’s right, it’s smooth. So smooth that evil spirits just slide away. They can’t hold on and try to come into our hut.”

“Do spirits really try to come into our huts?” The whites of Mtoto’s eyes became considerably more conspicuous.

“Depends, Mtoto, on how good you are and whether you mind your mother.”

Mtoto jumped up, still wide-eyed. Oyemengo grabbed his shirt. “Where are you running, little one?”

“I didn’t get as many eggs as mother asked for, I have to go get more, so the spirits won’t come.” He ran out the back gate, behind first wife’s hut and through the kitchen garden looking for more eggs.

Oyemengo chuckled as he continued working. “You are a good son, Mtoto.”
--
The night before the move, Oyemengo and his uncle were busy ensuring that everything was in its proper place. They could leave no earlier than the first cockcrow, but had to be outside his father’s gates before the last cockcrow of morning. Oyemengo would carry a bit of the fire from his simba on a broken shard of pottery and his new spear. His uncle would carry the fowl trap containing rotten eggs, the cockerel that would be Oyemengo’s first animal and a portion of an ant hill from his father’s homestead. Mtoto would be responsible for bringing the new axe.

The little family inside the simba was filled with nervous anticipation. Oyemengo wished he could make his heart stop going so fast and fall asleep, he knew the next day, while rich with ceremony, was also a lot of hard work. Mke knew that in just a few month’s time, they would decide on the location of the main gate to their family compound and she would be a true and proper first wife, and Oyomengo would be capable of accepting her bride price, leaving her father and his clan free to travel to new lands without shame. Mtoto found himself with mixed emotions, as he had come to love the cockerel as his pet, despite warnings from his parents. It would have to be sacrificed in a few month’s time, as part of the first feast given by the first wife. But, his boyish hopes also focused on his own simba, now that he knew the ways of hut building. Eventually, the flickering fire found them all fast asleep.
--
The pair lay on their sleeping platform, neither one asleep, but neither acknowledging that the other was awake. The purplish hues of the coming dawn were infiltrating the camp, and Oyemengo tensed as he waited for the first morning call from Mtoto’s pet cockerel. Mke’s lips were in constant motion as she silently repeated prayers of thanksgiving to the gods and the elders. Mtoto was fast asleep on a papyrus mat on the floor of the hut, curled precariously around his father’s new axe.

At the first bleating of the cockcrow, the hut became a blur of motion, matched only by the activity in the men’s hut, where Oyemengo’s uncle was in similar preparation. Quickly aligned and ready, the procession moved out of the main gate. Oyemengo followed his uncle, and Mtoto followed him. Mke and the rest of the family were soon behind.

When the spot was reached, Oyemengo’s uncle thrust a forked spear into the ground, claiming the land for the tribe and for Oyemengo. The basket of rotten eggs was hung from the pole to ward off evil spirits during the construction of the hut. The small portion of the ant hill from his father’s compound was placed at the base, and a knot of grass was thrown to ask for blessings of fertility and growth for the land.

Meanwhile, Mtoto was already hard at work with his father’s axe, finishing the pole that he had started earlier in the week. Oyemengo was walking around his land, seemingly to find the best place to build his hut, though he and his uncle has already chosen the spot. He knelt and dug the first hole for construction with his machete and called for Mtoto.

His son proudly placed his freshly whittled pole into the space, and Oyemengo secured it with mud and straw. Father and son shared a handshake, and then the task of securing his door posts was upon Oyemengo. The women of the tribe watched and waited, while the men were bringing the cached supplies into the clearing from their hiding place in the bush. After the door posts were placed and secured, a great whoop arose from the crowd, and everyone joined the hut making.

Mke and her chosen friends, including her mother-in-law were responsible for having food at the ready for the hungry warriors that were busy building, while the other women of the tribe laughed and talked as their fingers flew over the fronds they were weaving into thatch for the roof and walls.

At the end of a long day, the building was done, feasting was finished, and children were falling asleep in their mother’s arms. But, Oyemengo now had to demonstrate that he could protect his home before bringing his family there to live.

With head held high, he approached his father, who was in informal council with the elders. “Father, would you do me the honor of sheltering my family tonight as I protect our new home?”

“You are a good son, Oyemengo. Your family can always find shelter at my home.”

Oyemengo took the broken shard of pottery that carried fire from his simba and placed it into the waiting pile of kindling inside his new hut. As the flames grew, he stood at the entrance to the hut, watching his tribe scatter away.

Mke still stood next to him. “After tomorrow, Mke, no more living in my father’s gates.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her cheek to his chest briefly before pulling away to join the others. “You are a good man, my husband.”

Oyemengo sat in his doorway with a smile on his face, waiting for the night to end.

L to R: Huts of: Eldest son, 2nd wife, granary, 1st wife, Man, Animal, 3rd Wife, 2nd son

-----



Author’s Footnote:

Interesting tidbits I did not work into the story: Bachelors, men without sons, and left-handed men are not allowed to establish homesteads. Important visitors always come through the main gate to the hut of the first wife. These customs are still practiced, though somewhat altered due to the influences of western civilization and Christianity. In fact, the photos accompanying the exhibit showed the young man in contemporary clothes (short-sleeve button up, too large and untucked over dark cotton pants)