“And do you want to hear what happens to male students who are poor? Well, we have to provide the teacher with a sister! And if we don’t have one, we will bartend for the teacher’s wife every night for a month! And if the teacher’s wife has no bar, he uses you like a woman! My guy friends tell me that they aren’t even sure they can have children later on after everything the teacher has done to them.”
“And to be promoted on to the next year,” Ada continued, “you just have to accept to be the teacher’s mistress for the whole year! And you can’t even go turn the teacher in to the principal because he himself is leading this pack of these dogs! That’s why I hate my child! He has the face of his fifty-something-year-old father! I would have indeed had an abortion, but my thirteen-year-old classmate died the month before I got pregnant. She had tried to abort all on her own. I was afraid so I kept my baby. During the whole pregnancy, I secretly hoped my child would be stillborn; unfortunately, the bad seed is always the toughest one to get rid of. The proof of this reality is that Uncle Obame, the spiritual father of all the students and the exemplary schoolteacher, is the one six feet under today, without ever having been compensated for his devotion or for the goodness of his soul. This must not bother you too much, Mother, because in a sense, you are delivering a similar unjust destiny to Aunt Awu. Today you are teaming up with Aunt Ekobekobe, whom you have always detested, because her only purpose in life is to gossip, and you have often been her victim. So your lifelong enemy has come here to beat up on the wife of your biological brother and you’re fine with that—you don’t even give it a second thought. If there are people who warrant punishment here, it’s indeed you and her; you are unworthy of being a mother!”
As Ntsame was overwhelmed emotionally with the gravity of all these revelations, she had to sit down, and did so robotically on a bench at the other end of the room across from Awu. And even though Awu was still keeping her head down, the two women still managed to exchange glances; this only lasted a fraction of a second, but that’s all it took to acknowledge they had discovered the missing piece of the puzzle.
After finishing her story, Ada began to cry hysterically. Her peers came to be by her side before taking her outside to calm her down. Akut said nothing, but Ekobekobe gathered her things in an obvious manner and took off toward the door, railing against the younger generation who insisted on distinguishing between biological siblings and others.
The night would be short because very early in the morning, Awu would be released after submitting to a final series of trials concerning the maternal uncles of her husband. She was to cook a generous amount of nteteghe: a well-prepared dish whose degree of succulence was supposed to equal the amount of love Awu had for her husband. It was not only a dish made with love but also a farewell dish of sorts, as the maternal uncles would be eating hers for the last time as a tribute to their deceased nephew.
But the very last test would prove to be the hardest of all for her: she was supposed to publicly declare how many times she had committed adultery and with whom. Then she was supposed to pay a certain sum for each unfaithful act committed. But even if she had never been guilty of adultery, she was supposed to pay nonetheless so as to not give the impression that she was an undesirable woman, which in itself could also be perceived as a source of shame for the husband and the clan alike. So she was accused of this offense. And she paid.
Finally, Awu once again had the right to go about her daily business, and when she entered her bedroom for the first time—the one she had shared with her husband—she realized that it was nearly empty. Everything had been taken, even her clothing. Her dishes and all her kitchenware had disappeared. Practically nothing was left from all that they had brought out for the reception. Her sister, who arrived the same day as the burial, told her how she had witnessed the dishes steadily diminish in number before, during, and after the meal. For the most part friends and relatives who came from the village, as well as those who had come from elsewhere, sought to walk away with something. Several cooking pots that were missing had disappeared with all the food still inside, this before anyone had even had the chance to eat from them.
But in spite of everything, the funeral had been a success. A representative from the National Ministry of Education had delivered a eulogy during which he denounced the injustice of the whole affair. Pastor Gambier praised the devotion of Obame Afane who, despite never having been baptized, had behaved like a true Christian his whole life. He had been the Good Samaritan who hailed from Ebomane. Pastor Gambier announced that Obame was looking down upon them at that very moment, already sitting in heaven at the right hand of the all-powerful God the Father. Ntsame came to criticize the ungrateful and inhumane administrative system that murdered her brother, with all its red tape that leads to nothing but misery and death. She concluded by letting her wish be known for an enlightened dictator to come to power in the not-so-distant future who would start off by administering a public lashing to all the lazy government workers before proceeding next to the execution of all leaders who have abused their authority along the way. As for Obame’s father, he claimed to have always known that the proliferation of white education would sooner or later end up in the sacrifice of one of their own, and that Obame Afane was therefore doomed from the start. Wasn’t he born the very day that the school opened? Hadn’t he been named “Sikolo”? Afane Obame acknowledged that he had always known that his son didn’t really belong to them; he had come among them to fulfill the mission of a schoolteacher, and he had left this earth once that mission had been accomplished. His just reward was not to be reaped here. His place was now at the peak of the Wood-Girded Hill among his brave ancestors, who held in their right hand a hunting weapon, vestige of their glorious past in this world full of obstacles. But unlike them, in his right hand, Obame Afane, the son, held a stylus, the weapon of his time.
Before the funeral Awudabiran' had given the organizers three-quarters of her savings as she had been warned that donations were minimal. She was determined to give her husband a decent funeral. And the organizers invested the entire sum in food and drink; the Protestant Mission offered to have the coffin made, and the arrangements for the final resting place had been taken care of by the school. No family member offered to take on these expenses. That was rather odd considering the flood of so-called relatives who showed up to eat and drink after the funeral. These same ones who had disappeared when they were really needed to organize a final send-off for their brother had now been the first ones to take advantage of a distant relation to get first crack at food and drinks.
Awu had been stripped of everything. But in any case, who really cared that she had nothing left? Wasn’t she herself a thing? A possession? To prove it, after the funeral, the Family Council gave away all of schoolteacher Obame Afane’s clothes—except for his underwear—to his maternal uncles. They then gave his gun to his oldest son. His books and his house were divided among all of his children. And as for Awu, she was bequeathed to Nguema Afane, the jobless bigamist who was living at the home of his own kids.
Awu had nothing left. She wasn’t anything herself anymore. She didn’t even want to think about what a court of a law would have determined for her case. She did know, however, that had she revealed her entire story, she indeed would have won her case. But the thought of letting people know just how much she contributed to the couple’s wealth prevented her from going further. It was their secret alone. And in any case, she was far too much of a private person to do something like that. The memory of her husband had to be left unscathed. He was the man. And he had to remain a man in the eyes of everyone else. Forever.
And thus, she had the impression that her life had been sewn together by a chain stitch with no knot at the end. And just by chance, someone went and tugged on the thread. And everything was wiped out. She had nothing left except for the excruciating pain of three empty holes on the fabric, and this hurt so badly deep down inside her.
Two nights after the
gathering of the Family Council, Nguema Afane entered Awu’s bedroom without knocking. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was holding an open notebook in her left hand and was staring at it as if she had been hypnotized by it. And with her right index finger, she brushed the margin of a page where red marks had been scribbled; one would have said that she was trying to bring them to life. She didn’t even flinch when Nguema Afane entered through the half-opened door. Without saying a word, he headed over toward the makeshift chair and dragged it over noisily, placing it right in front of Awu. It was at that moment that Awu finally snapped out of it; she jerked her head up and was dumbfounded to discover Nguema Afane sitting there. And as usual, he wasn’t exactly sober. It’s no wonder, considering the way he had been carrying on throughout the entire village about how a man’s virility is measured by his capacity to gulp down as much alcohol as possible without really getting drunk.
“Aka!” Awu let out.
“It’s only me,” said Nguema Afane, calmly sitting down on Obame Afane’s chair, a lugubrious smile on his face.
“You’re just like your kids; ever since yesterday, they’ve been coming into my room whenever they want. The twins are having a hard time accepting that. If I hadn’t been here, they would have beaten up your intruder of a son!”
“Intruder? My son? Did you just say ‘intruder?’”
“Yes. In my room, I consider your son an intruder.”
“Your room? You have a room here, you say? But you still don’t get it yet that from now on, I am the head of the house here? You are a thing, and things don’t acquire ownership. And moreover, you are my thing.”
Awu was neither shocked nor saddened. She no longer had any feelings or emotions. But as firmly as possible, she responded:
“Nguema Afane, listen to what the Thing is going to tell you. Yes, custom has it . . . that is, the village has decided that I belong to you as part of the inheritance. Yes, it’s true that you are the master of the house here because my children aren’t yet adults. The thing that I am can do nothing against an entire community, against tradition. This is true. And I don’t want to abandon my children or subject them to anything. But just look around you. Take a good look at this room. It’s the room in which your brother and I lived. Of course, a good portion of the items from this room are now scattered throughout various houses of family members. But all the items that are here have seen me evolve with him. They know all my secrets and all those I shared with Obame Afane. So listen to me very carefully. Nguema Afane, all the items here are witnesses of what I’m going to say to you. It’s the bedroom of secrets. I’m going to tell you a secret, and that will be our secret alone; I am your thing, as you have just reminded me, okay, but I will be damned if your head and mine land on the same pillow. Don’t even think about something like that.”
During the entire time Awu was talking, Nguema Afane was sporting a contemptuous frown; his eyes reflected arrogance. None of this went unnoticed by Awu. Nonetheless, she continued on:
“You and I, we are going to take each day one stitch at a time, with my threads clearly separated from yours even though all of them will belong to the same piece of work. My threads cannot hook up with yours; it might put a wrinkle in our fabric. Let’s keep our distance in order to achieve a certain harmony. That’s what I’m asking you to do.”
“And what about tradition?”
“Tradition is about people, and people won’t know because it’s a secret.”
“And just who do you think I am, Awu? Aren’t you going to end up losing respect for me in the end? A man who passes up beautiful things without even trying to touch them is not a man!”
“Me!? A beautiful thing!? Me, your big brother’s wife!? And since when am I no longer Mama Awu?”
“Well, since tradition decided so! You are a beautiful thing, Awu!”
“Thing, yes. Beautiful, no! Ah! Death brings such sadness! So Nguema Afane is speaking to me like this today! Oh! Obame Afane! Where are you? Can you hear all this?”
Then, getting up, Awu set the open notebook down on the bed and took herself over to the solid wood table on which a feather pen sat in an inkwell uninterrupted for several months now. With her right hand, she took the pen-holder and made a swollen drop of dark red ink fall into her left hand. Awu put the pen-holder back in the inkwell and, sitting herself across from Nguema Afane, she spread the drop of ink in the palms of both hands and said:
“This is the red ink that your brother Obame Afane used to correct the errors of his children, his students. Look how red my hands are. That dark drop of ink has become bright red like the marks in the margins of this notebook here on the bed. Listen to me. Starting this very instant, the two hands that you see here are going to start correcting a lot of things in my life as sure as my name is Awudabiran'. Normally, you should provide for my needs and those of my children, since we are your things and you are the man; therefore, you are responsible. But that won’t be happening. After your brother went on retirement I was the one—yes, me . . . a Thing—who supported your family . . . you, your wives, and children . . . all by sewing extra table linens. I did it out of love for my husband, to raise his spirits, so that life after retirement wouldn’t be hell as it very well could have been if I hadn’t had that job. I did that to raise his spirits, do you understand? But I see now that his love for you all was one-sided. Not one of you loved him, especially not you. You were jealous of your brother. And you want to take revenge against him after his death. You aren’t Obame Afane’s brother, you are his enemy. So listen. I swear I will be damned if these hands start working again to help out your wives and children. Consider this as correction number one.
If Nguema Afane was more or less intoxicated at the start of this conversation, Awu’s latest words had certainly sobered him up. With frown lines on his face and his mouth agape, he got up and took a step toward Awu, who in turn had to take a step backward just to escape from the odor of palm wine that was violently attacking her nostrils.
“Maybe it’s you who are jealous that I have inherited a gold mine from my brother!”
“Ahhhh, now I’m a gold mine!”
“Yes! All your talents are now for me: your fingers, your body, your bed! Everything is mine! Tradition wills it so!”
“Oh, Nguema Afane, the carp sees the fishhook but it will no longer take the bait! And as for correction number two, tradition will not stop my hand the day your head lands on my pillow; look at what color your semen will be. Take a good look, because by the time it spurts out of your body, you will have already left this world to join Obame Afane. This, I promise you!”
With these words Nguema Afane left the bedroom, slamming the door shut. He had avoided answering back without first having had enough time to think about what he would say. It was a crucial moment. He knew that by leaving without saying anything more, he would avoid things that later could not be undone.
For the first time in his adult life, Nguema Afane went weeks without swallowing a single drop of alcohol. He wanted to clear his head. He knew that he was on the verge of a big turning point in his life, and that perhaps it was all up to him.
As for Awu, she no longer sent any more food to Nguema Afane’s wives but gladly gave food to his children, who very often showed up at her house during mealtime. Although they were younger than Nguema Afane’s oldest two children, Awu’s oldest son and her twins had succeeded in teaching each cousin how to be the man of the house, much to the satisfaction of Awu, who was seeking to avoid conflicts between her and her nephews.
Nguema Afane thought and thought hard. Tradition gave him more rights than duties in this whole Obame Afane affair. But he wasn’t able to enjoy any of them because of Awu. The entire village knew her as Awu the Obedient. But as far as he was concerned, she was Awu the Fury who, over the course of many nights, had morphed into Awu the She-Devil in his dreams. He pictured himself squeezing her with all his might until he passed out, after which he would slowly regain consciousn
ess again but in another world. Could it be Obame Afane’s world?
Nguema Afane kept asking himself all kinds of questions. Should he force Awu to submit to him? If so, could he actually do it? And if he just left her alone, wouldn’t he be considered a coward by the village and maybe also by Awu herself? Was he supposed to try to take Awu by force? No . . . she already haunted him; this woman was really almost frightening to him now. And then, hadn’t she threatened him with death if he tried to rape her? But what if this was all talk? Surely, no, it couldn’t be just talk. Everyone in the village used to say that an angry woman is a very dangerous one; and if she is “light-skinned,” she is ten times more dangerous. Moreover, if she has freckles, she really is a she-devil. And this knife that has been said to have disappeared soon after Obame Afane’s circumcision, where was it now? Hadn’t Obame Afane taken it? If he had, would he have given it to his wife? If so, what would she use it for? Or else, for whom was it meant? No. Awu certainly had to have something in mind that would cost Nguema Afane his life; and those “adherents of tradition” would always be there to lament his loss after he had gone to join Obame Afane.
So he decided to make the best of his bad fortune. Once a week he decided to find out how Awu and her children were doing; he would come during daytime hours, knock first before entering, and sit in the living room. This weekly visit barely lasted an hour. Little did he care what the village thought of him. In any case he had sunk once more into alcoholism, and it had been over a decade now that the villagers had freely made him the butt of their criticism. And when he was drunk (which he never wanted to admit), he used to imagine that Awu might one day see things in a more favorable light.
As for Awu, she remained vigilant. The only reason she complied with the decision of the traditional Council was to remain with her children. But she swore to herself that she would never give her body up to her new owner. As for her spirit, she had sealed it off in an impenetrable place. She counted on keeping it intact for the memory of her husband and for the happiness of her children, girls and boys alike, for whom she hoped that life would be sewn like a chain stitch, with a solid knot at the end. In any case, she was going to watch over them.
Awu's Story Page 11