The First Wife

by Paulina Chiziane

  By now, it’s six in the morning. I go back home and sleep for a bit.

  27

  Seven o’clock. I hear someone beating on my front door. I wake up and go to open it. My house is invaded by my sisters-in-law and my husband’s aunts, who burst in wailing and screaming.

  “Congratulations, Rami,” one of the women shouts at me. “You’re free, you’ve got what you wanted. You’re not going to have to endure any humiliation. There’s no risk of a divorce now. You’re a widow!”

  “A widow? Me?”

  “You’ve got rid of a heavy burden. You’re free. You killed our brother so that you could get his inheritance.”

  While they’re shouting at me, they start taking the chairs and tables from the living room and tell me to sit in a corner. Why am I being confined to this corner as if I were a prisoner? I shout back and ask: How did Tony die and where, who killed him, who found him, how was he identified? The women answer me: Behave like a dignified widow. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know that a respectable widow isn’t supposed to understand anything, or ask questions, or make any suggestions, in order not to be labeled a bawdy, merry widow.

  I’m horrified by the speed with which they’ve come to the conclusion he’s dead and by the urgency with which they’ve started calling me a widow. I was looking for the Tony they’re talking about all through the night, and so far he hasn’t been found anywhere. They enter my bedroom and dismantle the furniture to create space and cover all the furniture with white sheets. They drag me into a corner, shave my head with a razor and dress me in black. I’ve stopped having any power over my body and my own home. I begin to regret things: Why didn’t I sign those wretched divorce papers? I had an opportunity to break free from all this oppression and I didn’t take it. Once again I ask:

  “How did my Tony die? When? Where?”

  “Women are witches. You ate our brother, Rami. You Ronga women are like that. You kill your husbands so you can live it up on the dead man’s assets.”

  People turn up from various directions like lines of ants. Within a minute or two my house is full. Nowadays, greater value is given to death than to life, and death is more important than birth. Women like funeral wakes. At wakes, they can wail away all their pains like wolves at night, they can purge their embittered bodies through their copious tears. When their throats become dry and their strength wanes, they recharge their batteries with sweet tea and bread and butter paid for by the family of the deceased. Men like wakes because they can relax, play chess, checkers, cards, and they can chat about politics, soccer, and women. A wake is a good opportunity to unload slanderous comments, exorcize ghosts, have a dig at enemies, meet up with relatives and old friends, and receive some assets. In death, everyone comes together to weep, but in life, man is left to fight on his own.

  They take me to my bedroom like a bunch of green bananas being dragged to the hothouse. Like an obstinate goat being led to the corral. They do what they like with me. I don’t belong to myself anymore. They place a veil on my head. Some folk hug me and weep, but I still don’t see why. I need to understand, to accept things, to see in order to believe. No one gives me time. I tremble with terror and alarm. My whole being is invaded by a feeling of emptiness. What’s going to become of my life without Tony? I live through hours of rage, peevishness, and bile.

  “Tony was run over yesterday morning at about eight, on the bridge.”

  I take a deep breath. I saw the dead man on the bridge. But it had nothing to do with Tony. How have they arrived at the conclusion it was him if we, his wives, haven’t yet identified the body?

  A whole crowd of women sit down around me. I’m in a prison cell made out of thick walls of people. The air becomes a lethal gas. There’s heavy breathing. All the bodies together form one sheet, one current, one heat, and the pores of our skin become communication ducts. It’s snug. The women’s voices buzz in my ears like the lowing of cows about to be milked. There are prayers, litanies, dirges. I am the queen bee in this hive of lamentations. A widow with any feelings should produce tears by the bucketful, and everyone assesses the volume of my weeping. Men’s hands distribute candles like flowers, in the bedroom, the living room, the veranda, all over the place. Their little yellow flames sway like sunflowers to the rhythm of the breeze. There’s a smell of death, a smell of tears, a smell of wax. Everyone is crying over Tony, who has left for the great beyond, except for me, who weeps because Tony left me for the arms of another woman. We all weep with devotion. We weep lovingly.

  The other four wives have arrived and we shut ourselves away in one of the rooms for a chat. To exchange impressions and feelings. I wanted to share my doubts, my frustrations with them. We try to agree on a common strategy in the face of all this mourning.

  “Rami, why are they in such a hurry to declare him dead? In little more than an instant, they’ve obtained the death certificate and fixed a date for the funeral. Why are they doing this, Rami?” Saly’s voice is like a hoarse gust of air, originating in the most secret corner of herself.

  “Why have we been excluded from the process of identifying the dead man?” Ju explodes, seriously disgusted. “Who knows the man’s body better than we do? Are we not his wives? Why don’t they organize a detailed examination of the body? Tony’s a policeman. The police have got appropriate technical methods and systems for things like this.”

  “Tony’s colleagues and superiors have been here,” I explain, “and have offered their services. They were shooed away like flies. These perverse people invoked religion, tradition, and a whole host of superstitions I’d never heard of before.”

  “This whole story smacks of treachery,” Lu bursts out, “someone wants to poison us, I can feel it. Someone is spitting in our face. Someone’s sharpening his claws for a major act of plunder. Get ready, girls. There’s going to be a bloodbath very soon. Someone’s sniffing around whatever inheritance this death is going to produce.”

  “The bloodbath’s already started. They’ve already called us witches, gold diggers, whores, self-seekers,” Saly vociferates, “one of Tony’s brothers keeps looking at us as if he were measuring us up, planning something. He’s got the look of a butcher about him.”

  “Death sometimes comes without warning,” says Mauá, who has so far been silent. “But before someone dies, there’s always some slight forewarning. A bad dream, an eyelid twitching, a snake crossing one’s path, a black cat meowing at night, a bat screeching, the wind swirling and lifting the leaves skyward, something like that. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing!”

  “I’ve got pigeons in my yard,” Ju explains, “pigeons can sense death from afar, without fail. When there’s a death in the household, they all land together on the ground and start cooing really loudly, and then they take off again and don’t come back. But the pigeons in my yard are cooing merrily. Something’s not right, Rami, and I don’t know what it is.”

  I sense a smell of bile invading my body. A smell of heat, a smell of pain. My rivals are expecting me to say something, but my throat is a closed door. I have my doubts and my certainties, but the ill omens I feel prevent me from sharing my apprehensions. I’m scared of bringing about unforeseen events. It’s better to let the ship sink and the fruit fall to the ground once rotten.

  “Ah! You southerners!” Lu remarks in an accusing tone of voice. “I’m a Sena. Among us Senas, death is a private affair. As private as a kiss, as love, as birth. Death concerns just a small nucleus of people. Relatives and friends drop by to express their condolences, but don’t stay in order not to be contaminated by the sight of death. Here in the south, death is a celebration, it’s a party. A good opportunity to eat without having to pay. With such high levels of mortality, I know folk who go from funeral to funeral, singing, weeping, eating and getting fat without spending anything whatsoever. Tell me one thing, all of you. Who’s going to fill the bellies of all this rabble?”

  Late afternoon and Tony’s brothers take us to the morgue.
At the entrance to the morgue, the people working there put white coats on us, and white masks. We go in. Everything is white. White walls, white corridors, cupboards and huge drawers also white, white tiles, white washbasins, white bricks, white stretchers. Workers dressed in white. Here, immobile bodies sleep like sawn tree trunks, covered in white sheets on icy waves. Death is white. On the ceiling invisible souls hover, and they must be white and freezing cold too. I shudder at the thought of it.

  The body of our dead husband is awaiting its abode. The body is disfigured, difficult to identify. He was crushed, misshapen, like a jelly spread out on the ground. The eyes are outside the orbits and expressionless. A man dressed in white shows us the corpse of the man they say is ours. I take a close look behind his right ear. The scar from one of our old squabbles is missing. I whacked him over the head with a bottle, which produced a huge gash and he was stitched up like a piece of lace in the surgery. A scar doesn’t disappear because of an accident. This dead man is definitely not my Tony because the evidence of my crime is missing.

  My mother-in-law is standing in front of the body. She doesn’t open her eyes. She keeps them closed. A mother doesn’t need to look. She feels. She must be recalling the good times when her son lived in her belly, in her arms, in her world.

  I approach my mother-in-law and whisper in her ear: Mother, this is not Tony. She gives me a sad smile and answers tearfully: My poor girl. It’s hard accepting reality. It’s always like this, and always was, I know. Courage, my little girl. The old woman isn’t taking me seriously. She swaddles me in a look of tenderness, hugs me, embraces me, stifles me. I’m in despair. Oh, you blind, deaf, stupid people! Don’t I have the right to be listened to at least once in my life? I’m tired of being a woman. Of having to put up with every whim. Of being an outsider in my own home. I’m tired of being a shadow. A silhouette. If you don’t want to listen to me, then my revenge will be my silence. I won’t share my doubts. I’m going to let this dead man be buried.

  It’s taken a long time for me to understand why they were in such a hurry to resolve such a delicate matter. It was all nothing more than an act of hatred and vengeance. They hated us. They hated Tony’s prosperity. They were seeking recompense for all that they wanted for themselves, and that life had denied them: titles, women, houses, cars, properties. I’m going to join in this game out of a need for revenge as well. Let’s see what happens. I have a feeling I’m going to have a lot of fun. I’m not going to deny these people the pleasure of having an appropriate funeral. They feel a need to cry. So let them cry.

  The blindness of these people is the product of their superstition. Of the naked women who bring bad luck. It comes from their time-honored belief in the language of seashells and bones that speak greater truths than women do. It comes from the mathematics of hatred and envy, in which two plus two equals five. It comes from their belief in the evil and witchcraft incubated in the bellies of women. He asked me for a divorce. I refused. It’s well known that being a widow brings in more money than being divorced. In the superstitious thinking of some people, I ordered his death through magic arts, to avoid divorce and get my hands on his assets. On that bridge where the man was killed, there’s a mystery. Last year, in that exact spot, at the same hour of the morning, a man was killed as he was leaving the house of one wife and heading for the house of another. That spot lies between Saly’s house and Ju’s. In that spot, there’s a powerful, terrifying, malign spirit, a spirit that devours polygamous men.

  28

  Late afternoon. Mauá’s family arrive to demand her rights as a widow in accordance with Makua tradition. Among the Makua, the woman is mother, queen, and creator of the universe. A Makua widow is the recipient of love, affection, and help. They have come to claim her part of the inheritance as a widow. And the Makua have turned up in numbers. They wait in the living room, and talk in that language of theirs that we can’t understand. Before the meeting begins, Saly’s family arrives. They are Makonde, and their intentions are the same. Makua and Makonde come together in strength to defend the interests of nieces. Night falls. The electric light illuminates their perspiring bodies, making them look like jacaranda wood sculptures.

  The spokesman for the two families begins his speech in a sonorous, elegant tone. He explains the problem and sets out their claims.

  Tony’s eldest brother is the spokesman for the family. In his reply, he starts by describing the status of each of Tony’s wives. He says that polygamy is a system that has its own rules, and in this matter, the south differs from the north. Each new wife is the product of a need, and not merely of hidden pleasures. In polygamy, the woman is taken from her family’s home, she is pure, a virgin like all betrothed women. He says that the true widows are myself and Ju. Even Ju isn’t a perfect widow, he explains, because her entry into the home took place without the knowledge of the family counsel, and without the agreement of his first wife. The other women are mere concubines, simply adventurers Tony encountered during his life’s journey. They latched on to Tony when he had already achieved a professional position, he had good houses and good cars. True polygamy doesn’t stem from self-interest.

  This retort offends the Makua and the Makonde, it raises hackles and the tone of the voices escalates.

  “We were aware of the bad treatment that was being meted out to Dona Rami,” Mauá’s uncle says. “We wish to make it clear that the Makua and the Makonde aren’t cattle to be mistreated. We have come to warn you that you mustn’t lay a finger on our girls. We don’t want anything to do with your rituals involving cutting hair, and purifying them with your vaccinations.”

  “You are from the north, and you should deal with your things where you come from, but we in the south have our traditions,” Tony’s brother replies. “Don’t come and give us orders, because you Makua aren’t men. Where you come from, it’s the women that give orders. Who’s ever heard of a man getting married and going to live with his wife’s family? Who’s ever heard of a man working his whole life only to leave the product of all his hard work to her when he dies or when they separate?”

  “Women are flowers, they should be treated with care. Women are weak, they should be protected. Who better than the mother’s family to give warmth and protection? When the husband dies, the house goes to her and their children. After all, it was built for them.”

  “You northerners are slaves to your women. You work your whole lives just for them. Even the children carry their mother’s surname. What sort of men are you?”

  “And you southerners are brutes, you treat women like animals. Does anyone in this world know who the real father of a wife’s children is? You, sir, who insult us so much, are you sure that the children you say are yours, are in fact yours? Where we come from, it’s true that the children have their mother’s family name. That’s because the father is always a doubt, whereas the woman is certainty. A rooster never hatches eggs. It’s better to give to Caesar what is Caesar’s.

  Arms thrash around in the air like fish in the sea. The debate gets heated and all inhibitions are swept away. All traces of pride are erased and viciousness surfaces. Death is forgotten, mourning is abandoned. Prayers stop, along with the weeping and the dirges.

  “Stupid, backward northerners! Tattoo-covered Makonde! Mind your own business and leave us alone!”

  “You Shangaan are inhuman, barbaric, vulgar brutes. You’re not human, you murder your women. You don’t respect your own mothers.”

  “All this is Tony’s fault. With so many pretty southern women, why did he have to go and get these crazy, mixed-up northern girls?”

  “The only pretty women are those from the north, you Shangaan idiots! Northern women are dainty and free. Northern women are beautiful. Your women are heavy, dumpy, they’ve got big backsides from eating too many peanuts!”

  The menfolk are hurling insults at each other like rocks. Their bodies are taut and tense. Their voices are loud like howls on a moonlit night. They take off their jackets and
ties, the war is fierce. What a pity there isn’t enough room to improvise a ring. Otherwise, we could have a really good boxing match, Shangaan against northerners, or vice versa. This scene is just too good to miss. What a pity Tony isn’t here to see for himself the confusion he’s caused.

  “Go to hell, you stupid northerners with your idle women. You spend your time painting yourselves. Combing your hair. And you men, their slaves, always putting up with these women’s caprices, always buying gold, cloth, new clothes. You’re nothing. You’ve got no power at all and you can’t even give the orders in your own home.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Our women work hard. They look after the house, sweep the yard, wash the clothes, distil good liquor for us, their husbands, fetch water from the well and prepare our bath, they’re good in the kitchen and in bed as well. We invest in their beauty. We invest in their repose and everyone is delighted with the women of our locality. Ask the Arabs, who were the first to reach the land of the Makua, anchored their ships, and stayed for good. Ask the Portuguese, who passed through there and fell mortally in love with the most beautiful black women on the surface of the earth. Ask the French who are there, and were so dazzled, so maddened and besotted by the beauty of our Makua women, that they forgot how to get home. Ask the priests who abandoned their cassocks and fell in love with the Makua women of our island. Ask your Tony, who abandoned his family and became infatuated with our Mauá’s charms. Our women are educated for life and for love. They are the breeze, the flower, perfect love.”

  “That’s all rubbish, you wretched northerners. You invest in women? What sort of investment?”

  “Of course we do. Because the woman is earth. Without fertilizer or irrigation, she doesn’t produce. While you beat them, stamp on them, we adorn them, we love and care for them like plants in the most beautiful garden.”

  Mauá and Saly are shaking with fear. They come over to me and ask for help.