The First Wife

by Paulina Chiziane

  “He’s out of danger. It wasn’t a heart attack, but he mustn’t get so excited.”

  39

  I’m one of the first to arrive and I sit right in the front. There’s a steady stream of people coming into the church. The place is so full that I fear there won’t be enough room for so many people. All of a sudden the church is lit up. Fresh air circulates through the windows, through the dome, and through the hearts of hundreds of those present. The organ plays, the people get to their feet, the bride is arriving. I turn to look at the entrance to the church and sigh. Here’s the bride emerging from among the thorns like a white angel descending from heaven. Here she is, blossoming as she advances. How long the journey has been up until this point! My tiredness is lifted. My soul soars into the air like the highest branches of a pine. I hear the whispers of all the fountains and the song of all the birds in the universe. The bride and groom are in each other’s heart, king and queen on the sun’s throne.

  I’m in heaven and am swaying to the sound of the organ music. The guests’ applause, the priest’s voice, pull my soul along on the scent of the breeze, dear God, watch over my heart before my emotions kill me. I view a past of sweetness with bitter feelings. Lu wears a smile on her face that reminds me of when I was a bride. I was also once happy as she is now. I was also a queen in my day, but now, oh God, I’m a slave, dying of resentment. Life is a wheel, a day of thorns, another day of flowers, a day of sun, another day of storm. Dear life, how often do we weep and smile at the same time?

  The bride and groom say yes and I weep. Yes, the source of all things. Yes to love and two hearts become one. Yes to sperm and to the egg so that a new race may be born. Yes to hatred, so that the world may be set alight with endless fires. Yes. It’s in the word yes that all the mysteries of the universe are celebrated.

  This bride is a river with reflections of the sun and the moon. She is a tiny particle of dew in the arid land that witnessed her birth. The particle started to grow, and gradually took the shape of a drop, a stream of water, a river. And she became a source. She journeyed through the dryness of the bush and knew monstrous cities, where women sell their bodies in order to eat. But she flowed round all the obstacles like a river in flood. Now she is celebrating her victory song, galloping through the skies on the wings of Pegasus. When I close my eyes, I hear this bride murmuring gently to my ear alone: Rami, it is possible to change the world. The world is within us!

  The ceremony comes to an end, Lu is married. Everybody rises so that they can congratulate the couple. I’m the last one. She asks me in a whisper:

  “How’s Tony?”

  “He had a deep fit of depression early this morning. He’s in the hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of you.”

  “Is he very ill?”

  “He’s out of danger.”

  “Ah, thank goodness. It’s good to know that a man really can die of love for me. This piece of news has made me doubly happy today.”

  “Congratulations, Lu.”

  “Rami, you’re like a great mother to me, and I shall never forget you. You are a woman above all other women. I’m a successful businesswomen. A beautiful bride. A true wife. My happiness is your work, thank you, Rami.”

  “Praise be to God!” I sigh.

  “There’s something else, Rami. On this solemn day, I offer you a place in my family. I’m now the first wife. Thorns and pain. I want to give you the position of second wife, so that you may be pleasure and flower, at least once in your life. Vito is yours too. You deserve all the happiness the world can offer, Rami.”

  She smiles. We embrace. We kiss and weep with delight. Mauá and Saly join us and we all hug Lu in a great show of celebration. Everyone is here except for Ju. Mauá is so emotional, she can hardly contain herself.

  “Rami, just look at how beautiful your work has turned out. What would we be if it weren’t for you? You are our mother, thanks to you we have been reborn. You understood our suffering, our poverty. You adopted us like daughters and you improved our lives – she places her hand on my shoulder and whispers in my ear: “I’m the next one to get married, Rami, you’re the first to know my secret.”

  Saly unleashes an endearing feeling straight from the heart that carries on the wind like honey in its fluidity. She declares. She sighs:

  “If women join hands together, they can change the world, isn’t that so, Rami?”

  “Yes,” Mauá adds, smiling, “with Rami’s strength, we’ve managed to change the course of our lives. Thank you, Rami.”

  We take various photos at the entrance to the church. I sit down on the steps to capture the occasion with the camera that is my own eyes. I weep. For me. For the millions of women who drift helplessly through life’s sediment. Who bear in their bellies the mysteries of creation and the seeds of eternity, to give birth to the light of life and illuminate the blindness of the world? It’s we, the women, we women! Who comforts life? We do. Who makes the males feel more male, enables them to don the plumage of glory and triumph in all their struggles? We do. Who calms the spirit with a flower, after a day of toil? We do. We are night and morning in one star. It’s we who sow the flower and the wind that carries the dark cloud that fertilizes the soil. We are the arc of the sky and the arc of the earth as they meet in the horizon’s affirmation. We are the center around which all the curves of the universe wind. But it is we who face the storm. It is us that life slowly suffocates and buries in the belly of the distant mountains. It’s us that men kill with thirst, ever so gently. It’s us that the world forces to seek out a rich man so as to get the crumbs from his table. It is us that society fails to provide an opportunity for so that we may earn our own living in a dignified manner. Every day, we seek love only to find deceit. We seek a flower and only find thorns. We seek our daily bread and society gives us grains of stone. We seek air and all we find is ash raining down on us, extinguishing the breath of our existence. In our villages, we are taken to schools for sex at the age of ten, and we learn to lengthen our genitals, to become squid, prickly pears, octopuses, and turkey beaks. And while all this is happening, men go to school to learn how to earn their daily bread. While they learn how to write the word life on the map of the world, we go out in the early morning, following our mothers, in order to scare birds away from our plantations of rice.

  I raise my eyes and I contemplate the world. In one corner, women join together in a circle and their voices burst out resplendently in song. The waves of sound increase in tone and snake through the heavens like wild horses. Hopes, strength, and joy spring from their sweet song and fall upon the earth in a cascade of flowers. My pain is transformed into joy by a stroke of magic. The verses of the song rise to my lips. I stutter. And then the song is released from my throat like some projectile. Why am I crying if no one has died? I expel all my pain and anguish. I expel the tears that gather on my lashes. I push aside this fearful rock that crushes my breast and prevents me from breathing fresh air. I abandon the solitude of the church steps and join the ring of dancers. I stamp the ground in complete abandon. The heat, the sound, the vibration, lighten my steps and I spiral like the wind. To the sound of the hands clapping and the songs, I turn this way, that way, upward, downward, to the left, to the right, in the dance of assuagement, the dance of prayer, the dance of freedom. The firm stamping of my feet raises the dust and the earth’s fragrance, and from the ground, I receive the vital injection of fire and water. Sweat pours down my body, I’m in a sauna. All tension is released. I feel that I’m not alone, Mother Earth is lulling me. With sweat and tears I dance in prayer: God, make me the last of a suffering generation of women!

  We interrupt our dance and advance down the road in a procession. Our song penetrates the clouds, and we colonize the heavens with our voices. We reach the moon, we rescue Vuyazi, the rebellious princess stamped upon its surface. We place a crown of palm leaves on her head, and at her feet we scatter flowers of all colors. We ask as of one voice: Why we
re you stamped on the moon’s surface as a punishment for all eternity? Why were you condemned to the icy inferno of the skies? Her answer is a silence of love and tenderness, and we declare with one loud yell: We know everything, we know it all. You refused to have tattoos cut into you with sharp blades, just to please your master. You refused to carry out that act of cleaning his genitals on your breasts after love making, to show your obedience and submission in accordance with the duties forced upon women in our part of the country. You refused to give feet and bones to the girls and gizzards and good pieces of meat to the boys. You fought passionately for the principle of fidelity, and against the licaho, the chastity knife. You said no to the harem and to love by rota. You fought for the right to exist, whether in matters of love or those of food. All you wanted was to be a tree planted in the soil, swaying in the breeze, this we know. All you wanted was to be a secure nest for the birds of the sky, and that’s why you were condemned. Today, we beg forgiveness for those who hurt you, together we cry, they don’t know the harm they did you and the entire universe.

  We plucked Vuyazi from her static position and danced with her over the moon’s vastness. We soared into the heavens and discovered that each star is a woman scattered high above. The earth is made of clay and is shaped like a woman. The moon is ours, we colonized it and it was conquered for us by Vuyazi, pioneer, heroine, princess and queen, the first woman in the world who fought for happiness and justice. The world is ours, every woman’s heart can accommodate the entire universe.

  We rescued her soul from the inferno of the skies and brought it back to the paradise of the earth around the fire, and with her we coiled our way through the streets of the city. Together we celebrated what was to come and we took an oath: From now on, we shall march forward on behalf of all women who have been left defenseless in their lives, we shall multiply the strength of our limbs, and we shall be heroines prepared to fall in the battle for our daily bread. Singing and dancing, we shall build schools with foundations of stone, where we shall learn to read and to write the lines of our destiny. We shall cross the sea on the ship of our eyes because we’ll know how to sail to the other side of the ocean and we shall bear with us a message of solidarity and sisterhood to the women of the four corners of the world. We shall teach men the beauty of forbidden things: the pleasure of weeping, the taste of the wings and feet of the chicken, the beauty of fatherhood, the magic of the rhythm of the pestle as it grinds the grain. Tomorrow, the world will be a more natural place, and our babies, girls as well as boys, will have four years of suckling. At the hour of their birth, girls too will be greeted with five salvos of drumbeats, under the roof of their father’s home and in the shade of their ancestors’ tree. We shall march along with the men, as soldiers dressed in mud and sweat, in the plantations, the mines, the factories, the building sites, and we shall keep a honeyed kiss for each child’s mouth. We shall be richer both in bread and in love. We shall look at men with true love and not for the numbers on the banknotes hanging from their pockets. Alongside our boyfriends, husbands, and lovers, we shall dance from victory to victory in the niketche of life. With our menstrual impurities, we shall fertilize the soil, from where a rainbow of scents and flowers will spring.

  40

  I celebrate waking up to yet another day. I gaze at the thick fog of a November morning. On the horizon, the sun spreads its newly born rays. Today, the heat is going to be intense. I am surrounded by all the signs of absence. I feel a warmth welling up from deep inside me and brushing the tips of my nerves. Have I slept alone? No. I’ve slept with my yearning, the queen of my nights. Yearning takes the form of a figure, a female companion, and has the invisible color of ghosts. I feel deep yearning. But a yearning for whom? For Levy? I’ve no idea! Maybe it’s for Vito. No, it can’t be for Vito, he’s an honest man, a married man. It can only be yearning for Tony, that burden God has placed on my shoulders. I feel deep anguish for those days. I live in sorrow, I live in pain, and I don’t even know why.

  I suddenly envy Lu. Who has a husband all to herself. Who has a warm bed every day, and every hour. Who sleeps on a sheet of stars and has even forgotten the anguish of the weekly rota.

  I envy the miniskirted women, who sell their bodies, who sell their dreams, living each day, each instant, without a single worry. Who wander the streets, who drink, who smoke, who fall in love and out of love, who exploit and are exploited, who are the recipients of false love but who spread true illnesses. I envy divorced women, women who have assumed their solitude, acknowledged and endorsed in front of an attorney, who can freely choose their lovers. Who assume the role of both father and mother, who earn their daily crust with a man’s fists, but who at night want to be women. Who mingle feminine and masculine in one single verb. Who still dream of a true prince, because their former husband changed from a royal prince into a toad after half a dozen kisses.

  I’m envious of barren women, whose womb has broken the cycle of suffering. They haven’t given birth to women for crying, or men for causing women to cry. I pity myself, a married woman. Suffering cruel treatment for no gain whatsoever. Used only to be exchanged later. Unloved but held in esteem socially. A woman camouflaged in her solitude, hidden away. I pity women who are widows, accused of having witches’ teeth so as to chew up the corpse of their husbands in fantastic orgies. I pity little old ladies who are always alone, vanquished by life. I feel even sadder for the child women who play at being mother to their dolls, who are treated like pigeon’s eggs, but who one day will be broken like clay and will follow a sad path, like mine, who will be slept with without knowing any pleasure, and who will give birth to other women and other tragic stories.

  I’m scared of women who envy me, and there are many. You’re blessed, Rami, you’ve got nice rivals, they say. Those northern women, when they steal a husband, it’s for good, so you’ll never see him again. They put such a spell on him that he won’t be able to bear the sight of you, of your children, or even of the street you walk down. In your case, he comes and goes. He provides food for his children. He enters and leaves the house in order to keep up appearances and deceive public opinion. You’re lucky, Rami. It’s lucky to be loved, they say. How many women are born and die without ever knowing the color of love?

  I laugh. Can a husband be stolen? How is the robbery carried out? An adult man introduces himself to a beautiful lady and exclaims: Steal me, my love, steal me from my wife’s arms, go on, steal me, my treasure!

  This love I feel seeks a return that is no longer possible. But why did Tony bring me here? At my mother’s house, I had food and a bed, but he took me away from there. He told me we were going to face life together. Build a nest lined with soft wool. He even told me that together we would gaze at the ocean, count the stars in the sky and talk until morning, our heads resting on the same pillow. And here I came, fished like a mackerel, disposed to love and to build. And what did he give me? Only a sponge mattress and a plate of rice and beans. I need warmth, I need affection, but who is going to give me some?

  I leave my bed, ravaged by the tempest of unsatisfied love. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. I go to the kitchen. I scrub the dishes with all the rage I can muster in order to chase away my anguish. The soapsuds grow in my hands like hillocks. I sing my mother’s favorite song from when, pestle in hand, she would grind the corn.

  How many times do I get hit in one day

  Me, his first wife, oh yeah!

  In the midst of my silence, I hear someone approaching quietly. They’re a man’s steps, I can sense the rhythm, I can sense the smell. I turn my head and see Tony, right behind me. I’m taken aback. What’s he doing here?

  “Rami.”

  “Yes, Tony?”

  I stop washing the crockery and look at him, surprised. He gives me his roguish smile. He’s got his hands hidden behind his back, he must have a present for me, but this time I’m not going to let that present seize me. I look at my watch, it’s still only seven o’clock. I swear
I can’t understand this man, who sleeps in one woman’s house and wakes up with his head in the other’s. He holds out his hand and gives me a red rose, which I receive without any emotion and place on top of the sideboard. What do I need a rose for at this hour? If only the rose were a bit of firewood for my stove. If only it were a few leaves of green vegetables or a plate of rice and beans. But a rose?

  “Don’t distract me, Tony.”

  He gives me a hug and a kiss. He does his best to invest passion in that kiss, which to me tastes cold, metallic. Then he sits down in the chair opposite me and starts telling me stories.

  “Rami.”

  “Yes!”

  “I’ve taken a decision that’ll please you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to leave all my wives and just be with you. I’ve had enough of being a philanderer, a husband to all the women from the north and south of this country. Don’t you agree?”

  He thinks he’s pleasing me with his lies. I don’t applaud dishonest attitudes, oh no. Poor soul. He thinks he’s feeding my vanity by saying I’ll be the only one. He thinks he can buy my soul by offering the heads of my rivals on a tray. I’m an honorable person, I can’t betray anyone, not even my rivals.

  “Rami, I just want to love you and no one else.”

  “Just me? Can I know why?”

  How many times did he swear he loved me, how many times did he betray me? How many times did he swear to each of my rivals he loved them? How many marriages did he promise, and how many did he fulfill? How many times did this miserable wretch lie in the name of love? Ever since he came back from being dead, our bed has remained cold. He would take me to parties, to dinners, he would chat away and encourage me. And he would kiss me gently. I’d get excited, awaiting something that never came. Whoever saw us like that, arm in arm, imagined fire, volcanoes, thunder and lightning, but our hugs were no more than icy cold. He pretended to love me, he sought in me some public image, a convenient perch, a display of pretense to stop people gossiping. Those who see us walking down the street exclaim: Ah, what a lovely couple! Lately, Tony has been treating me like a leper, for reasons I can’t fathom. It’s not as if I’ve ever been unfaithful to him! With Levy, I made love out of sacred duty, and in the case of Vito, it was stolen love, without any intention on my part of betrayal. Our love is a game teenagers play, a hug here, a little stroll there. He lavishes me with flowers, gifts, innocent kisses, all because I was kutchingered and am impure. Poor me. Purified in my widowhood, sullied in my marriage. Why am I being punished with this sexual abstinence if Tony was the main author of the crime? Why does the idea of infidelity provoke endless cataclysms in men? I’m a woman, dear God, I’m a woman and am young, blood still courses through my veins, but this man insists on feeding me only with potatoes and flowers.