MIN OMONDI

The best that can be said about it is that it was not right. First of all, the manner of doing it. Secondly, the reason why. I will tell you the reason why it should not have been done the way it was done. But, before that, let me tell you a story. Her story. Min Omondi’s story. Do not mind the frog in my throat. I tell you a tale of love, although I started to tell lies the moment I started to read stories- imaginary stories. Maybe it wasn’t the lies I told; maybe I just talked another language. Anyway, the story I am going to tell you about Min Omondi is a true story. This is not a random tale of infidelity, you know, but just a bizarre truth of how far one will go for the one you love. What one will overlook. . .

The exact date doesn’t matter, but this event took place anyway, on a September night after a day when the wind had blown without pause down the dusty village paths of

Kachan. That I bumped into Min Omondi on that particular moonlit night does matter though, for the memory gives my stomach a

little leap- that aerobic manoeuvre that combines excitement and nerve. She had

grown into a thin and gnarled woman, if you want to know, with ropey hair the

colour of used, dirty-white knitting wool. Her once proud distance had diminished

too, and ancient, dark liquid eyes that could make Lucifer run and never look back stared out of her brown clawed face with a bright, fierce dignity one only sees in wounded hounds. Upon our encounter, her hands, folded in the laps of her frayed coat, were hard and knotted like tangled skeins of brown cord. She wore the coat in spite of the midnight heat, in a manner suggesting permanent grievance against life, and may I add that the imitation fur collar had scaly

bald patches as if it had suffered some kind of disease. . Ah, Min Omondi. . .

Allow me to take you on a little trip down memory road, where it all started. Well, we go back five years then, and behold her a young girl of nineteen. Her build, her looks, need not to be brought to memory to cloud the view, for now. It is her character which we have to keep in front of us. Nineteen, she was. And married,too. Yet for her people, nineteen is a late age for marriage. She should have

had a husband four years back, at fifteen. But then, she was she. Had an independent mind. So, she postponed marriage as long as possible. Her parents had, traditionally, sought and brought suitors for her. But she had some (mark that word) ideas about what type of dichuo she wanted to marry. And by confiding to her mother her views on marriage, we need not to be startled to recall that the mother first opened her mouth wide, then pinched herself to see if she were awake or dreaming, and then spat on the ground (I

think the spit was aimed at her, but fell short of its mark), and then straightened herself on her feet, in readiness to report to wuon

ot; this flagrance of chike. The mother did what was expected of her. For what mother-in-law would sleep soundly if her daughter

is abused by her son-in-law thus: “Your mother did not educate you well” ? So,

as she was wont, any deviant behaviour was a cause for reporting to the commander-in-chief, viz., wuon ot. Dealing with her

daughter successfully in the kitchen was out of question: the daughter was as insolent and stubborn as a mule.

I fear we might be unfair to the girl. True, she was disobedient. But should children be obedient? All the time? Part of the time? None of the time? All I can say is that she was

she. And as such, she drew upon her head her father’s wrathful kuong’. She was to eat rocks till she grew a mountain; her flesh was to break up in scabs so that a thousand flies fed on her; she was to be blinded so that she wouldn’t see her next step; her tongue was to be pulled out so that she would never

retort; she was to eat her dung. . . Anyway the girl acted herself; she was she.

Her mother in her time had fetched an ample dowry for her own parents. Fifty cows were given to them as bride price. Moreover, she had been as obedient as her father’s

daughter could: she had married the youth they had chosen for her. That marriage worked. Such marriages always work. They are founded on customs, parental authority, and respect. They are orders, injunctions from the highest authorities, viz., one’s two makers. Had she married a cripple it would still have worked, and worked even better. Even if her husband proved to be buoch, or

eunuch, or even a freak without half-an-inch of a sex organ. Moreover, she would have had children. For don’t husbands have brothers, or even cousins? What are their uses if they don’t water a kinsman’s garden to help sustain the family tree? A woman is a wife of the family – “my people shall be your

people”- and that’s that. Four years of resistance is long enough for a woman.

Now is the time to recall her physical features. We shall see a few of them and fill in the other blanks. If a curious boy, let’s say, had followed her to aora where

she gets drinking water and takes her bath; and if such a boy had hidden near the place for bathing, among the longish grass, had waited there during the hot part of the day when women particularly (although we have to state that men also have their periods of heat), are in daily periods of heat; he would have seen her hurriedly and almost carelessly lay the water pot on the ground, strip

herself, and would quickly dive into the water and jerk herself up blowing water through her mouth. Our naughty boy would then have noticed that this woman’s breasts were no longer trim and tense: they were becoming flabby. Her skin was becoming softer and. . .

Unfortunately, she did not have a child. The problem child had turned a problem wife. She was naughty, granted. But, what connection is there between the past actions and present childlessness? She never admitted that she was wrong in the matter of insisting to marry the man of her choice, although, out of deference she had later married whom her parents had marked out for her. Since in her heart, her head, her toes, or her shoulders- wherever are found her faculties of right and

wrong- since she maintained she was right, and that’s the long and the short of it. Though she had acted mulishly in this trivial matter of marriage, provided she later bore her marriage misfortune with grumbles and only a few flares; and provided she was lucky enough to bear a child (probably a boy), all would be forgiven of her. But, summer came, no conception, winter passed, no conception:

year followed year; she mensturated all the months.

Opinions differed among jodongo. Some

thought she was barren. Others wondered if all was right with the husband. But (and this was a shame to reveal) it was given out that the husband already had an illegitimate child elsewhere. Well, since her husband had an urchin, perhaps with a running nose, or misshapen limbs somewhere else, it was concluded that he was not sterile. Now, how comes that she was?

Old and wise heads of the village reflected on the matter. Was it the curse from her parents? But, then, had she not submitted at last? Perhaps the husband had become too old from four years of waiting? A diviner’s answer came partly: both father and husband had grudges against this girl- husband kept waiting too long; her father could not get dowry too soon. Prescription: two ceremonies involving the slaughter of two bulls to please the angry ones. We all ate for free, were joyful, wished for more occasions like these. But, we wished her luck all the same. . .

A village, they say, is a thing like a colonial animal. A village has a nervous system and a hand and shoulders and a feet; if you like. A village is a thing separate from all other villages, so that there are no two villages alike. And a village has a whole emotion. The girl’s village was no exception. How news travels through a village is a mystery not to be easily solved. News seems to move faster than the small boys can scramble and dart to tell it, faster than women can call it over the fence. It’s wonderful the way a little village keeps track of itself and all of its units, you see. If every single man and woman, child and baby acts and conducts themselves in a known pattern and breaks no walls and differs with no one and experiments in no way and is not sick and does not endanger the ease and peace of mind or steady unbroken flow of the village, then that unit

can disappear and never be heard of. But let one man step out of the regular thought or the known and trusted pattern, and the nerves of the villagers ring with nervousness and communication travels over the nerve lines of the village. Then every unit communicates to the whole. And that’s why before panting little boys could strangle out the words, their mothers knew it. It was known early in the morning among the neighbours in the grass thatched huts and among fishermen and jomifwadhi. Before the girl herself could come to terms with everything, the nerves of the village were pulsing and vibrating with the news- we behold her with a child- a boy (ten years have now passed since she was married). Omondi, they named it, Min Omondi, they called her.

Along with Wuon Omondi, the new father, let’s suppose this our son, Omondi, then, will grow up healthy, be a herder of cows, goats, and sheep, much better than the proverbial good shepherd- because these are the very cows with which we shall use for getting him a wife when he is old enough. He must also master the art of amen so that he can guard his animals against other boys who increase their meagre stock by robbery. He must also be an expert farmer; after all, isn’t it an insult to Nyasaye after His instructive “Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it” if we ignore agriculture? This sturdy son of ours, Omondi, is also to grow up a leader of men: a man who can stand on his two feet and command the respect of other councillors. Now, let’s leave Wuon Omondi to extrapolate the locus of the

son’s successes beyond the point of even acquiring himself a wife and rearing his own family.

Exactly eleven months after Omondi’s birth, famine came. Perhaps these people could have applied for aid without strings. But, then we shall have jumped out of ou moorings in time: we are right back in the pre-colonial days. Morals, taboos, mores and all forms of social control work when we can still be reasonable, you know. But, as man must eat, when famine enters through the main gate, all forms of social control dissolve into nothingness; their original quality. As a

result there were thefts; there were robberies; there were murders in attacks

and defences; man killed animal man; few fathers knew they had sons, to say nothing of daughters.

Omondi, our son (please let’s continue calling him that now; we are in sympathy with him,

aren’t we?) – our son, did not die. Yet. Those whom the gods love die young. That’s half the truth. Those whom they really love never taste death – my witness are: Enoch and some other characters in the Bible whom I can’t enumerate offhand; you know.

If you have fought a flood, that is, if by chance you have lived in Budalangi regions of Western Kenya, or even in Kano plains of Kisumu county for example, the thing that is always wrong with the state of weather is the flood, the flood that destroys dikes, overruns fields and lays them waste, breaks down buildings and dams, drowns cats and dogs and sheep – in fact, another scourge – or famine. So Wuon Omondi, ‘our’ father, then did all he could to arrest the progress of famine. His cows were killed for food. But, he stuck to this idea; a cow and a bull will remain guarding the kraal, even if he, Min Omondi, or Omondi their son were to die first. For what is a man without a cow? Naked.

They were now emaciated, these people. Omondi’s eyes did not thin though. By proportion, Omondi’s head looked massive above the pole-like neck; the bones stuck out

awkwardly after the flesh could not be renewed. Now, with no meat available, they could only seek fruits and roots. All women did it, why not ours? So, Min Omondi left Omondi to japidi and went searching for fruits, while Wuon Omondi went hunting

for birds, squirrels, lizards, and sometimes women. . .

Then, one week was a week of no luck. On the fourth day, our boy, Omondi had to go to bed with hunger, as you would go to bed with a woman after an assignation. On the morrow, he was thoroughly deflated like a bicycle tyre bent on spoiling a journey. Consequently Omondi had to be carried along on the hunt for fruits. Japidi had him on her back and tottered on a few steps before the weight-of-bones nearly weighted her on the ground. The mother dutifully rescued her own. Japidi;

a five year old, did not know how to curse, but we are sure the words formed themselves

in her future mature mind. (We don’t know any curses, yet. If you know any choice ones, indulge yourself)

The threesome met a fig tree with a few fruits on it. Straightaway, Min Omondi prepared a

patch of ground among the tall grass and set down her son, Omondi. The idea was: the son, Omondi and japidi would stay under the tree; she would then climb up, pick the fig fruits, drop them down for japidi to gather in one spot near the son, Omondi.

Up in the tree, she ate the first fruit. In fairness to her, though, let’s add this: she

hesitated first, before eating and wondered whether to drop it down or build up her energy for more climbing. She succumbed to self-service first. No matter. You may not be able to satisfy others, you know. But, if you satisfy yourself, you have administered to the need of at least one person, you see. And so the next fig, she dropped, and told japidi to get it. Done. The next fig, she dropped, and told japidi get it. Done. A third. Done. A fourth, found with difficulty because it fell some distance from the patch. Then more were dropped; japidi herself ate a few.

Then, after a while, she (japidi) thought it wise and time-saving to collect four or five fruits before bringing to the patch.

At one time after a longish stretch, japidi brought a handful of figs to the child, Omondi. This is what presented itself to her eyes: our boy’s legs were nowhere to be seen, nor even the hollow haunches. They were all in a large python’s throat. The boy’s weak hands were caressing the python’s neck. Perhaps he tried to cry, but had no energy left for uttering a sound. .

Japidi called out:

“Mama!

Mama! Min Omondi! Min Omondi! Mayooo! It is swallowing!”

Min Omondi, a little irritated, ordered from up above:

“Tho! Tho! Let it swallow- for it did sleep with hunger last night!”

The python thereupon swallowed the boy’s head. Perhaps he tried to cry, but had no energy left for uttering a sound. . .

As I was saying earlier, my story goes thus: that I bumped into Min Omondi on that particular moonlit night looking all screwed up like a gramophone spring, with fingers tightly clasped on the forehead and her arteries and veins pulsating with blood does matter, for the memory gives my stomach a little leap, that kind of aerobic manoeuvre that combines excitement and nerve. This is why. Min Omondi squatted and turned her visage towards the fading moon- the altar of macrocosm. She cried, whimpered, moaned and wailed, she even somersaulted; squatted toad-like again as she thumped the earth with her hands. A volley of multisyllabic Mumbo-Jumbo jarred my ears then Alas! Min

Omondi did an abominable thing! She vigorously shook her flabby breasts, parted her bare dress, slapped her private parts and cursed. . .

“Wuon

Omondi!!!! If you did not suck these my breasts, stiffen your penis to sleep with your other women and multiply like pigs!! If you did not lick this my womanhood Wuon Omondi, live in this world like Kit Mikayi!!!



She cried, whimpered, moaned and wailed again. Two days elapsed, and Wuon Omondi’s cold remains arrived wrapped in a blanket. . .

GLOSSARY

Min Omondi: Mother to Omondi

Dichuo: man

Wuon ot: master of the house

Chike: customs

Kuong’: curse

Buoch: barren

Aora: river

Jodongo: village elders

Jomifwadhi: sluggards

Wuon Omondi: father to Omondi

Amen: wrestling

Nyasaye: Luo name for God

Japidi: babysitter

Tho! Tho!: an expression used by the Luo people of Kenya to express disgust

Mayoo: expression used by the Luo people of Kenya to express

sudden shock.

Kit mikayi: holy stones among the Luo people of Kenya. Mikayi, is

a Luo word for first wife.