Heart of Wilderness

A Story of Women in Africa

By Adrian Onyando

Adrian Onyando’s moving tale of an African woman who is sold into marriage at the age of nine by her father. Atieno tells the story of her first childhood marriage on the occasion of her second venture into wedlock. She reminisces about the life of a woman who, after the death of her husband, sets out to determine her own fate. A novel of Africa that brings light to the experiences of a woman of strength and integrity. Beautifully written by a prizewinning international author.

ISBN 1-59431-123-4 Heritage/African Fiction

Cover art by Maggie Dix.

Also available in RTF and HTML formats.



Part One The Sale of the Girl

The Resurrection

Ten years after Atieno was sold into her first marriage, she suddenly discovered what to make of her second one. “Ten years ago,” she confessed immediately she came to Bolo Njule’s tiny hut, “I was not properly married. Now, I am.” She repeated this discovery to anyone who came to visit her or cared to invite her to a welcoming party as the latest bride of Kotondi town. Self-styled biographers took over her story and proclaimed her second marriage “real”, that is, successful, although her man was “none other than Bolo Njule”. Had Atieno been another woman with no unfortunate experience, she would have been considered unlucky. She was young, beautiful and learned (in so far as this meant she could write and had read some books)—all of which qualities she didn’t need, and indeed put her at a disadvantage, to be the wife of Bolo Njule.

“Ten years ago,” she repeated one solemn night at a party we had made for her at our home,” my father sold me like grains.” She was still considered a bride and a guest in the town although she was two months old and had begun to behave like an old village woman, taking the kangara brew and cursing whoever crossed her way. We, the Akumos, being her neighbors and being unmindful of her easy, if sometimes queer adaptation, and exotic yarns, thought it was a good idea to make her the cause of one chicken’s slaughter and the copious flow of the traditional brew. We also didn’t mind her being the focus of our attention this evening.

I had been the errand boy (there were quite a few benefits attached to this occupation) sent to invite her, and when she arrived at sunset, she claimed she was thirsty and feeling cold at the same time. I fetched her a calabash full of kangara, which she took like water, gulping it down at a go. By the time the family came to shake her hands in welcome, and keep her company, she was already in her third calabash. She looked around smiling at the audience of mother, my brother, Paul, and father. “Is this all the family?” she asked.

“No,” replied mother, “some are away visiting relatives.”

“They must be a happy lot here at home or away with relatives,” observed Atieno. “I’ve never been happy at home or away with strangers.”

Atieno’s eyes were bloodshot: her tongue was agile. As a child, I had learned that a person in such a state could be trusted to tell several epics at one sitting and still be fit to joke, to praise, to laugh and to cry with the rest as they told theirs. But this sad tale whose signature tune was being “sold like grain” was exclusively Atieno’s and we were glad our part in it was only as a sympathetic audience, not the heartless perpetrators of cruel deeds that had “plucked” a promising young woman from the land she loved.

“Because,” continued Atieno almost tearfully, “because I was a girl, the wildcat that must roam the earth, I was given to an old man from a strange land. I was not even old enough to be given away. But my brother, the only son in the family, was ill and had to be treated.

“I remember my brother well. He was a sickly child who had all sorts of worms attacking his body. He could not walk, talk, laugh or cry. His face was set in a perpetual grin, dry lips stretching painfully to cover protruding teeth. If he belonged to some other tribe I know, he would have been thrown to the bank of a river and left to die there. But here, we worship such bodies and fear their spirits will haunt us if we mistreat them. Yet, we are still a haunted nation.

“My father was a haunted man. He always dreamt that he would die without a son and that there would be nobody to bury him when he died. He was haunted by the image of his lifeless body lying on a mat, festering, feasting the flies without anybody digging a hole underneath to let it sink….”

“Didn’t he have his kinsmen?” asked mother, puzzled by Atieno’s father’s fear. She had just returned from the kitchen with a tray of chicken and a plate of fish, both cooked in earthen pots, which meant they were well-cooked and delicious. For some time, Atieno’s eyes wandered on the food being set on the table before she answered mother’s question.

“He had his kinsmen and I was her daughter. But, you see, a man should be buried by his sons.”

“That’s true,” agreed father, seeing that mother did not stay to listen to Atieno’s answer. (She had already returned to the kitchen to bring more food.)

“A man must live on in his sons,” Atieno went on without pause. “My father must have been obsessed with death, that is, rotting and turning into nameless, formless dust. Who would name his children after him? He had seen my mother die, buried and forgotten. And so, he wanted to make no mistakes. A man must be buried by his sons. He looked forward to getting sons from the women who came to our home, stayed, and realizing that there was nothing to stay on, not even milk from a goat, passed on as surreptitiously as they had arrived. With their exit went the old man’s hopes of ever siring a son. His favorite saying became ‘A man must be buried by his son.’

“He had this brother of mine who did not even know that he was a son or a being of any value. He had been hidden in a dark corner all his life, but was now brought out into the morning sunshine and shown to the witchdoctors, medicine men and priests. They stayed to ponder over the problem, to feast and to give heaps of hopes.

“In the afternoons, Oyombe was taken to a cool shade of an acacia tree behind our house. It was the biggest tree in the Ahero country with a canopy the shape of a mushroom. Birds of the air were attracted to it, making it their abode, day and night. This tree, which had lasted for as long as anybody could remember sometimes provided a stage for a drama which was thought to be local, but which was indeed universal. It was here that my misfortune began because an uncle would tell my father about the discovery of a medicine through a blind genius.

“But first Oyombe had to be exhibited like some troublesome specimen to priests and witchdoctors. ‘He’s a nice boy,’ said my father, looking up angrily at the noisy birds in the tree, ‘only he has been bewitched by jealous neighbors.’

“The doctors and priests ignored the birds, examined Oyombe and agreed that he had indeed been bewitched and promised they could eliminate the cause of the problem. ‘We will kill the witch that is destroying the life of such a promising boy,’ they said.

“The medicine men promised a total cure and the priests prayed to everything, to everybody and to every spirit to revive this fallen boy. The birds sang and played in the tree canopy above. No change.”

At last food was laid on the table. I brought a bright lantern lamp from the kitchen and then fetched a jug of water. I poured the water on everybody’s hands, starting with my father, next the guest and then my elder brother, Paul. Mother prayed not only for the food to increase our health, but also for the good life of this guest who had come to help Bolo Njule build a home.

“And where is Njule, the small bird?” asked father of Atieno’s husband.

“You should know, in-law,” said Atieno. “Bolo—this is too early for him to return home.” She laughed rather than complain.

“I know,” father said hurriedly.

We all knew where Bolo was at this time, but we didn’t want to talk about it lest we were accused of maligning his name in the presence of his bride.