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Isdore Guvamombe
Saturday Lounge Reflections
On arrival at sunset in the proverbial land of milk, honey and dust or Guruve, Muchaneta, Mambongi’s first wife, was winnowing. Mambongi had married 10 other women after her and she dug in, as the lead wife.
She deftly held the winnowing tray full of grain at an angle, agitating in such a way that the clear grain dropped down on the reed mat, while the chaff was blown off by the wind.
The chaff looked like straw-coloured dust and spread thick on everything within reach. She was a dark woman with a straight narrow face and European-shaped nose. Her eyes were deep set and had a hard glint, maybe from years of seeing too many women join the family. A goat intermittently sneaked and gambolled on the chaff.
Upon seeing this villager’s car rattle to a grinding halt, uncle Mambongi rose stiffly from a stool, polished smooth from years of use. He uncharacteristically pulled a smile, exposing his tobacco stained teeth.
He walked with a stoop, and one could easily see dust caked on a former T-shirt, now tattered and a web of strings tied on loose end with reef knots. This villager was taken to a shed where one-by-one, the wives came for greetings, traditional way and so did the children of all ages. The compound was alive with playing children, their sturdy legs already caked with a mixture of dust, mud and dung.
It was the return of the herd boys! Soon, the boys came to sit with their father around a bonfire at the Dare, while girls went into the various kitchens, each grass thatched and each, tottering under the weight of the thatch.
Food was soon to come and hey, the boys fell for it like maggots and it disappeared as soon as it arrived.
From that observation, meal times seemed an ordeal, for the 10 or so boys ate from one plate. My taste buds turned upside down.
The night never stopped and it was time to sleep!
Mambongi had a central bedroom and each of the wives was given a week-long conjugal rights duty and so, it took 10 weeks before duty revisited. This villager is no good mathematician, but counting up-to 10 is easy because it is not beyond the number of his fingers.
The bedroom was an unassuming one room whose grass tottered with age. Its mud-and-pole wall leaned backwards, with a little door that was always firmly closed.
The room had kept many secrets. This room knew every wife, but never said a word. It knew many family secrets, the gossip too. It had listened to many quarrels between Mambongi and his wives, the bedroom antics and indeed, the scandals too! But it remained quiet. In its belly, most if not all, of Mambongi’s children were manufactured. This villager cannot remember the other names of the wives, but vividly remembers the first wife, Muchaneta and the ninth Mazviita.
As I was being led to my sleeping hut, darkness was defiantly arrogant. One could hardly see beyond his nose. There I was inside a thatched hut its two small windows were mere gaps on the wall. For a moment it was difficult for this villager to see until his eyes became accustomed to the poor lighting in the dark hut.
The bed consisted of four wooden posts, firmly staked in the ground, with a rectangular reed mat and a bale stuffed with cotton straight from the fields.
The night suddenly seemed oppressively silent. The only sound this villager heard were screeching crickets and the distant hoot of an owl and the howling of the jackal. Sleep took its course. Before this villager could settle in deep slumber, there was a flash of light through the small window, directed first to this villager’s face and then around the room.
“How is your sleep so far?” To which this villager answered: “Good, thanks.” This was to be repeated four times that night. Each time the villager had to shake off the lethargy of sleep to say “Good, thanks uncle!”
This villager wondered why Mambongi was so concerned about his comfort in sleep. Lo and behold! It turned out Mambongi suspected one of his starved wives, would sneak into the villager’s hands. So checked and checked. Checked and checked on this villager. On five occasions Mambongi came searching and on five occasions this villager woke up. What a night! Mambongi was insecure for, he knew he was not satisfying them, sexually.
The second night was very dramatic. The sex-starved ninth wife, Mazviita, pulled a trick. She pricked her 10-months-old boy with a needle and he went crying loud. Muchaneta was on duty.
Mambongi, left her in the bedroom to attend to the crying child. As soon as Mambongi got inside the hut, you can guess what happened! It had nothing to do with the child.
Muchaneta, pissed off by the time taken by Mambongi and suspecting foul play, went to knock. “Mambongi is this still about the child or you are up to something else?” Caught red-handed and huffing and puffing, Mambongi dressed up and went out to the rightful duty. The night proceeded, but not without incident.
Another wife called for Mambongi’s help. She had spotted what seemed like a snake in her bedroom. Out he went again but you can guess what happened once he got in. Muchaneta, followed again, worried she was being cheated and indeed she had been cheated.
The morning was not without incident too. One of the wives took Mambongi to the garden, she had a problem with the thorny bush fence. But it was really not about the fence. She cheated again.
Years later Mambongi changed his style of management.
In one night, he serviced at least four wives. To make his movement easy between the bedrooms, without the hustle of undressing and dressing up many times, he imposed a curfew from 10 pm to 5.30 am. No one moved outside that time except himself, albeit in the nude.
So, hoped from one bedroom to another naked and eventually dressed up wherever sunrise found him. It was this management style he found useful after trying several other systems.
In the morning he took his wives and children to the fields and there, he allocated the lightest of all duties to the wife on morning duty. Soon that wife would follow home and do duty.
This villager got the feeling that man was weighed down and worn as the women demanded their conjugal rights.
Each woman devised a method to cheat on the other. It was cheating, cheating, cheating. It is still cheating, cheating, cheating!
The village in the proverbial land of milk, honey and dust, Karitundundu the ageless autochthon of knowledge and wisdom, says many men are in trouble, they lust for many women, but hardly satisfy one. Inhamo yebonde and they aptly named him Nhamoyebonde.
A man who brings home a maggot infested log must not be surprised when lizards start visiting him.
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