Cornrows

Photo: Thais Muniz

I walked with a basket of vegetables expertly perched on my crown; my arms stylishly poised around my waist just like Nne Ngozi's. I'd been practising for weeks in front of mama's full-length mirror. Today is special. I have been allowed to visit Chuka alone. Usually, Emeka, my elder brother, would tag along. Even though he was just older by two years, Emeka was free to roam with his friends, or to even visit Nneka, his intended, alone. But, not me. I have long accepted that having breasts and a vagina meant fetters.

I adorned my waist with four rows of brightly coloured beads: green for our land’s prosperity, blue was my father’s favourite, red and yellow were mine and Chuka’s. My thick curly hair was in six shiny cornrows. I wore no shoes. I never did.

For as long as I can remember, I wore only two strings of beads, in blue and green. With my status changing soon, Mama added two more strings. She said, in marriage, I alone would determine how many more beads I wanted to add. I loved the way the added beads made my hips appear wider. It seemed everyone I passed on the windy path saw me through new eyes.

Marriage.

The word unleashes a plethora of emotions within me. All my older cousins had married early, usually at sixteen or seventeen. Mama said she came to papa's homestead a week shy of her sixteenth birthday. At eighteen, I would be considered over the hill. But mama had requested I finish secondary school. Papa reluctantly agreed. "She will bring more to a marriage well-schooled." He didn't argue. All their bantering on the subject had been done behind closed doors. When she won, I won. As my slender limbs drew me closer to Chuka’s, I thought about the many suitors my family had received.

There was Mazi Ochuko, the village carpenter. A short, stocky man with a unibrow that made my skin crawl. He always drooled like a lecher whenever he saw me in the market or the village square.  When he came to ask for my hand in marriage, my father threw his head back and laughed. Papa was a tall man with broad shoulders. His skin was like polished wood. His teeth, a sharp contrast to his complexion.

"You want to marry my Adaeze? God forbid I give my prized jewel to a man as old as my father.”

"What do you mean old?’ Ochuko stammered in anger. “There may be snow on a mountain, but there is fire below."

Papa offered him palm wine and escorted him off after a meal of pounded yam and nsala. When he returned, he went into mama's chambers.

There were more like Ochuko. Some came from the town with big cars and presents for my parents. Mazi Ubaka brought six bales of very expensive abada for Mama and Schnapps for Papa. He was a successful trader in the city. There was a tall lanky man with expressionless eyes that left a gaggle of livestock. A couple brought cartons of wines and sacks of rice. I stopped asking who brought what. My father would always go into mama's chambers after each visit. I would hear his deep voice asking her thoughts. She would respond in a low voice. Both voices too low for me to decipher what was said, but her laughter was a salve that washed away whatever anxieties I had. He would eat. She would bring out a gourd of coconut oil and massage his shoulders. I grew up watching that routine. Talk. Eat. Massage.Silence.

Chuka was different though. When I saw him alight from his father's Volvo that rainy day in May—and I know it's a cliché—my heart skipped a beat. He was dark as night, his shoulders broad, almost like my father's, his hair thick and curly, like mine. We looked like siblings. In my heart, I hoped he had come for me. Unfortunately, he had not come for a wife. No. He came with his father to visit an ailing relative whose homestead shared a boundary with ours. And as his father was my father's childhood friend, they stopped by to exchange pleasantries. 

I was giddy with excitement when Papa called for palm wine.  Mama didn't have to call me twice before I ran to get the refreshments. My hair had just been braided; six long cornrows fell down my shoulders; my complexion bright from the home-made coconut cream mama was partial to. My hands were steady as I poured their drinks. I smiled at them with lowered eyes.

"Ehhn Adaeze, what a beautiful flower you have become," Chuka's father exclaimed.  I could feel both their eyes on me. My father laughed. That his deep throaty laughter that I loved so much.

“Yes, my brother. I don't know what to do about her. The suitors want to set my house on fire. I have not yet decided whether I will send her away for all our sakes.”

“I adorned my waist with four rows of brightly coloured beads: green for our land’s prosperity, blue was my father’s favourite, red and yellow were mine and Chuka’s. My thick curly hair was in six shiny cornrows.”

I almost dropped the gourd of palm wine. Send me away? My head felt like it had doubled in size. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me into mama's chambers. "What happened? Why are you crying, my daughter?” Mama tried to comfort me as I continued to sob. “He wants to send me away,” I finally got out.

“No one is sending you away, Ada.”

“I heard him say it, mama. He says I am too much trouble.”

My mother waited for the visitors to leave, and sure enough, as usual, my father entered her chambers. His smile vanished when he saw my swollen eyes.

“Ewoo, what did you do to her?” he asked mama. She repeated what I had said. He threw his head back and laughed. That laugh now irritated me.

“I would never send you away, Ada. I was just joking. Go and wash your face, my jewel.”

Relief loosened the knots in my chest. That night, while I slept, I dreamt of a tall dark stranger with broad shoulders like my father's.

Two weeks later, I saw the Volvo again.  This time I didn't pay much attention. I did notice, though, that Chuka's father came with three older gentlemen. They all wore the traditional akwa-ocha. It was a solely handmade beautiful white fabric made of cotton embedded with silver threads. By the menfolk, it was worn in two pieces: one tied around the waist, the second across the shoulders, and only on special occasions. Papa had asked mama to make my hair in a special way; so instead of six cornrows, she made twelve and added green and blue beads to the ends of each braid. Towards the end of their meeting, papa called for me. I was totally oblivious to what was happening.  I guess my father played it close to his chest because of how upset I had been after the first visit. I greeted them politely. They all smiled in response. I heard one whisper: “A great choice, a beautiful girl.”

My parents told me together.

Chuka had formally asked for my hand in marriage through his father and uncles. I kept a straight face. My heart was beating so wildly within the narrow confines of my chest; I was almost sure my parents could hear it.

“But I don't know him.”

“You will have plenty of time to get to know him. He will visit you here, and you will be accompanied by your brother to visit him with his family. He is a good boy. His father and mother are good people. They will take good care of you.”

I was silent. My father rose from his stool and put his arms around me: “Say something.”

“You are sending me away,” I whispered.

“No, I am not. I am helping to start another chapter of your life, my daughter. I am always with you.”

And that was it.

The first time Chuka visited, he gave me a bag full of red berries, my favourite. He had taken the time to find what I liked. If I had any doubts before, which I didn't, that gift would have put it to flight. With every visit that followed, a budding flower was added to the banquet.

Today, for the first time, I am visiting his home without my brother in tow. As I walked down the windy path that led to my future home, I sighted his tall gangly frame in the doorway. My heart raced in excitement, and for a split second, the basket slipped off my head. I quickly steadied it.

His smile was broad.

Mine was broader.