Khalayi PT 1

Tired ... Famished ... Gutted ...

After spending the whole day in the thicket hunting you managed to catch nothing. Not even a hapless rabbit or squirrel. You trudge back to the village empty handed. 

What a shame!

As you soldier on feeling dejected you come face to face with a very beautiful, young woman that you had never seen before in the village. The footpath is so narrow and so you have to step aside to let her pass. Your heart is racing faster than a gazelle being pursued by a hungry, relentless lioness.

 She is tall, slender and perfect! As she walks past you shyly you can’t help but watch with both your eyes and your mouth which is so wide agape that a keen observer could see your intestines. You’re glued to the spot, utterly awestruck, your eyes escorting the pretty damsel until she disappears in the bushes along the winding, dirt-filled footpath. 

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You get home. You can’t stop thinking about the girl. Your sister brings dinner to your poorly lit simba, the tin-lamp struggling to stay alight. The flame shakes violently when she walks in. She places some sweet potatoes on banana leaves and a gourd full of sour milk on the cow-dung plastered floor. The dung is barely dry. You stay up the whole night thinking about the beautiful stranger. You are awakened by the crow of the first cock. You realize that you barely touched the food. 

You pick up your bow and arrow from under your makeshift bed. Ready for a hunting expedition. The prey- a beautiful, young woman. You get to the exact spot where you met the previous day. You sit in the nearby bushes and wait. The sun inexorably travels from the hiding place and is now right above your head. It’s so hot. You sit under a big tree with a nice shed and wait ... for hours on end. The sun is now disappearing into its hiding place and it’s getting dark. No sign of the damsel. You almost give up. Wait! Footsteps! You retreat back to your hiding place and listen. Your heart is pumping so violently that you’re scared the villagers might hear it and think it’s the village drummer, sending a distress call. A figure that you can barely make out appears. You squint your eyes to get a clearer view. Alas! It’s Nangendo the medicine woman and not your target. Disappointed you pick up your hunting artillery and head back home.

The next two days you go back and wait but still no joy. You endure the scorching heat and the pouring rain but return empty handed. That evening your grandmother Tunai Namukuru tells the kids juicy Kamanani tales but you’re indifferent, gazing into empty space, silently beseeching the gods of Misri to take heed to your wishes. The gods must be tired, and asleep. You conclude. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months and still you see no sign of the dazzling damsel, the most beautiful woman to ever walk on this soil. You decide to go back to hunting game, since you realize the futility of waiting for something that is not forthcoming. 

One hot afternoon you manage to kill a small dik-dik.

“This is the smallest dik-dik I have ever seen.” You can picture the village girls musing when you finally return to the village. 

You shrug and set off  back to the village after a harrowing day in the bushes. As you walk along the usual footpath dragging your kill behind you, you suddenly meet the beautiful girl, out of the blues. You freeze. She stops and stares. She smiles. You try to utter a greeting but the words dry up in your throat and you can only manage an embarrassing groan. She lets out an involuntary giggle and transfixes her eyes on the ground, somehow still managing to balance her clay water pot on her head. The oil in your knees evaporates and your legs refuse to support your body. Your lips are trembling. The girl shakes her head still smiling. Her teeth are whiter than the milk your grandmother’s cow Maritati produces. 

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She beckons you to give way and you comply. She walks away slowly, balancing her water pot that is filled almost to the brim. She gracefully disappears along the leafy footpath. You muster some courage. You follow her from a very safe distance, as she briskly paces away totally unwary of the hopeless pursuer. After a long while you get to a nice,well-fenced compound. There are many huts. The girl disappears into the compound.

‘This is where she lives!” You are so excited.

The next day you return promptly. You can’t walk into the compound. You hide behind a tree and decide to send the girl a message. You hope she would be able to decode it. You pick a stone and hurl it into the vast compound. You hit someone. It turns out to be the girl’s father. The romantic projectile lands squarely on his balding, grey head. He furiously shoots out of the compound spewing a string of expletives, yielding a machete. You scamper for safety through a forest of trees. You run into a beehive. The agitated bees give chase as you run howling like a rabid dog. By the time you get home your whole body is swollen. Your sister runs away unable to recognise you. Your head feels twice its original size. Everyone denies ever having met you before. Only Kukhu Tunai could tell that it’s her grandson. Your younger brother is now rolling on the ground dying with uncontrollable fits of explosive laughter.

After that heartrending experience, one would be forgiven to think that you would give up. But the resolute spirit of your great grandfather wouldn’t let you. Tenaciously, you decide to give it another try.  You hide behind the same tree. This time you send a message in a different way. You whistle. The message is delivered alright, but to the wrong recipient. Fierce dogs the size your grandmother’s calf come racing towards your haven. Three callous, huge dogs baying for your blood. You run off screaming like a woman who has seen a millipede on her sleeping mat. The dogs chase you all the way to your village and about two miles past your own home. You run past your grandmother’s house still letting out blood cuddling wails. You get to Nangendo’s home. That’s three villages away. You even cross a river and you don’t remember learning how to swim. You sit down to catch a breath. It’s getting dark. You have no option but to limp back home, utterly dejected.

This time round you decide that indeed no man is an island. Two heads are better than one. You need more than one finger to crush a lice. You “hire” the services of an emissary. You call one of the wide-eyed village boys. You give him some milk and a catapult as a way to soften his heart for the task at hand. Not that he would turn down the assignment anyway, but it’s always good manners to grease the hands of a helper. You give him a detailed and vivid description of the girl in question. He nods his head furiously, insisting that he knows her. He gives you a fist bump acknowledging the fact that you have faith in him. You ask him to deliver the message to her in camera. He hurriedly stands up to go but you grab his arm and ask him to sit down and recount in detail the instructions. He gives you a puzzled look, baffled as to why you would question his credentials. He gives a half-hearted recount. Stopping him mid-sentence you give him a friendly nudge and gesture him to go. 

He bolts away at the speed of a hunter’s arrow. You are to wait behind your favourite tree as the boy asks the lass to meet you there. You hope to charm her pants off.

Poor soul!

You sit there for hours on end. No sign of the girl or the messenger. The sun is slowly retreating back to its hiding place. The trees and huts in the distance are being swallowed by the blanket of darkness that is taking over from where the sun left off. Then two figures appear from the gateway leading into the compound. You’re ecstatic. You’re dancing for joy. It’s your poster boy and what appears to be a young woman. You point to the sky acknowledging the gods.

“Thanks Big Man who sits in the sky”

Your spirits are dampened when you realise that the idiot brought the wrong girl. Wait! It’s not even a girl. It’s a slender, middle aged woman, who you later find out is one of her aunts. Dumbfounded you ask her if that is the traditional healer’s home, much to the delight of your young, foolish friend. It turns out, he went in and found them having a meal. He joined them in the feasting, ate too much and forgot what took him there. Mixing up the message he brought you the present predicament. The woman answers in the negative and you thank her and leave. You give the young boy a scornful stare, promptly followed by a thunderous slap. He vanishes into the darkness to save his skin.

After several futile attempts, you finally get to meet the girl. You ask her to marry you. She agrees after you ask for the umpteenth time. Your people meet her people. Mountains of food are destroyed. Drinks flow freely. Songs and dances take place into the night. Young men and women get to meet and mingle freely, safely concealed by the blanket of darkness-may such moments last forever. Drumming, clapping, cheering ... Fifteen heads of cattle seem like a small price to pay. Marriage songs rent the village air. The girl cries as you steal her away from her people. You have found a helper. A person to cook for you. She will bear ten strong boys for you.

“The apple of my eye”

Khalayi is an industrious wife. Still the most beautiful young woman in the whole village. She has long, black hair. Long, slender legs. A gap between her milk white teeth. Large eyes that are full of life. Smiling eyes. Slightly dark skinned, although not as black as Kukhu Tunai’s cooking pot. Her bosom firm and round like raw avocados. Slim waist. Her hips! My brother ... an envy of all the girls. She walks with calculated steps, always gracious. She does not gossip with the lazy village women when you are away. Her back is always arced as she tills her little piece of land. She barely rests. Always busy.

“Khalayi, my helper,” you call, “Am I getting blind or is there no food on my stool?”

“My King, father of my sons, the bravest hunter in Ebung’oma” she answers meekly, “ Do you mind getting your food from the kitchen? I’m milking the cow ...”

Your ears must be failing you! Did the daughter of Kutalang’i just ask you to get your own food? After all the trouble you went through to get a wife. Then she has the audacity to ask you get your own food? Is she tired? No matter how tired she is she better crawl to the kitchen and fetch her husband food. Your ancestors did not travel all the way from Misri for this. Mango did not circumcise himself with a sharp piece of rock for this! You did not get chased by a swarm of irate bees, and a pack of hounds for this. You remember the famous words of the wise old man Kaikai Walunywa a.k.a “Shut up”, “Basecha sebacha muchikoni ta!” (“ Men should never enter the kitchen”). Your string of thoughts is interrupted by a soft voice ...

“My King ...”

Khalayi stands there with your food in her hands and a disarming smile on her charming face ...

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To be continued ... 

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