"Lemons. That’s what we need,” Sandra told her sister Sophia.

“That’s what you always say.”

“And I’m always right,” Sandra said as she walked to the fridge. There were red, glistening ripe tomatoes at the bottom. Just above that, bunches of sukuma wiki peeked out. Then there was cream and milk, half opened bottles of yoghurt, eggs, radishes, carrots, kale, ginger and garlic.

She grabbed some lemons washed the dirt off them and cut them up into small pieces.

“This has never worked. I’ve squeezed lemons over onions many, many times and I always cry,” her sister said as she squeezed the lemon pieces over the onions.

“Isn’t this exactly the kind of day to be crying in the kitchen? The day the men I love meet to talk about-”

“How much one of them is going to sell you for to the other one?” her sister said, interrupting her.

“You know Sophia, it’s not being sold... its-”

“Appreciation-” their mother broke in, providing the word that Sandra had been struggling for.

“It’s a token of appreciation for raising her. I mean, Sophia where else would he have found a woman like your sister?” their mother said while looking lovingly at Sandra.

Sandra’s mind wandered to the meeting in the sitting room. She could hear the deep, low voices, with an occasional laugh breaking the serious tension.

“Sandra!”

“What?”

“Pass me the chopping board. You can have it back when you’re better able to concentrate.”

She passed it to her sister and turned to her mother.

“Was it this difficult for you?”

“In my time we had none of this. It was a dark and dangerous time; I was walking back from the river when I felt the rough skin of what I would later find out was your father’s hand around my mouth. He took me to his hut and kept me there blindfolded. The cows those days weren’t a bride price, they weren’t even a token of appreciation as they are now, they were an apology.”

“Mother it sounds like you only loved dad because of that thing where you begin to develop feelings for your kidnappers, it’s called-” Sophia said.

“Stockholm syndrome,” their mother said with a faraway look.

“Yes! That’s it mum, Stockholm syndrome,” Sophia said.

“No, I didn’t get Stockholm syndrome. There is a time your dad and I had travelled to Europe and we got caught up in a snowstorm and your father saw how cold I was. He took off his coat and handed it to me. I wrapped it around myself and he didn’t flinch or shiver, can you imagine how horrid that weather must have been for a man who had never left Kenya before? Until today I’m not sure if I was warmed by the gesture or the coat,” their mother said.

“You’ve never told us that story before, mum,” Sophia said.

“Because, Sophia it’s not true. Daily, I thank the good Lord that you are so beautiful. Now Sandra, of course I was nervous. Dowry negotiations are a difficult time in a woman’s life. You hear horror stories about a woman finding the love of her life and bringing him home, only for the patriarchs to introduce her to a different man to be her husband. During those days, my dears, their word was law. Your happiness and choice was based on whether those men in the hut got along. I was luckier than the girls in my mother’s time. At least the choice was only taken away from me near the very end, not like their time when even the illusion of choice never existed. It’s better for you. Your father’s love can overcome his pride without it looking like weakness.”

Sandra sighed. She hated this process. The world had given her the freedom to study where she wanted and whatever she wanted. She had taken her time to find someone who made her soul sing. She had sung his praises to her parents. She had been in total control of her life.

Then this happened, this ceremony from the dark depths of tradition forced her into the kitchen. She had to wait on whatever decision the men made.

She kept telling herself this was just a formality, it was a ceremony to show appreciation. Her parents had made countless sacrifices to bring her up. They had enabled her to carry herself with effortless grace, bring home the bacon and even cook it.

“Can I have the onions back now?” Sandra told her sister. She needed the distraction.

“Do you also want the lemons,” her sister asked.

“Of course,” Sandra replied.

Then a loud thud and raised voices came from the living room. Knots formed in the pit of her stomach.

A voice begging for reason could be heard and then it was shouted down.

“WHAT WAS THAT YOU SAID TO ME? IN MY HOUSE? YOU DARE INSULT ME IN MY HOUSE?”

“That was an adequate response to what you said to me.” A voice spoke in a low tone.

“Now, now gentlemen. We should all take a deep breath before we go on.”

“A deep breath? I have a better suggestion. A much better suggestion.”

“Father, that’s not what he meant!”

She looked up and stopped slicing the onions. She was glad that David spoke up because she knew how fraught that father-son relationship was, but she also wondered if speaking up would only add to his father’s wrath. She had sliced the onions into neat little piles as she listened to the conversation in the living room and tears were now streaming down her face.

“Son, we will not let you join a family that insults us. Find another woman.”

The only sound that could be heard from the kitchen was the shuffling of feet as the front door was opened and banged shut.