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Clash of love and tradition

Monday April 24 2017
clash

Abur Mathong’s prized possession, Tarido the bull, contracted a mysterious disease and in a short time went back to its maker.

And so the old man journeyed to Dongolaw market to buy another bull.

The market was a cacophony of noises as people peddled and purchased various wares.

Mathong’ quickly made his way to the cattle section. It was the rainy season and he wanted to be home and dry before the predicted evening downpour.

Just next to where they sold cattle sat the most exquisite beauty his ageing eyes had ever beheld.

She was about 16. Her ebony skin was petal smooth and lustrous. Her startlingly black, beautiful eyes were fringed by long lashes in a perfectly oval face. Long slim fingers deftly worked an intricate design on an unfinished mat; before her was an assortment of colourful mats for sale.

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“Abur Mathong’ my friend, are you well?” hailed Akol Wol the cattle trader. He was a short wiry man with small sly eyes.

“I am well, my friend. My prize bull is no more. I hope you have a healthy bull calf,” he replied, with his eyes still riveted on the young beauty.

Wol followed the line of Mathong’s eyes with a knowing smile. He busied himself looking for a bull calf.

“Who is that dazzling creature?” Mathong’ asked after a momentary silence. He motioned surreptitiously at the young maiden.

The smile on Wol’s face spread slowly like dye in a pot of water.

“Quite ravishing, isn’t she? That is the daughter of Mabior Deng, a man whose poverty would greatly benefit from a rich man’s extravagant dowry.” Wol’s voice was like oil gliding down one’s throat.

Mathong’s rheumy eyes gleamed with hope.

“As beautiful as she is, does she have no suitor?”

“She has plenty.” replied Wol. “However, she rejects them in favour of a poor young Adonis. He is yet to scrape together a few hens for dowry.”

Awien felt the old man’s gaze upon her like the intense heat of a midday sun. She could never get accustomed to these trance-like stares from men. Stares that started ever since her chest budded. She smiled graciously his way and continued weaving.

Her thoughts turned to Jiel and her heart beat a little faster. She wondered what he was doing. He was probably weeding the garden with his widowed mother. She couldn’t wait. They had planned to elope before the next full moon.

Encouraged by the young girl’s smile, Mathong’ made his way towards her.

“And what is the cost of a mat as enchanting as its owner?” he inquired warmly.

“Just five cowries, grandfather,” she replied. The smile was now absent from her guarded eyes.

Mathong’s heart lurched a little with disappointment, but he smiled on valiantly. Faint heart never won fair maiden.

“In that case, I will buy five.” Mathong’ fished for some cowrie shells from his pouch.

She rolled five mats, tied them together with sisal string and handed them to him. His efforts to carry on a light conversation were rebuffed by sullen monosyllables. Sighing, he went back to buy the bull.

“How soon can I meet with her father?” he asked Wol.

“You can meet him as soon as you wish my friend.”

“On second thoughts, I will buy two calves.”

Wol smiled knowingly.

The following week, laden with gifts of palm wine, sorghum, several goats and chicken, Mathong’ and Wol paid Awien’s father a visit, and requested for her hand in marriage. The old man was more than happy to comply, more so after learning that the real dowry was on its way.

All went smoothly until it was time for the nubile maiden to meet her wizened groom.

Awien was summoned to her father’s hut where the beer-drinking octogenarians sat. When she was formally introduced to her groom, her eyes flashed angrily.

“I refuse to be fettered to this grandfather.”

“You mad girl!” an uncle shouted. “Do you know that your gourd will never lack sour milk and your vegetables will always be soaked in ghee?”
“I will gladly eat raw pumpkin leaves with Jiel,” she retorted.

“The folly of youth,” spat another uncle. “Go back to the kitchen!”

The old men stared after Awien’s retreating back with undisguised disapproval.

“Don’t worry. She is as good as your wife already. We know what to do,” Awien’s father placated Mathong’.

Awien sobbed at the back of the kitchen. How she longed to hear that deep resonant voice that serenaded her under the silver moonlight.

It was only a matter of time before lecherous Mathong’ sent young men to haul her off to his loveless prison. She despaired that Jiel would find out too late.

A gentle hand touched her head, and picked bits and pieces of grass from her hair.

“Your cornrows are unravelling,” her mother said gently, and handed her a gourd of milk.

Awien gulped the milk gratefully.

“I want to marry Jiel, mother. It does not matter that he owns nothing. I love him.”

Her mother stroked her head quietly. Were these not the very shoes she had worn many seasons ago?

“Are you sure, my daughter?” she asked softly.

“I am sure.”

“Then Jiel it will be.”

Awien walked briskly along the winding forested path to the river, her empty water pot expertly balanced on her head and a calabash in one hand. The brook was deserted save for an old woman who was leaving. She set her water pot down, and scooped a calabash full of the clear water to drink.

Two men crouched in the dense foliage — Garang’ and Macar — followed her every move. Awien finished drinking and filled her pot. Just as she was balancing it on her head, the two men sprang from the bushes and lunged at her. Startled, Awien let out an ear-piercing scream.

The water pot crashed to the ground and broke. Then she ran into the forest with the men in hot pursuit. Her feet accelerated at the thought of Mathong’ with his weak mouth, voluminous belly and squeaky feminine voice.

“What kind of girl is this, running away from good fortune?” Macar cursed.

Awien ran from the prospect of marriage to a man who would probably be dead before she weaned her second child. Her slender frame cut through the air. The wind rushed past her ears. After a short time, the men’s voices faded.

Her pace slowed down, and the seasoned warriors, used to running for many hours, caught up with her. It was already dusk. The crescent moon appeared as the taunts of her captors get louder.

Soon the path disappeared. Awien groped her way around the dense bush as the thorns scratched her arms, legs and face. Suddenly, she heard the unmistakable sound of hissing.

Under the glow of the moonlight, she stared petrified at the black scaly snake, poised, ready to strike. Awien backed away slowly into the bush and closed her eyes prepared for the worst.

Just as the serpent was about to deliver its deadly blow, a well aimed spear soared through the air and plunged deep inside its head.

Jiel, his tall, muscular, silhouette unmistakable, appeared. The two embraced silently.

“Come,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of this bush.”

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