“You eat so little, less than a bird.” Alek gently admonished her co-wife Atim, as they had their supper in the smoky kitchen.

Atim sucked her teeth in irritation, and said nothing.

“Make an effort for the sake of the little one. Please.”

A wave of nausea overcame the young girl, and she dashed outside.

Alek, face creased with worry, followed her.

“The little one, that’s all everyone cares about. Nobody cares about me.” Atim’s voice pulsated with anger.

It was already three moons later, and the new wife had not yet accepted her new role. Alek, the older wife, sighed and said: “It’s the way you were married off, Atim. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Accept it as your fate.”

Atim’s eyes involuntarily strayed towards the centre of the homestead, where her new husband was supping in the company of his two sons.

“He is a good man, Atim, a famous fearless warrior, industrious farmer, doting father.”

But to Atim he was the intruder, the conspirator who has fettered her to himself forever. His boulder like build evoked deeply resentful feelings within her.

She would never forget how a routine trip to the market had ended with her kidnapping. Strong hands had grabbed her by the waist, muffled her screams and she had been lifted off the ground.

**************************

Alek coaxed the girl back into the hut, wondering how to melt her hardened heart.

But Atim was plotting her revenge. She would have nothing to do with the baby when it came.

But when he was born, his innocent fragility weakened her resolve. Her heart melted instantly and he ruled her world with his miniature iron fist and non-negotiable demands.

Meanwhile, her husband had been away at war, a retaliatory onslaught against their perennial enemies who lived across the valley. He was elated to find his newborn son upon his return.

“Make sure Atim gets a large gourd of fresh milk daily and lots of nourishing soups, anything she desires.” he ordered Alek.

Alek needed no telling. Having grown fond of the feisty girl, the two were more like sisters than co-wives.

However, a dark shadow soon fell across the family. When the baby was just four moons old, Alek fell sick. It began as a mild fever one afternoon, when she was making patterns on the walls of the newly built kitchen for Atim.

“She should be well by tomorrow,” the medicine man assured the anxious family. But by daybreak, Alek was no more.

And then, even before the burial, the enemy from across the valley raided the village. Shrill screams rent the night air as urgent deep voices shouted instructions.

The raiders were routed, thanks to the great warrior, whose heart could not be pierced by the sharpest spear, Atim’s husband.

As the leader of the warriors, he planned the retaliatory attack. The enemy was so devastated, they sent emissaries to ask for peace. But they were rebuffed.

**************************

One day, Atim’s husband was unwell.

“My father summons you to his hut,” his eldest son came and told her, after celebrations to welcome the victory had died down.

“I have an injury,” Atim’s husband said. He winced as he motioned towards his left shoulder. “Go to the stream outside the village, find some herbs with spiny leaves, reddish leaves and a pungent aroma.”

Atim prepared the poultice as instructed and was about to apply the poultice to his shoulder, when he said, “Shut the door, and windows.”
He pointed at his shadow.

“Make incisions on my shoulder’s shadow and apply the medicine there.”

Atim’s mouth gaped open with incredulity when he winced every time her hand touched his shadow.

So, this was the secret behind the great Lwanda’s invincibility, Atim marvelled silently.

One morning, the enemy community sent peace emissaries again.

“We are tired of the constant feuding between our communities,” they pleaded. They came bearing gifts of cattle, baskets of grain, gourds of milk and a white goat.

A young girl of about 16, the only female in the delegation, tagged along behind them.

The visitors were ushered into the village square, where the chief quickly ordered all the men to assemble. The climax of the ceremony was the slaughter of the white goat; both sides vowed that the enmity was over.

“Let the women come and serve us with food and wine,” the chief commanded.

The two parties were soon chatting amicably as the wine flowed.

Atim kept glancing at the ravishing young beauty who had accompanied the peacemakers. What was her purpose, she wondered.

She also noticed that unlike her own community elders who guzzled the wine and seemed drunk already, the visitors sipped their wine with a watchful cautiousness.

The chief’s tongue was loosened soon enough by the plentiful wine and he bellowed: “Who is the beauty in your company? She could certainly make a good wife for one of our sons, if not for one of us.”

“Indeed she can,” their leader, replied. “With her as the wife of your warrior, we will be kinsmen not enemies.”

No! Atim’s heart lurched with fear. She glanced at her husband and her heart sank. He, like the other men, was openly enthralled by the young girl.

There was a chorus of inebriated assent as the community elders urged her husband to take up the offer.

The emissaries exchanged pleased glances, and, in spite of herself, Atim shouted: “No! It’s a snare! Don’t do it!”

The ensuing silence was profound as everybody turned to stare at her. Then the deep, indignant, voices broke loose.

“A woman dares speak in the presence of men! What is the world coming to?” the chief roared.

The only silent man in the group was Lwanda.

“Speak man! What do you have to say regarding your wife’s conduct?” the elders demanded.

Atim looked at him hopefully; surely he could see through the ruse.

“I agree that my wife must be punished,” he said. She would return to her parents home for some time.

A few months later, the enemy betrayed the peace deal and attacked the village, stealing herds of cattle.

Atim’s people as usual quickly organised an attack, with the great warrior leading the pack.

Lwanda and his team of braves returned with the recovered loot, and his new wife tended to him.

But the following day, the girl vanished as the battle raged on.

Lwanda ploughed through the enemy, with wild abandon, confident of his prowess and invincibility.

Terrified of the warrior whose body bent spears, the opposing camp began to retreat.

Then one youthful warrior, barely out of his teens, trailed Lwanda, waiting for the sun to pierce through the clouds. As the afternoon shadows grew longer, the young warrior stalked Lwanda and waited. At an opportune time, he plunged his spear deep inside the earth, through Lwanda’s shadow.

The great warrior stopped in his tracks.

From her parents’ home, Atim heard the news of Lwanda’s death and that of his sons, of huts razed, and the destruction of her village.

“The folly of men,” she sighed, watching her son on her lap, blissfully ignorant, playing with his toes.

She would have been dead too had she kept silent that day, but fate had other ideas.

Could she have been destined to preserve the legacy of the great warrior through his only son? Maybe the child would grow up to become the warrior his father had been.