The Bride Price: An African Romance (Chitundu Chronicles) by Suzanne Popp Page A

her. I just wanted your advice.”
    “Well, you have it. Is dinner ready?”
    They sat on their stools watching the sun melt into the tree line at the top of the ridge. Festal was put off by the request for something that he cared about, and by his denying the request when it was by a woman he knew wanted something from him that he didn’t want to give her. Myrna was relieved that the mother chameleon, a comma in the trailing vines of the bougainvillea, would be spared. Her sides were bulging with the promise of young soon to be born. Myrna secretly called her Beatrice and saw her as a good omen.
    Myrna was in nesting mode.  She made small covers for their drinking cups with stones tied at the base so flies would stay out of their drinks and baskets that covered the food she was preparing.  All the food scraps were saved and put in a heap for the chickens and goats to eat outside of her garden wall.  The brooms and whisks for the household were held on one wall in the storeroom by loops of crocheted rags, which also had been used to make a rug in front of the washroom, the doorway, and the kitchen to keep rocks and debris out.  For herself and Festal, Myrna made lotions and soaps,  pumice for her heels, and a waxy hoof dressing she used on the calves’ hooves during the dry season.  Her husband enjoyed all the projects Myrna made to keep their home smelling fresh, and it saved on their expenses.  He also liked to surprise her with materials to see what use she could make of them.  One day, he carried home the branches of a tree worn smooth by the wind and the rubbing of animals. The following day she turned them into a set of clothes pegs for the wall beside their bed.  Another piece of wood became a shoe scraper for the doorway. 
    One day Festal came home just as Myrna was returning from a trip to town.  She had caught a ride with a neighbor and his wife, and returned with them.  Festal arrived early and met her absence. His brow furrowed in anger and dismay.
    Myrna thanked the driver and dismounted from the donkey cart.  She walked into the house and put her scarf and  bag down when  Festal suddenly took her by the shoulders and shook her in rage.  She let her body go limp and he shoved her to the bed in anger.  She did not apologize for her absence, nor did she rush to prepare the dinner.  Festal knew he was out of control, but he could not rid himself of the anger or the fear that her absence had raised in him. Myrna waited for him to calm down.
    “Why did you leave the house and not tell me?”
    “You were away. I did not know I was confined to the house.  Am I a prisoner?”
    He was silent as his face contorted with the pain of her words. She told him she had ordered something for him in town. She had asked him earlier about his childhood, and he had told her abruptly, “That is none of your business.”  She had wanted to surprise him with a birthday gift.
    Ten days later the gift arrived and she handed it to him to open.  It was the first birthday gift he had ever received and he wasn’t sure what to do.  She waited while he pulled the paper away from the box and pulled out a red harness for the donkeys.  It was new and had no breaks or rough patches. The brass fittings were glistening and clean and the collars had clips for a string of bells that came with the set.  The reins were long and supple with snaps for easy removal.  Festal smoothed the leather over his fingers and explored every inch of the harness. His eyes were bright and he had a half smile on his face. Immediately, he left to gather his hobbled animals.  That afternoon they drove around the hillside, stopping at houses and waving to their neighbors. The two hunting dogs coursed along beside them like proper coach dogs. Festal sat proud in the driver’s seat guiding his team. That evening, after he had hobbled the donkeys and cleaned the harness, he brought it into the house and hung the red collection of straps on the