CONVICTION

By B. N Wendo

There was no other solution to her misfortune. She had to get a wife for herself. Someone who could grant solace to her loneliness. And bear children for her.

Kivanguli knew it was a bad idea to entertain his guest with tea on that sweltering afternoon. Yet there was nothing else he could offer him. The shops nearby were all closed and he could not offer him beer. The two men sat on blue plastic chairs under the eaves blasting with heat, fanning themselves as they conversed.

A dog barked fervently at the gate when someone rang a bicycle bell. The two men stopped talking and waited. A boy of seventeen emerged at the view, dragging along him a hardy bicycle loaded with strips of sisal rope. He politely saluted them.

“I am done,” the boy motioned to the strips of sisal. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

“Not really,” Kivanguli said. “You can put the sisal strips near the stacks of firewood behind that kitchen hut.”

The boy obediently did as asked. Then waited for his payment. Kivanguli handed him a five hundred shilling note. He received it with enthusiasm and mumbled a ‘thankyou’ before turning to leave. Kivanguli called him again.

“Eeeh…Muisyo!”

“Yes sir!” The boy listened attentively.

“I want to ask you a question…is there any function going on somewhere? I have noticed the entire village looks rather vacated today.”

“Yes,” the boy replied zealously. “Infact I am heading there immediately. The wedding between Mwaitu Bendetta and her iweto! I cannot remember her name.”

“Mmmh!” Kivanguli seemed surprised. “You mean It?”

Muisyo nodded.

“There is nothing else. You can go!” Muisyo clambered over his bicycle and cycled away as the homestead dog, an emaciated creature called Simba, scurried after him barking. The barking was submerged in the silence, leaving the two men in the stew of deep thought.

“Father, I did not know such a thing was going to happen,” Kivanguli broke the silence. “It is astounding!”

“I am also in shock!” Father Kitila said. “Bendetta! The village! How! The elders?”

“I swear I did not even know this was happening,” Kivanguli lied. He knew everything that was going on. He was among the elders who allowed such a wedding to go on. But he was not bold enough to attend. Neither did he know it would be held almost immediately.

He remembered that meeting. How emotionally charged it was. The family was completely against such a move. Bendetta, a childless widow, desired to get children of her own. She was tired, she said. Tired of the neglect her family had subjected her to. Her late husband had died leaving her massive tracts of land. Properties that her relatives coveted. And because of her husband’s obstinacy to marry a second wife, he died without an heir. Leaving everything to her. A barren woman. There was no other solution to her misfortune. She had to get a wife for herself. Someone who could grant solace to her loneliness. And bear children for her.

Her husband’s brothers opposed the suggestion. It was a cog to their ambition. Kivanguli was there when the shouting match prevailed. He felt pity for the old woman. He could feel her pain. Certainly she was right. Her family did not care one bit about her. She was a nuisance. Something they wished away. All their late brother’s property could be theirs. How risky it was for an old woman to live by herself. Especially one as rued as her. She was an armstretch away from being accused of witchcraft. Should any child at the homestead get terminally ill. Or should any prospective family member die, the poltergeist finger of blame would haunt her. And her brother-in-laws. Those hypocrites, Kivanguli scoffed as he remembered their professions of faux concern.

“This is a devoutly Catholic home!” Bendetta’s brother-in-law, Nthuli, said in earnest. “We cannot allow shame and disgrace in this family.”

“Come to think of It,” Kilonzo protested. “What would people say about us. That we have allowed such a disgraceful union prevail in our midst. Not possible!”

Vaati, the oldest member of the council disputed those arguments. Iweto was not reproachable. It was part and parcel of the Kamba traditions since antiquity. And although uncommon, Bendetta’s case was worthy enough for justification. All the elders, including Kivanguli, agreed that Bendetta was allowed to take a wife. A young woman was spotted. A distant relative sought to till the land and sow the future generations. Although the spring had dried, the river bed was to be served by another stream. And the river was not going to dry up after all.

Kivanguli knew the implications of what they had done. They had driven a wedge between tradition and the religion they endeared. The church was yet to get a whiff of the matter. A majority of the community members felt it was justified for Bendetta to take an ‘iweto’. But they were also aware that the church would not take it kindly. Even those who supported Bendetta would not escape lashing. He was a coward. He would covertly support the old woman but he was not ready to get pricked in the process.

“But you’re an elder,” Father Kitila inquired. “How is it possible you never knew about this!”

“I don’t know. I have not been keen on community affairs of late.”

Kitila was confused. How did this happen? Iweto? Under his nose? How secretive was this matter?

“And to think that people have attended the wedding!” Kivanguli seared in.

“This…” Kitila tapped his lap. “This is sacrilege.”

“Indeed,” Kivanguli sipped his tea. “Indeed…”

---

Sunday. St. Jude Catholic church.

Mass was regularly served. The congregation sang hymns. Listened to the homily. Recited the creed of faith. There was nothing on Father Kitila’s expression that indicated he was disgruntled. Then came the moment of receiving communion.

Father Kitila refused to give eucharist to several elders, Bendetta included. It was unheard of. Appalling. For the entire afternoon, it was the topic for discussion. On the lips of women and men. When a deacon asked him why he did that, Father Kitila stuck to his guns. He was not going to desecrate the sacraments by allowing a member of his church, in the state of mortal sin, receive communion. Simple!

Bendetta was enraged by the decision and she made a complaint to the diocesan bishop. She was grossly misunderstood, she believed. On Tuesday, Kitila headed to Machakos town after being summoned. He confidently knew he would defend his action. And the bishop, a pious man he highly respected, would find no flaw in his conviction. When he arrived there, the good bishop calmly listened to him make his case. A brilliant young priest he was. His arguments were well-balanced.

“Have you taken time to listen to the old woman in question?” The bishop asked.

“About that!” Kitila said. “I was planning to visit her soon.”

“Are you saying you had no knowledge of this?”

“Yes,” Kitila continued. “I was surprised when I learnt of it this past Friday!”

The bishop sighed. It was raining that morning. Not the heavy torrents. Just the prosaic kind of rain. Long periods of drizzle that only confined humanity in their houses.

“Don’t you think you were a little bit strict,” the bishop asked. “Matters of tradition in this part of the world are very touchy.”

Kitila could not believe his ears. But he maintained his reserved nature.

“I believe so,” Kitila said. “But such compromises are allowed on matters like liturgy. On the sacramental nature of the church, however, there is no contravention allowed. Marriage is between a man and a woman.”

“Yes,” the bishop agreed. “But listen here. There is an old woman. Widowed. Childless. No one takes care of her. And in this part of the world, the value of marriage is greatly entwined with the need for procreation.”

“But we are Catholics!” Kitila insisted. “Marriage is a sacred union. Procreation or no procreation. It still holds.”

“No doubt about that,” the bishop said. “I am an ordained minister. I cannot dispute that. But what about the layman. In this case, an old lady who retains a strain of traditionalism in her.”

Kitila remained silent. He could not see why the bishop wanted him to handle this matter malleably. The doctrine was unalterable.

“Please go back to your parish and try to sort out this matter competently and carefully,” the bishop instructed. “I know you are a wise young man. Learn to the see the world with multiple eyes.”

Kitila nodded. But he knew there was nothing cogent in those words. He would discard them at the doorstep. Not even the bishop would change his mind. If Bendetta did not seem penance, she would not receive eucharist. And that went for the rest of those who supported her sacrilegious marriage.

---

Whenever he visited Machakos town, he would make a stopover at the convent of the Precious blood sisters. There was where he grew up. Kitila was an orphan. His mother had abandoned him at the gate of the convent when he was an infant. This was the only home he knew.

He was walking towards the mother superior’s office when he noticed a middle-aged woman in a drab brown dress and sunburnt rubber shoes, seated on the bench outside the office. She was interacting with a bubbly toddler, an orphan most probably. There was a yearning in her eyes. Something so irresistible to watch. He stood there for several seconds watching them. Like a mother and child. How adorable.

Mother Justina was excited to see him. She lightly scolded him for taking so long to see her. When was the last time? Three months. He defensively said there was a lot of work at the parish that he hardly made any visit away from Kangundo. They chatted for long. Occasionally reminding themselves of the past. Mother Justina was proud of him. The delicate shoot she had seen growing up. Now a fruitful mango tree. Sinewy branches. Full of life.

Kitila noticed the woman again. He decided to ask, “Who is that woman over there?”

Mother Justina gazed at the woman. She sighed.

“That is Mueni. She came a week ago and confessed something to me. She left a baby here thirty years ago. At the gate. I don’t know which one. There have been many babies left there. And she is not very hale in memory to remember when it was. So sad.”

Kitila looked at her again. Something about her resonated deeply in him. Whatever it was, he did not know or appreciate.

“But I have always wondered,” Kitila asked. “What compels women to do something as unthinkable as that. I know life is hard. Seemingly unbearable. But…But leaving a child of your own?”

“It’s hard,” Mother Justina said. “Sometimes it takes empathy to help us forgive and understand such atrocities. I asked the woman what compelled her to do so. She told me her story. And…It was not very pleasing a situation for a nineteen year old.”

“The man who impregnated her left her? Raped maybe?” Kitila inquired.

“Not really,” Mother Justina said. “Apparently, her parents forced her to get married to this old woman at her place. She was to bear children for her. A nephew of the old woman made her pregnant as agreed. But then, she passed away. With no one at her aid, they secluded her and sent her away. Infact accusing her of conspiring to kill the old woman to inherit her lands.”

“So unfortunate…” Kitila cast a glance at her. The shadows under her eyes. The limp smile. She was battered no doubt. Her soul was a loosely-attached mass of a million broken shards. A breathing cadaver.

“She had no choice,” Mother Justina. “I would not have wished her to do that. But I have learnt to understand people for their weakness. Some people don’t know better. Or the situations they are in; don’t allow them to know better.”

Kitila closed his eyes and tried to imagine how painful these decisions could be. Sacrilege. Sin. Displeasurable. No! He was not going to consider Bendetta’s case. Anything else but that. He thought about the woman. She was no longer there. She was gone. What if this was his mother. He was also left at the convent gate thirty years ago. It could be his mother. His heart thundered at this possibility. It would maim him. He shoved away these thoughts with little success.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mother Justina interrupted his ponderings. “The woman…you are thinking. Could she be your mother?” He did not say anything.

“Let me ask you; what if?”

Kitila was numbed by distress. He had always wanted to see his mother. Ask her why she abandoned him. But now that such a possibility was nigh, there was lead in his chest. He could not find the words to even do that. He could not picture how he would react. He saw the woman in the reels of his mind. Her vanquished face beneath him. Sojourning forgiveness. Teary eyes. Firm grips at his shin. What would he do? A devout Catholic priest. Imbued with the virtue of forgiveness.

Mother Justina left him at the bench and got back to her office. There were visitors that needed audience. Kitila saw the woman again. She was plodding wearily along the grass patch. Heading over to him. He wanted to rise up and run. But it would be weird. Even rude. She was smiling at him. Brown-stained teeth. But a beautiful warm smile nevertheless. A mother’s smile. He was weak. There was swirl of discomfort in his belly.