BETHROTHED (1)

 ZIBA

“You are waiting for me to call you the fourth time, abi?” Mama Ziba shouted from the stuffy, clay-built kitchen, her voice filling the entire compound.

Ziba scowled. She had heard her mother clearly the first time and already knew exactly what she was being summoned for. Still sprawled across the bamboo mattress, she grumbled, “I am coming, maaaaa.”

“It is your father that you are dragging that ‘maaaaa’ for,” Mama Ziba muttered, grabbing the wooden spoon Mama Tiwa had gifted her during the last yam festival. With the stealth of a cat, she crept toward her daughter, who remained deeply engrossed in a shriveled old novel—the kind that had clearly survived several lifetimes.

Mama Ziba didn’t miss her target. The spoon landed squarely across Ziba’s back.

Ziba yelped, leapt to her feet, and dashed straight into her mother’s room to pick up the dirty plates that needed washing at the stream.

“Why did you run? No, come back and tell me ‘maaaaa’ again. You are blessed—my mouth will not curse you. Be back before the vegetable soup finishes cooking!”

Ziba hurried past her mother before another strike of the wooden spoon could find her. She scratched her back vigorously, even though the sting had only faded a little.

She slowed her pace as she neared the main path, watching little children, covered in dust and laughter, kick a ball crudely made of paper and cello tape.

I will get you children a proper ball one day, she sighed.

Gumba Village held no promises for her, or so she believed. What was she still doing here? Education ended at Junior Secondary School, and anyone who dreamt of anything beyond that had to travel to the neighbouring village, which hosted both a Senior Secondary School and a tertiary institution. It was almost as if the two villages had sat together and negotiated:

“You take Nursery to JSS; I’ll take SSS to University.”

The thought made her laugh.

The road to the stream was now clean and open, thanks to the village youths who ensured that anyone could see danger from a distance. It hadn’t always been so. The path was once notorious for theft and the molestation of unsuspecting women, until the youths rallied, cleared the overgrown bushes, drove out the criminals, and prayed over the land.

Those dark days were gone.

This was the peaceful season.

And to Ziba, the path had become a soothing, therapeutic walkway. She loved taking her time, even though she knew how much her mother despised her leisurely pace. The thought made her chuckle.

At twenty-five, she still tied the village’s traditional cream-coloured cloth, decorated with geometric patterns and expertly wrapped around her body. Her mother had gifted her plenty of the fabric and took pride in teaching her how to tie it properly, like a true daughter of Gumba.

She knelt by the stream and dipped the earthenware plates into the cool water. The riverbed was a mosaic of smooth, rounded stones and pebbles visible beneath the clear shallow water. On both sides, lush green banks rose into tall palm trees that swayed and filtered the afternoon sun.

Ziba’s tall, athletic frame glistened as the sunlight danced across her dark-chocolate skin.

She washed quickly, scrubbing the last of the plates before her mother would begin her familiar sarcasm:

“Thank you for deciding to come home at all. I thought you wanted to sleep at the stream!”

The imagined greeting made Ziba laugh. She bundled the clean plates into a brown cloth, placed them carefully on her head, and began the leisurely walk back home.