Tale of a Boon's Wife Read online

  Rhoda turned to Mother as if I wasn’t there. “I want to get changed.”

  “Idil, show her Omar’s room and the bathroom.”

  I led Rhoda across the living room and beyond the study before I spoke. “Have you met Omar?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I asked Rhoda about her family, what school she went to—here I found out she’d left school after grade five because she found it a bore—and she was eighteen years old. To all my other questions, she gave only nods or one-word answers.

  I tried to further engage Rhoda as she emptied her bags and moved items into Omar’s empty dresser. “How could you marry my brother when you don’t even know him?” I decided to get to the point.

  “Because my parents agreed to it,” she answered.

  Rhoda’s response bit me like the African red scorpion that had stung me at the waterfall a few months earlier. The fact that she could agree to leave home and marry a man she’d never seen because her parents wanted her to do it bothered me. It made me feel like an ungrateful child for rejecting all the men my mother had proposed. But more than that, I wanted the match to fail because if Rhoda married Omar, Mother’s attention would return to me. I needed to interfere quickly. “You’re nothing more than a blanket to cover his shame,” I told Rhoda two days after she came.

  Rhoda shrugged her shoulders, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door.

  Still, I continued to whisper in her ears for the days that followed. I saw it as a mission against time. I needed to get to her before Omar came and their marriage arrangements were finalized. Every night, I thought of new ways to convince Rhoda to walk away from Omar.

  “Leave her alone because it won’t work,” Elmi told me.

  But I couldn’t stop. One week after she’d arrived, I went into Omar’s room to show Rhoda a family photo. “This is me, Elmi, Mother, and Father. The person standing by Elmi is Omar.”

  Rhoda offered nothing more than a single glance. “Do you know he has another wife?” I asked, but Rhoda didn’t flinch. “Would you like to see her picture?” I held Sheila’s photo—the one Omar had brought when he’d introduced her—tight in my grip.

  Rhoda’s gaze burned into mine. “He can’t be married to her. She is gaalo.” Her voice cracked, and the words shook. “I’ll be his wife, not the gaalo whore. Your Mother promised that to my parents.”

  She knew? The realization stunned me. She couldn’t have known. No woman would accept such an insult, no matter how fantastic the arrangement. Still, I was happy Rhoda had come down off her pedestal and spoken to me. I had finally gained her attention. “He can marry four wives. It says so in the scriptures. You can find it in there yourself if you want. You can read the Qur’an, can’t you?” I remembered Rhoda saying she had left school early, and I threw the words at her as if they were weapons to shatter her façade. “Omar is married to her and she’s the first wife. That makes you the second.”

  I wanted Rhoda to wilt under the weight of the revelation. I didn’t care that my words were hurting her, even though Elmi told me I was being mean. And anyway, I was saving Rhoda from a miserable life because I knew how evil Omar could be.

  Unfortunately, Rhoda didn’t react the way I expected. Instead, she grabbed the picture out of my hand, ripped it in half, and gave it back to me. “Here! The whore deserves nothing more.”

  I folded the two halves together and held them close as if I would be able to mend the pieces back together. “You’ll have to do more than destroy her picture.”

  Rhoda glared at me. “I must fulfill my father’s promise. You just take care of your end of the bargain.”

  “What?”

  “Oh! You didn’t hear?” Rhoda peered into my eyes and found nothing but confusion in them. “No, you didn’t. I can see that now.” Rhoda stopped to enjoy my horror-stricken face. “It’s too bad your father didn’t tell you, and you have to hear it from me. You are marrying my brother, Jamac, in exchange for me accepting Omar with his gaalo whore.”

  “You lie! I made no such promise!”

  Rhoda laughed, satisfied. “No, but your father did. A girl doesn’t write the contract; she just carries out the transaction.” Rhoda sat up on the chair, put her elbows on her knees, and rested her chin on the palms of her hands. “Jamac must be married. He is twenty-five, and the village girls are not exactly rushing in to claim their love, so my father made you the condition.”

  My skin burned with rage. “I will not!”

  “You will.”

  “I’ll die first.” I got up and left Rhoda. Her mocking laughter followed me out.

  Mother met me between Omar’s room and the kitchen. “Idil, I am glad you are spending time with Rhoda.” If Mother noticed my flushed face, it didn’t show. “She could use some company until you brother returns and sees what a treasure she is.”

  Rhoda was stunning and could’ve married any man, but had to accept Omar. She did it because she felt it was her duty. Unlike her, I felt no obligation to worry about Omar’s marriage. Besides, he already had a wife and had no need for Rhoda. But I knew, like she did, that we were the sacrificial lambs to protect our family names. “Rhoda said I am promised to marry her brother, Jamac!”

  “Oh dear, your father didn’t say anything?” Mother read the answer on my face. “He should’ve told you. I sent him a note while I was away to ask his permission for your hand. I asked him to tell you about it, and he said he did when he called us from his office. I had to agree to their demand, otherwise they wouldn’t have let me bring Rhoda home with me.”

  “Well! He forgot to mention it, and I don’t want to marry Jamac.” Whether he told me or not, wouldn’t have mattered.

  “Jamac was in Italy with Omar, and he knows about Sheila. At first, they refused to accept my proposal unless Omar left the gaalo woman. It was not until Jamac asked for you that they gave their permission, provided you married Jamac.”

  “And I am an object to be traded? Did you think of me, what I want?”

  “I thought about you the most. I know you want the Boon. I don’t have to ask. But that cannot happen. To marry the Boon is as far from you as the moon and the stars. Jamac is the best choice for you. We know his family, and no harm will ever come to you from him. Your brother gets a wife, and you get a husband.”

  I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “I love Sidow.”

  “You’ll learn to love Jamac. You have to, you must.”

  “I won’t.”

  “What do you think Rhoda is doing? She hasn’t seen Omar, but she agreed to marry him because a woman does what she must, not what she wants.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but Mother left the kitchen before the I had the chance.

  *

  Two days after Rhoda’s horrible revelation, I wrote a note to Sidow for Elmi to deliver. “Mother found me a husband,” I scribbled. I stared at the page, trying to give details of the dreadful arrangement, but each time I lifted the pen to write, such sadness filled me that in the end, I gave up and sent the single sentence. I knew I would gain no comfort from Sidow’s response, but still I waited with hope.

  “Here.” Elmi brought the response back the next day.

  I unfolded the paper. Sidow had sketched a large teardrop in the middle of the page. He wrote the word OH! in the center of the drawing. “That’s it?” I yelled, overwhelmed by the emptiness of the message, a split second before Mother entered my room. I crumpled the paper and held it tightly.

  Mother pretended not to notice how upset I was. “Come see Rhoda in her outfit and tell us what you think.”

  I followed her out of my room and into Omar’s, unsure of why Mother wanted me involved as I had no desire to give an opinion on the matter.

  Mother held up an outfit for Rhoda. “Try this.” She handed her a cream-colored guntiino. “What do you think? This one or the last one?
Which of the two is the best?” Mother asked me.

  “I don’t know. It is for Rhoda to decide.”

  Mother held three more guntiinos. “Pick one of these. Which one do you want to wear to the meeting dinner? Think about it. Your family will be here, but most important of all, Omar will be here. You need something beautiful, but not overdone.”

  Rhoda tried them. By the time she unfastened the last garxir—the knot where the guntiino was fastened—her cheeks were flushed with joy. “I like this one for the dinner,” she announced.

  “Perfect choice, do you not agree, Idil?”

  I did. The outfit looked gorgeous on Rhoda.

  The clothing chosen, Mother’s days were consumed by planning for the first meeting and the wedding reception, and Rhoda was happy to comply. Mother floated around the house in perpetual motion until Omar and Rhoda’s family arrived. She worked on Rhoda for hours the day before and Rhoda went along without complaint. Rhoda’s makeup and the henna designs on her hands and feet took on fantastic importance.

  “Gorgeous,” Mother pointed at Rhoda as if she were congratulating herself.

  Mother was right. She had chosen well with both Rhoda and her outfit. Rhoda’s parents showed an appreciation toward Mother for Rhoda’s appearance and the festive dinner. Several times during that afternoon Rhoda’s mother thanked Mother for taking care of her daughter. The invited guests and the family and Father’s tribe elders were in awe of Rhoda. Everyone, except Omar. Omar didn’t melt with desire—as Mother had hoped—when he saw Rhoda. He spent less than five minutes with her before he drifted into the study to chat with Father, Jamac, and his father-in-law to be. He gave no compliments to Rhoda during the meal, even after Mother practically asked him to offer her something. Omar stayed at the table out of duty, not desire, and went back to the study as soon as he could leave. Mother attempted to go after him, but Father discouraged her by closing the door as soon as they were inside. Elmi, Mother, Rhoda, her mother, and I moved from the table and into the sitting room. Hawa served tea and biscuits, but the tray and mugs remained on the coffee table, untouched.

  An hour later, Omar emerged from the study followed by Father and Rhoda’s father. “I have an important meeting,” Omar told us, and promptly left.

  “What do you think?” Mother asked me after Rhoda’s family retired to the compound apartment Father arranged for them during their stay.

  “I don’t think he liked her.”

  “What’s not to like? Good family, looks, and manners—she has it all.”

  “I didn’t say she isn’t appealing, but that won’t make Omar want Rhoda, just as much as a good tribal lineage won’t make me want to marry Jamac.” I thought the comparison was fitting.

  “It is not the same. Omar agreed to it. He said he would take a Somali wife, one of my choosing, to keep his gaalo woman. Did you not hear him say so in this very room? Those were his very words,” Mother spoke in an excited tone.

  “He didn’t say it. It was Father who agreed to it.”

  “But Omar didn’t reject it. He must love her now, after all the trouble I went to.”

  “You can’t demand that he love her.” I had no desire to fight for Omar’s freedom to choose, but I was using him to make a case for myself. “Maybe he loves Sheila.”

  “How could anyone love a gaalo woman? It makes no sense. Omar said he married her for the business.” Mother dismissed my comment and settled in to wait for Omar’s return. I stayed with her long after Rhoda and Elmi went to bed. Occasionally, she would raise one more reason why Omar should be smitten by Rhoda, but eventually she fell into a deep, contemplative silence. For my part, I was grateful to keep her company anytime she wasn’t devising a plan to marry me off to Jamac. To her disappointment, close to midnight, Father came home without Omar. She jumped to her feet and rushed toward Father. “Where is Omar?” she shouted with enough panic to shake the house.

  “He couldn’t leave Sheila alone in the hotel.”

  Mother’s anger increased when she learned that Omar had brought Sheila with him from Europe. “What is she doing here? I am planning a wedding in a week. What does he mean by this?”

  Father’s answer did nothing to soothe Mother’s rage. “Sheila is here for a business meeting and she leaves the day after tomorrow. That is five days before the wedding.” Father took two steps away from Mother and toward his room before he turned around quickly, as if he’d forgotten something very important. “She wants to come and meet the family in the morning.”

  “What?” Mother was so loud I feared she would wake half the house, but no one stirred. “You promised she’d never come here!”

  “It’s to meet the family, nothing more. Just pretend she’s a friend.”

  “She isn’t. She can’t be here. I won’t allow it. Sheila isn’t welcome here!”

  “It’s only a breakfast.”

  “No breakfast, no lunch, no dinner. No Sheila!”

  Father retired to his room. Mother continued to rant for another hour with me alone as her audience.

  *

  Although Mother hadn’t wanted Sheila’s visit, she woke up early in the morning and worked on an elaborate breakfast. The smell of cumin, garlic, and cilantro in poached eggs reached me in my room before the sun was up. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and went to the kitchen. Several different pots and platters covered the counter next to the sink. Mother’s determination to show Sheila proper Somali hospitality overtook her rejection of the meeting. “She must see that we are civilized. If she is coming, I want her to feel welcomed even if that is not in my heart.”

  On Omar’s arm, Sheila joined us for breakfast the next morning. She wore a long, black skirt and silver heels. When she went to greet Mother, the slit of her skirt opened all the way to her mid-thigh and exposed her pale skin. She had on a white blouse with a flowery scarf under a long collar. Mother put on a bright smile when Sheila arrived.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Rhoda and her family among us, we passed the serving platters without speaking. Dishes moved from one hand to another in silence, as if we were communicating to each other telepathically.

  We moved to the sitting room after the meal. Rhoda sat on the sofa next to her mother, her reaction measured. She’d learned about Omar’s gaalo wife from Jamac, she’d heard Mother complain about this visit last night, and I had shown her Sheila’s picture when she first came. Still, she acted like she didn’t know who Sheila was and smiled pleasantly. She took it upon herself to serve the tray of coffee and dates Hawa had prepared and smiled as she offered a cup of coffee to Sheila. We all remained uncomfortable until Sheila, along with Omar and Father, left an hour after the meal.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The braids must be balanced. Redo it now. If you think I’ll pay you for this, think again,” Mother chided the hairdresser. “Do you call this a wedding design?” She poked an aggressive forefinger right in the middle of Rhoda’s head.

  Rhoda submitted to pulling and tugging as the hairdresser braided and unbraided her hair. The henna lady drew and changed the pattern for Rhoda’s hands and feet several times before Mother settled on one. “That works. Do it now.”

  Relieved, Mother smiled when Omar arrived with the groomsmen twenty minutes before we were to leave for the reception. “We are ready to go,” she announced.

  Omar and his groomsmen went in one car, while Rhoda and her bridesmaids took another. The rest of us piled into different cars for the short ride to the reception hall. The sound of the special music, intended to welcome the two families into the ceremony, spilled out of the building and met us in the parking lot upon our arrival.

  Mother opened Rhoda’s car door just a crack. “Stay there until Omar is seated. I’ll send word for you to come in after him.” She led the rest of us into the hall.

  She took my hand in hers. “Come! I have a special place for you.” She pu
lled me ahead and shoved me into a chair next to Jamac.

  “Mother! I…”

  She glared at me. “You must,” she said, and left.

  Jamac reached for my hand, but I withdrew it quickly. He plastered a nauseating smile on his face, his black teeth displaying obvious signs of chewing chat. He looked a decade older than he was.

  Jamac didn’t let my blatant rejection affect him. “You are more beautiful than your photo.”

  “My photo?”

  “Your mother should have brought a better picture,” Jamac responded.

  I was wrong to think Mother had forgotten about me when she went in search of a wife for Omar. All along, I was part of her great plan.

  Mother watched me from a distance. “Make conversation,” she mouthed, but her attention drifted away from me when Rhoda entered the hall.

  Rhoda was gorgeous, and guests whispered to each other about her beauty. Her hair, braided in thick, long cornrows, looped around her head. Large yellow beads, strung on silk ribbon, followed the braids and ended where they were gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a yellow and red guntiino. Mother’s bangles covered both of Rhoda’s arms from the wrists to the elbows. A gold fan-shaped necklace rested on her neck draping Rhoda’s exposed chest to the top of her breasts.

  Four bridesmaids formed the wedding block around her. As tradition dictated, the four unmarried girls in the party were less attractive than the bride. From a distance, the four girls were like a flawless painting on canvas. They moved as one to the flute, the guitar, and the drums that played the wedding song—two steps to the left, one forward, two to the right, and one forward. Rhoda walked in their midst, elegant and stoic. In her right hand, she held a dhiil, carved for the occasion and filled with fresh camel milk. In her left hand, she held a wooden mug with her and Omar’s initials carved in it.

  The bridesmaids reached the end of their procession when Rhoda came to a stop in front of Omar and his four groomsmen at the head table. She opened the dhiil and poured the milk. She held the mug out to Omar and waited for him to accept it. He didn’t move. He didn’t take in Rhoda’s promise to always nourish him. The guests rose to their feet, each pair of hands poised to clap as soon as Omar took the first sip. Rhoda’s smile faltered, and her eyes lost their bright spark. The music that marked the wife’s offer to her husband ceased and was replaced by the sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen. The four groomsmen stood up at once and hoisted Omar to his feet. Rhoda pushed the drink into his mouth, completing the symbolic task of a wife feeding her husband after a hard day’s work. She kept the mug pressed against Omar’s lips. “With this I promise to be your wife, bear your children, and build your home.” Her voice was even as the vow spilled from her mouth.