MARIAM THE GOOD GIRL.

EPISODE 2

I was confused. I stood up, but my legs couldn’t hold me—I fell down. The women followed me, tied a kanga around my waist, and gave condolences. I cried asking: “What happened to my grandmother?” They said grandmother fell suddenly and died while coming back home. I felt lost—I didn’t know our fate. I was only 16, my sister was still young and stubborn. Grandmother had no other child—we were the only relatives left. I cried a lot. We mourned and buried grandmother. People gave condolences, then after a week they left, and we were left alone in grandmother’s small hut.

Elina said: “Sister, you see now—how will we live without grandmother? Everyone has left. Who will we be guests to?” I said: “My sister, I’m here—your big sister. I’ll farm and find any business to raise you.” She laughed: “You make me laugh.” I asked: “What’s funny when I’m telling the truth?” She said: “I can’t live like this. If you stay, stay. I’m going to town to find life—I already have a plan. You look like a monkey loving the bush. I can’t be your friend. Look at this hut—it can collapse any day. The toilet is full—we defecate in the bush. Every day is trouble, people die, and we’re just stuck embracing poverty. Let me go find life—even become a house girl.” I said: “Elina, you’ll suffer. We’re only two left—we have a house to live in. Let’s stick together, farm, harvest, sell crops, do business—we’ll make it.” She said: “I can’t farm. If you want to farm, farm.” I hated her—why didn’t she respect me as her big sister? I said: “I see I’ve spoiled you too much—you don’t understand. Now I speak as your sister—you won’t leave. We stay here and farm. I think we understand each other. If you repeat that topic, I’ll beat you. Elina, you have no manners—grandmother is not even 40 and has no dignity, and you start nonsense. Shame on you.”

Elina kept quiet. I took a bucket and went to the river for water. On the way I cried a lot—how will I manage life? I have no grandmother or parents. I said: “Oh God, why is this happening to us? Give me strength, my God.” I cried a lot, fetched water, and returned home. I found Elina in the kitchen cooking. She said: “Sister, you’re back.” I said yes. She said: “I want to cook ugali now—I don’t know what vegetable we’ll eat?” She spoke smiling. I said: “Wait, I’ll buy some right away.” She asked: “Do we have money?” I said: “Not those condolence ones—I saved them. I wanted us to discuss and maybe start a business—me farm, you do business so we can live.” She smiled: “Okay, sister—how much is there?” I said: “I didn’t count—wait, let me bring them so we count together.” She said: “I put water on the fire—let’s go inside and count.” I said okay.

We went in and counted—the money was about 78,000 shillings. She said: “Wow, that’s a lot!” I said: “It’s enough for business. Wait, I’ll take 8,000 and buy fish and tomatoes.” She said okay. I went to buy vegetables and returned—she was smiling in the kitchen. We cooked vegetables in the evening and ate. Elina was nice—she told many stories asking about our parents. I narrated because she was younger, and grandmother used to tell me a lot while we were in the farm. She even said: “This business of ours, sister, I’ll do it carefully until we become rich.” I was happy to see my sister—we were together now. We talked by the fire outside until late, then went to sleep. Sleep came heavily because I hadn’t slept well since grandmother died—so I slept deeply.

I woke up at dawn—Elina wasn’t beside me. I thought maybe she was cleaning. I got up, folded the sheets, went outside—no sign of Elina. The kitchen door was locked as we had left it at night. Where did she go? I checked the toilet—no one. Maybe she went out and will return. I did cleaning, washed dishes, fetched water, bathed, cooked ugali (we don’t drink tea). I waited until evening—Elina didn’t return.

I thought: let me ask her friends. I was about to leave when I decided to take a little money to buy soap for washing. I went back inside, took the kitenge I tied the money in—I found no money, only a paper. I was shocked, opened it, and read a message from Elina: “Sorry for this—I know you’ll be angry. I’ve decided to leave and go to town to find life. I took all the money as my inheritance, so be at peace with grandmother’s hut and farms—I don’t need them. I’ve taken my share. I wish you good life. If God wills, we’ll meet again. Me, Elina.”

I lost strength—Elina decided to leave me too? I’m left completely alone? I cried a lot, but there was no way. I thought: let me face the world alone. I didn’t care about the money—I wasn’t used to having money anyway.

My life began with farming and living very alone. I had no friends—talked to villagers but no closeness. Days passed, harvest season came. I helped people harvest and got help—I harvested crops, though not much, but enough. I divided some for food, sold others. I got the idea of business—after harvest, I needed money to sustain myself until rainy season to start farming again. So I decided to sell fried cassava. I talked to a young man who farms good cassava with flour—he sold me some. I started frying in the morning and selling at the market. At first no customers, but as days went, I got many—I started frying twice, selling morning and evening every day. My business boomed—I earned small money, bought second-hand clothes cheaply and shoes so I could look decent. A year passed—farming season, I farmed in the evening, fried cassava with my relish and kachumbari—people loved it, so I got small money to sustain myself. I had few needs.

Throughout that time, I never had a boyfriend because I feared being left alone. While selling cassava in the evening, I witnessed men’s betrayal at bars—married men with other women. I thought: why should I too? I saw marriages breaking, girls fighting over men. My whole family left me, so I didn’t want closeness with anyone.

One day during December holidays, as usual I had farmed and planted, so I was selling cassava in the morning. While busy, a woman around 27–30 came with two beautiful children. She didn’t look local—like from town, shining with expensive clothes. She greeted: “Hello?” smiling. I replied: “I’m fine, sister—greetings.” She said: “Greetings. I hear your cassava is very sweet—how much per piece?” I said two for 500. She said: “Wow, and they’re big like that?” I said yes. She said: “Give me 5,000 worth.” I thanked her, selected for her, added relish. She took one, tasted: “Again, it has good flour and is hot—young one, you’ve got a customer. I’ll come every day.” I said thanks. She gave a 10,000 note: “Keep the change, young one.” I was happy and thanked her a lot. Truly, that woman came every day for about two weeks, buying cassava and always leaving change.

Another day she came with a woman called Mama Joan—famous in the village with a big shop. They bought cassava. The woman said: “You know I buy cassava but don’t even know your name, young one?” I said: “I’m called Maimuna.” She said: “Aha, I’m Asma, and those I come with are my children. This is my young mother, Mama Joan—you probably know her.” I said yes. She said: “I live in Dar.” I said: “Aha, thanks.” She asked: “Have you ever been to Dar?” I said no. She said okay. Then they left. I found myself liking that woman because she showed she liked me.

One day I finished cassava early in the morning, went home, rested on the veranda preparing for evening. Suddenly I heard a motorcycle sound. I stood to look—Mama Joan got off. I was surprised. She saw me: “Hey Mai, I came to the market—seems you finished early today?” I said yes, Mama Joan—greetings. She said greetings. I said it’s finished, I’m preparing. She said: “Don’t worry, I didn’t come for cassava.” She spoke while looking around at the environment and grandmother’s hut. I said: “Welcome.” I went inside and brought her a stool. She sat. She said: “Mai, I’m not staying—I came once to talk about something important.” I wondered what. She said: “I know you know Asma, my daughter.” I said yes. She said: “Asma likes you a lot, investigated your life, felt sorry for you. So she asks you to leave with her and live together in Dar.” Hmm, I looked at her. Despite everything, I had never thought of leaving the village. Living in town—every day I hear bad things: killings, r***s, accidents, torture. I said: “Thanks, but no—I’m not going.” Mama Joan said: “Mai, do you have sense? You’re refusing an offer? Do you know Asma’s life? Someone likes you, left many begging for work—she chose you, says she’ll pay you, and you’ll live with her like her sister to find easy life. You refuse? Are you satisfied living like this, young girl—in a mud hut with cracks that can collapse any day, burning every day frying cassava, wearing old people’s clothes, beautiful girl Mai? What did you do to God to curse yourself? Your sister left you—she was smarter. Girls your age have lives—some married, some went to town and come back shining. You’re aging, young girl—what’s your problem? Or are you bewitched and fear leaving lest the witchcraft returns?” I said: “No, it’s not that.” She said: “What’s the problem? I’m telling you—you’ll live comfortably. If you refuse, it’s your loss. Try life elsewhere to get light.” I said: “Please give me time.” She said: “Okay—Asma leaves the day after tomorrow. Decide quickly. Ohoo.” I said okay. She left.

I thought a lot, but my heart was heavy—why leave when I have peace here? Though Mama Joan’s words touched me, no. I thought of my crops and grandmother’s house—no, I’m not going. I rested a bit, fried cassava in the evening, went to sell. I told a woman who likes me a lot and is wise—we help each other farm. She advised me to go find life—she knows Asma is a good person. But I still didn’t want to go. The next day I went to sell cassava—Mama Joan came insisting I give an answer today.

I said: “I can’t go.” She said: “Your choice.” I finished cassava, went home. While resting on the veranda, a child came running calling: “Aunt Mai! Aunt Mai!” I asked: “What?” He said: “Get up—let’s go to your farm.” I asked: “What’s there?” He said: “Come quickly.”

I ran and reached the farm—found a big herd of cattle eating all my maize—it was ready and tall. The neighbor’s farm where I planted beans—nothing left. I was shocked. The cattle finished everything. We tried chasing with neighbors but couldn’t. We went to report—the leader said: “These are outsiders’ cattle brought for grazing—they overpowered the herders. Finding the owners to pay is hard.” I was tired. Not knowing what to do, I returned home—found the door open, went in—my cassava stock for capital and peeled for evening—all stolen. They took tomatoes, oil, frying pan, and money I kept in the house—gone completely. I was left poor like trash—no money, no crops. What a curse?? How will I live now?