"Taron Gimboyoyi" Festival of Maidens

                                                                                 PROLOGUE My name is Kadijat; I wish I could tell you how it all started. Narrating it from the start will mean baring it all. Just like yesterday, still so fresh in my memory, like they say of fresh wounds. You never can forget the pains, it:s skin deep you know? I am from a polygamous family. My father’s name is Abu-Bakr Ibn Biwa. He had four wives, and twenty-two children. I have brothers older than me and some born after I was born. I am the oldest of the daughters born to my father. My mother’s name is Fatima Zara Bamaiyi. She is from Funtua somewhere around the core north. My people had not dropped their culture, and the way women were treated was still according to the archaic order. They only adopted the names from the holy book and bought the idea of sending male children to far away Northern region to acquire knowledge and skills. Growing up for me wasn’t rosy; I am a typical description of a child born in the zaure (village). People from my village were simple and hospitable. Our homes were built of red earth, clay, mud or lath. My people built their huts, our Gidaje which consisted of small rooms around a central courtyard, where the animals could shelter too. Doors were low and framed by wooden or stone doorposts; Windows were small, unglazed and sited not too high from the ground, complementing the huts which were usually not high from the ground. Our small oil lamps provided us with light when darkness falls. Our beds were raffia mats laid on raised platforms made of beaten mud. The women of the house did the housework. Cooking, weaving, spinning and they would help in the farms and vineyards. We normally had two meals each day, breakfasts which consist of koko and kosai or masa; and larger suppers of tuwo and mia. My Father was a lovely man, with a heart of gold; he loved all his children and was at his best to ensure that we were happy. Although Father was just struggling to put food on the table, he was not a man who would run to anyone for help. This made his kinsmen think he was a proud man. I am the first child of my mother’s eight children; our house was our own haven. A poor little hut…that was where we called home. Father had built these five hut. Each of the huts had four rooms, which housed my father’s four wives and their children. However, when the boys got to the age of five, they moved to father’s hut. We were told he built the huts as a show of strength and hard work before he could be allowed to marry any of the young girls. He also had to cultivate a large hectare of land. While I was growing, I marvelled at father’s reasons for having such a large household; four wives, he could not even fend for; large army of children he could not put three square meals on their table. Why did he bring us to the world to suffer? The large compound was filled with children yet, our mothers were still praying to Allah for more of our kind. “If Allah would smile on us and bless us with the wealth of bearing children we should be gracious enough to accept them”. I overheard Ummi. What is it about bearing children that these women cherish so much? Who would look after these children when they are old and gone? Soon male children began going for makaranta al’lo, some other children whose parents were rich travelled as far as Sokoto, Niger, Kano and Ilorin to acquire knowledge of the holy Quran and Arabic knowledge. Father could not afford to send all his male children to school, so he sent our eldest brother Iliya. He was the first son of his senior wife. My mother’s son Kabiru was also sent to Kano with Iliya. There were provisions for female children to learn the Holy Quran too, but my father said I was a girl, and would be married out someday. According to him, it was of no use, women have their place only in the farms, kitchen and where gossips are told. It is no longer news that female children only got groomed to be married off to suitors. Girls my age in the village only tell tales of getting married to rich merchants from Chad and Sudan. They sing songs of travelling with their rich suitors who would take them far away and they too would bear children. They built their dreams around getting married, making as many children Allah gave them, and brood their female children to be married off too. As a young girl growing up, I have heard this tales and songs from my grandmother, my mother, my aunties, and now girls my age are telling the tales and singing same songs. Back in the village, I had not been exposed to civilization, never seen a tarred road, could not have imagined if there was such thing as electricity, water from the hole of metals were mysteries to me. I was used to our poor thatched houses not too high from the ground, I enjoyed those large company of girls in different age grades singing and conversing on our way to the narrow village stream. The evening tales gave me nostalgic feelings. I enjoyed the large company of girls coming around during the maiden festival to showcase their beauty to win the hearts of the prince at winter. I loved everything my life in the village represented, I could not have wished for a better experience outside my village. However, there was that feeling that something was not just in place, I could not come to term with those tales and songs, every time we were sitting with Goggo Bintu, our moonlight story teller, and the girls sing the songs of being married and bearing children. There was a burning zeal in me to know if there was any other part of the world where women are not just born and married off to groom children whom they pass same tales to. I wanted to know if there were other women who could have a place not in the kitchen, farms and where gossip are told.... “Father, are there other things women can do besides being married off, bearing children and having just a place in the farm and gossiping?” I asked my father, after the moonlight tales. “No other place, Kadijat, Women were only created to get married and have children”. He told me. I asked my mother, if she had seen or heard of any woman who lived another kind of life besides being married off at a tender age, bearing children, going to the farm and doing the gossip. “My niece, who now lives in the white man’s village, Hajara Mai-kano, is the only woman I know, she refused to be married when we were all being given out in marriage to suitors, instead she went with a white woman who used to be our nurse.” Mother said looking so concerned. I was really impressed by my cousins’ own kind of life that I always sat with mother after farm work to help her in the kitchen, so she could tell me more about this Hajara Mai-kano. My quest for what a woman could do with her life without being influenced by the tales and the songs sang in my village had been obtained. From the day mother told me about her niece, Hajara Mai-kano, I carved a place for her in my heart, I longed to see her. Wait a minute, is there something not right about me? Why can’t I just derive satisfaction in those tales and enjoy the melodies from those songs sang in my village…. I know I will meet my mother’s niece, my own cousin someday, I will tell her how I painted the image of her in contrast with the tales and the songs. This is my letter to all the women around the world, to let them know that, I am on a mission to find a world where the women are treated differently. There is a whole new world out there that I want to see and when I find that world, I will make it known to all the women. Our own world, a world where we can make our own choices and sing a new song. CHAPTER ONE “Kadijat, Kadijat!!” that was mother’s voice calling from the kitchen. “What kind of young girl sits with men eeh Kadijat? She said softly. “You are now approaching puberty, the stage you will start attracting suitors, Kadijat will you sit with your husband's brothers and friends while the house chores are not done? There mother goes again. “No mama” I answered reluctantly. Your brothers are boys who soon become men. "They are going to bring women home as wives”. Aha! I exclaimed almost interrupting mother's last words. “Mama, when will goggo Hajara return from the white man’s village? I asked. I saw the look on mothers’ face, I know that look of hers’. "Kadijat, what is your business with Hajara, you don’t even know her, I don’t want you discussing Hajara my niece with me or anybody, now get me mallam’s kwanu so I dish his dinner.” She spoke those words without looking at me. She was so busy concentrating on stirring the mia wake which she was making for our dinner. The search for young maidens who would contest to win the heart of the prince had began. The town crier went from district to district shouting at the top of his voice to convey the Emir’s message to the villagers, to get their young beautiful girls ready for the taron gimboyoyi. This was a very nostalgic moment for all the beautiful young girls in my village, a young maiden could only contest once, after the show of beauty, the prince chooses only one of the maidens while the others returned home. Soon after the contest, maidens whd returned home from the contest had traders, travellers and spectators from Sokoto, Gwamanja, Kano, Zazau, Chad and other towns, who came to see the contest, asked for their hands in marriage. Mothers kept anticipating this ceremonious event. Fathers call their wives secretly to tell them to make their daughters presentable to fit into the contest. The festival of the maiden meant a lot to parents in my village. Seven weeks to the festival, maidens who were just approaching puberty are accompanied by the oldest woman in their districts to the Emirs’ palace, where the oldest woman in my village and the oldest Queen assessed them. Only thirty maidens were selected to go in for the contest. The maidens must all be virgins. From that day, the lucky maidens remain in the palace. They are kept in the queens’ chambers, and even the prince who would choose a wife from these maidens never got to meet them until the day the festival was scheduled to hold at the contest ground. The maidens are fed with plenty of madra gotten fresh from the shanu, and good food and vegetables. We don’t see these maidens at the stream, they were not seen in the midst of the girls who sang songs and tell tales of marriage. The maidens became the topic of the village gossip. We keep our fingers crossed, waiting for the day the prince gets to choose a wife. One beautiful bright morning after the c**k crow and the early morning prayers have been said, we started hearing sounds of melodious rhythm. We all came out of the house, my father’s wives and all the children in my zaure wanted to watch how people travelled to my village on horses and camels of different sizes and colours. Some of these horses and their riders wore beautiful adornment that befit royals and princes. We saw them riding to the palace, all the invited guests. A great day it was in my village, the maidens were all looking radiant and ready to win the prince’s heart. Mairo my best friend had come calling my name from behind mother’s hut and together we sneaked out to the palace to see for ourselves. The event had already started when we got to the palace; we got a place to sit under the Dogo Yaro tree. Although the palace was filled with crowds but we got a place under the tree because we were smart little girls. My father use to tell me that I was too intelligent for my age, sometimes father calls me an old tortoise. I wonder why too. But there was something uniquely special about me he always says. My grandmother calls me a dove bird, my brothers and step brothers did not want me to sustain any injury at the farm, my mother and step mothers always wanted to mat my hair in-turn. My peers sang my name at the moonlight house. Uniqueness or not, they were all preparing my mind for puberty. As soon as I get to that ceremonial age, I would be married off to a man old enough to be my father and bear children- just like in the tales and the songs. I never knew what it meant; I was young, nervous, innocent and easy going. But I wanted to do something different. Before sun set, the contest was over and Hajuju the daughter of the blind woman along the stream won the heart of the prince. Everyone was happy. Hajuju deserved the prince’s jigida. She had brought hope to her poor blind mother. Hajuju was tall, about two years older than me, she was very beautiful and had poise. This made me believe that the tales were right when it tells us that the gods guide the princes’ heart in choosing their brides. By the time I turned thirteen, I was already looking like a full grown woman graced with all the feminine features in the right places. Suitors had already started coming for my hand in marriage. Everything in me had changed but my thoughts of not being just the kind of woman my father pictured every woman to be. I also didn’t want to be the woman in the tales and the songs sang in my village. “Kadijat, you are now a full grown woman, looking so radiantly beautiful.” Iliya my elder brother said. “May Allah bring you a gracious suitor” he said to me. “I am sorry yaya Iliya, I don’t want a suitor now,” I said coldly. “I want another kind of life.” He smiled, and reminded me of the stories and the songs. “Don’t you know it is the joy of every mother to see her female child getting married. Yaya Iliya told me in a more honest expression. “Yaya I don’t want to be like the other girls in this village, please tell me about the girls in Kano I beg of you.” I said with my voice trembling. Yaya Iliya was shocked. He marvelled at my reasoning, he wanted to know why I thought women could live another kind of life. He told me the girls in Kano were also groomed to get married, raise children; some also go to the farm, while others stay home to look after domestic chores. “Who does the gossip? I asked impatiently. “Aha! The gossip, yes, the women still gossip in Kano.” My step brother said smiling. Women are the same all over the world, I imagined. Where else could one find women who are different, where could Hajara mai-kano be, how come she was the only woman in the world who had no lines in the tales and the songs. I must begin to find a way to discover what other ways to live as a woman; I was already about the age girls in my village got married off. The young girls were selected for the taron gimboyoyi. These thoughts tore my innocent heart apart. At thirteen, I and other girls my age no longer go to the moonlight house; we all started doing something new and more matured. Some who were originally not from my village returned to their own kauye. They were now of marriageable age and could return to their parents, some of these girls have been betrothed since birth. They returned to their villages to marry those they were betrothed to. Mairo my childhood friend was one of those girls. Her father died when she was four years old. She came to our village with her elder sister Gogo Nimota, who got married to Mallam Yehuza, our Mallam. O! Mairo, my bosom friend, we went everywhere together. Mairo was like my blood sister, she was the only one who understood the burdens I bore as a young girl. She would always say. “Kadijat, we can’t change the tales and those songs would be sung by many generations to come, I only wish we could be given the chance to choose our own husbands.” She always talked about being given a chance to choose the man she would be married to. I saw the pain in her eyes everytime she remembered she had to return to her village to be married to the man she was betrothed to. That morning, Mairo had come to my house to bid me goodbye, she held my hands so tight, and the words she said to me broke my heart. “Kadijat I would have loved to remain here, I would have loved to stay back and watch you go in for the contest in the taron gimbiyoyi but I have a man I don’t even know, waiting for me. My friend I wish you luck in the contest. And if ever you find what else a woman could do besides what I am going to do in my village, please don’t forget to share it with me. Kadijat, I will never forget all we shared, you were a real friend. "Nagode.” I could not find words to express how much I would be missing my sister, my friend. Mairo left with a piece of me. This is what the society we lived in did to us; we couldn’t even get the chance to be the architect of our own lives. Our lives were planned even before we were born. When Mairo left, my fears became so real. Mother started taking me with her to the market, she started teaching me how to buy and sell. I was now allowed to make dinner without being supervised. Mother could do other house chores while I do the cooking. Whenever it was her turn to do the cooking. I did all my chores cheerfully; I derived great pleasure acting like mother. “You will make a good wife and mother.” Mother said to me one afternoon when she saw our hut was wearing a new look. I was beginning to act a woman, my orientation had changed, but it would have been more interesting if Mairo was still in my village, we could do our chores together. I wonder how she was coping in her village. For me, I went about my chores alone, I went to the stream in company of my step younger sister, Habibat, and she became my friend. Although the other girls who knew me and Mairo as bosom friends, began gossiping. They all had company but I was either in the company of my step sister or I was alone. I did not mind the gossip, it doesn’t even bother me, I hate to gossip about people. But when I am the topic of gossips, it makes me want the right things more. One morning before father left for the farm, Mallam Kashim, came to our house asking after father. “Inakwana Mallam Abu.” Mallam greeted father. Father was fondly called Mallam Abu by everyone, except in our house, we the children called him Baba, and my mother and other wives called him mai gida. Father was sharpening his cutlass, when he heard his name. He turned around to see who it was. “Haba Mallam Kashim, ba kwomai, are you not going to the farm today?" Father asked. They both sat close to baba’s hut. I wondered what the man was doing in our house that early. Their conversation was rather long, but when I looked at baba’s face from the kitchen where I was making breakfast, I saw that he was smiling. I could tell, he was enjoying the conversation. What could this man be telling my father. I shuddered and went back to check what I was cooking. I bended to blow some air to the fire woods, the smoke from the woods choked me; I coughed out, using the edge of my zeni to wipe the tears off my face. I had not even finished doing this, when I heard baba and mallam Kashim exchanging greetings. They were done discussing and he was leaving. “Kadijat get me my food, I am late for farm” I expected father to complain about his being delayed. But he did not talk about that. “Ga ni nan zua baba.” I answered. Quickly, I turned the tuwon shinkafa I was making for breakfast. I hurried up to serve baba “Call me Fatima.” He said to me as soon as I dropped his food on the taibir in front of him. ‘Fatima’ that was the way he called my mother. He also called his other wives by their names. I was not comfortable with this. How come men call their wives by their first name, and the women called their husbands mai gida? Can’t the men at least accord these women some respect? But it has been that way, before I was born, so it will always be that way. I went into mother’s hut to tell her baba was calling her. “Mai gida, you called me.” She sat on the bare floor in front of baba. I could not figure out what they were saying but peeped still from the kitchen which was erected not too far from father’s hut, I saw mother was smiling while baba did the talking. I wonder what he was telling her, but I knew he was telling her of his long talk with mallam Kashim. Later that day, while we were bringing out the corn to dry in the sun, I noticed mother was very excited, she was a very interesting woman and had always hid her pains behind those pretty smiles of her's. Far from that mother was too excited. Curious about her more cheerful mood, I asked her. “Mother, you look so excited today, do you mind sharing with me what is making you so happy?” I said. “My daughter, you can’t imagine how a mother feels when she gets to this stage I am now.” She said smiling. Now I am lost, I could not get a clue of what mother was saying. I went back to my work leaving mother to her mood. She did not explain further, till we were about to sleep that night, Mother came into my hut, I was already in bed, but was not sleeping yet. “Kadijat, I want to talk to you, wake up.” She said. I knew she would share what was making her so excited in the afternoon with me; I just wasn’t sure of what it could be. “Mallam Kashim was here today to see mai gida, and he was here because of you.” Mother said in a low tone. I was shocked, why should the man come to see father because of me. “Mother, what did I do wrong? I asked. “Kadijat, you haven’t done anything wrong. My dear, Mallam Kashim was here to ask that you marry him.” Mother dropped the bombshell. Now I see the reason why mother wore that very excited look in the afternoon. “Mother!" I screamed, and had to bring my voice down when I realized the other wives might be awake. “Mother that man is older than Father, I am only thirteen.” I had not even said the last word, when tears began dropping from my eyes. I wondered if Father gave Mallam Kashim his words, “Mother, what do you think?" I asked my Mother, kneeling in front of her. “Kadijat, this is what every mother anticipates, especially when you have a beautiful daughter, who has found grace in the sight of respected men in the community, daughter, I think you should start considering yourself lucky to have Mallam Kashim ask for your hands in marriage.” I could not believe my ears, Mother concurreds to my marrying an old man? “Mother, is that what you will say?" I could not even find more words to say. I just bursted out in tears and ran out of the compound. "Kadijat! Kadijat!" Mother called as she came after me. I ran out of the compound, but where else could I run to, there was no shoulder out there to cry on. Mairo is far away in her village, perhaps going through same or worse. “Ya Allah, save me, I need you now” I had nowhere to run. I stood at the entrance of our compound crying. Had to run back to my hut, for once my raffia mat could share in my pain. I rolled on my mat; I was too scared to close my eyes. “What if I slept and woke up married to that old man.” I fidgeted on my mat all night, now I feel Mairo’s pain. My poor friend was so scared; she sang the songs and liked the tales, when the songs were sung at the moonlight house and in the company of the other girls on our way to the stream, Mairo sang with enthusiasm. Her only fear was being married off to a man she doesn’t feel any affections for. “Kadijat, may I have a word with you?" Ummi said. Ummi was my father’s last wife, she was married to my father when I was seven, and she was a very beautiful girl. She was so innocent. The first time Ummi was brought into our house, she would cry every morning and I was always by her side to comfort her. She told me then that she didn’t love father, but she had been betrothed to him, and that she could not counter the wish of her parent. Ummi told me then, that she was not even given a chance to contest for the princes’ heart in the maiden festival. It did not take so long before Ummi started coping, she began enjoying fathers’ company, and she would laugh so loud whenever father or the other women did or said something funny. When she had her first child, she changed from the crying and naive girl I used to know to a mother figure. I think there is something about motherhood than what we see from the outside. “My dear kadijat I understand how you feel about what your mother told you last night, I saw your reaction. It’s okay for you to tell mai-gida that you don’t want to be married to Mallam Kashim. You could come up with the excuse that you would like to contest in the taron gimboyoyi, if they agree to your request, the old man would not wait, and his youngest wife Sofia just died at child birth leaving behind a child that needs a mother figure to nurture him. He needs a wife desperately, that way you won’t be married to him. Go sweetheart try the trick.” Ummi told me. She truly understands. She was right. I could pretend to be interested in the contest after all it was just a game and I can’t win in the contest, because I won’t put in my best. A good idea, thanks to Ummi. I went to Mothers’ hut to tell her first. “Mother, I am sorry, I don’t want to marry Mallam Kashim. I will like to contest for the prince’s heart in the next taron gimboyoyi. Mother please talk to father, I want to make you proud, please mother.” I wore that look that was able to convince mother. She was pleased with my decision and confidence. After all she was not an exception of those women in my village with the dreams of being the famous emirs’ in-law. “Kadijat, your mother told me of your intention to participate in the next taron gimboyoyi. I am granting your request; I will tell Mallam Kashim to wait. The story continues and more exciting ones to be. To be continued. By Bolaji Ajayi