To Marry a Tumbuka

To marry a Tumbuka

By Lawrence Kadzitche

The water in the pot was now warm. Mdatha took off the lid, poured some maize flour into the water and kept stirring until it was properly mixed and was about to bubble. She put the lid back and as she waited for the porridge to boil, she turned on the small radio atop the kitchen table. To her delight, they were playing Khalani mwa Ine, her favourite gospel song by Mike T.

“Yesu wamkuti, muli wane na wane, mwe wakusoreka, mwamnjira kuchanya khalani mwa ine,” Mdatha hummed along while watching the multi-coloured birds frolicking in the shrubs outside. The sky was a lovely cobalt and the air blowing in through the open kitchen window not only cooled her but also brought in a lovely scent of flowers.

She was about to pour maize flour into the boiling porridge in the final preparation of nsima when the electricity went out. Silence pervaded the kitchen as the radio fell silent. The cooker plates went cool.

“Temwa!” irritated, she called her sister-in-law. “Is it another blackout?”

“No, I can hear a radio playing at Chrissie’s house,” Temwa replied. “Let me check the main switch or pre-paid meter.”

Mdatha continued to sing the song as she impatiently waited. Temwa re-appeared. “It’s the prepaid units. They’re finished. Wamala.”

“It can’t be,” Mdatha protested. “There were enough units yesterday.”

Temwa lowered her voice. “Auntie still uses the geyser even though you said it should not be used.”

Mdatha took a deep breath. “Ok. Light the charcoal burner.”

The girl’s face appeared miserable. “Uncle used the charcoal last evening to roast some meat when he was drinking beer.”

“Jesus!” Mdatha exclaimed with exasperation.

“Mudata, mkamwana wane,” came her mother-in-law’s voice from the sitting room. She always mispronounced her name. “Prepare the nsima quickly; njala yanikoma chomene.”

“Ine ni njala pera yaye, but I need to eat something to drive away my hangover-nichimbizge babalaza,” a coarse voice echoed. It was Mzomera, her husband’s order brother.

At that moment, she heard a drunken voice followed by a deep laugh outside the house. “Odini. Odini. Tafika ise analume kuzawona tawuni. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

It was a voice and laugh she could recognize anywhere. It belonged to her husband’s uncle. A month rarely passed without him visiting and it appeared he was always drunk. Another mouth to feed and yet she had nothing with which to cook their food. Something snapped in her brain.  

She took her cellphone and texted her husband in capital letters: DUMBANI, COME TO THE KITCHEN. NOW! NOW! The message was accompanied by an angry face emoji. Dumbani appeared in the kitchen from the sitting room without any delay. She beckoned him to follow her into the bedroom.

“The electricity units are finished,” she said flatly, arms akimbo. “I need some money to buy some more.”

“Didn’t I top up the units just last week?” Dumbani wanted to know, sitting on the bed. “And you know I don’t have any money.”

“Ankhazi wako refuses not to use the geyser. Your mother always uses the heater when it is cold. And then to iron clothes for ten people…”

“Ok, I understand,” Dumbani interrupted her. “Then use the charcoal.”

“Your elder brother used it to roast his kanyenya when he was boozing yesterday.”

Dumbani fell silent.

Mdatha continued, “I told you we’re keeping more people than we can afford. And just now we’ve received another visitor. You’ve to send him back.”

“You know I can’t do that; iwo mbasibweni wane!”

“Ukumanya ningawachimbizga yayi; ni mbasibweni wane!” she flared. “Who is to come next, Multiparty? Muvyala wa muvyala wa muvyala wako?”

Multiparty was Dumbani’s second given name. She never liked the name and Dumbani knew that when she called him that appellation it meant she was very angry. She always joked that Tumbukas loved giving their children weird names of what was trending. Dumbani had got the name Multiparty because he was born in the year when the country had attained multiparty democracy.

And as if to prove this, she could overhear Dumbani’s uncle in the sitting room updating his mother on how things were in the village. “Nyagondwe ali na wana amaphasa. Nawapa mazina yakuti Covid19 na mnyakhe Corona,” he was saying proudly. Covid-19 caused by corona virus was the pandemic currently raging wordwide.

Mdatha almost laughed. Why were Tumbukas very fond of giving their children unconventional colourful names? At Bwengu, there was a gentleman called Teargas Lungu. They once had a neighbor called Copland Msowoya, the name obviously gleaned from the 1997 Sylvester Stallone movie Cop Land. They could even pick the first and surname of an individual as the first name of their child like Joe-Dawe Ngwira, named after the popular defunct Radio SA personality, Joe Dawe. With the massive demonstrations that had happened the previous year, she knew names like Demonstration Kayira were in the offing.

 “It’s not like that,” Dumbani  broke into her thoughts. “Wanthu awa mbachibale wane. It’s a good thing that they come to visit us.”

Mdatha shook her head. “I’m not saying your relatives should not visit us. But what I’m against is the way they do it.”

“You know nkhubachemanga yaye…”

She cut him with a wave of her hand. “Nkhumanya. But they come from your village. They know how many people from the village are already here. Bakumanya umo wanthu walili alinga kale kuno kufuma kukaya.”

Mdatha and Dumbani had married a year and half ago. Mdatha came from the Chewa tribe while Dumbani came from the Tumbuka tribe. They loved each other deeply. Brought up in town, they had not considered differences in customs and traditions as a problem. Until-

-Dumbani’s mother arrived. She made it clear the very same day she arrived that she was in charge of the house.

To Dumbani’s mother, the food that Mdatha cooked was not good enough for her husband, oops her son, and would more often than not bellow: Ukuti chakulya ichi ncha mwana wane?  Or it would be about the kitchen not being properly cleaned: Nkhwambula kunozga ku kitcheni. If she wanted to sit in the sitting room to chat with her son as he called Mdatha’s husband, and found Mdatha there it would be: Ukuchita vichi kumalo yakuchezyera kuno mmalo moti ukasangike kumalo yakuphikira uko?

When Dumbani arrived from work, her mother wanted to be alone with him in the sitting room chatting and watching TV. She was his mother, she could bear that. After all, she was not there to stay.  But that’s where she made a big mistake.

Six months down the line, she was still in the house, ordering her about as if she was her house maid and treating Dumbani as if she was still a kid.

And then Mzomera, his elder brother arrived. He seemed to have no other interests in life apart from loafing and drinking beer. He treated Dumbani as if he was a teenager. He would take him out drinking using Dumbani’s money without minding Mdatha’s presence.

Mzomera was still there when Dumbani’s three cousins arrived to look for jobs. A month later, his two nieces arrived. His mother proudly announced wana wamkulu  wane wazamsambira kuno kutauni uko kuli masukulu yawemi.

Mdatha was horrified. They lived in a two bed roomed house. Dumbani’s mother and his nieces had already displaced his two younger brothers in the spare bedroom. Now they were sleeping in the sitting room with Mzomera, his drunkard older brother. The cousins slept in the kitchen.

Well, they could sleep wherever they wanted but where would they get beds and beddings? And this meant more mouths to feed. However, she knew the folly of tackling one husband’s relatives. So she gave in.

But the coming of Dumbani’s uncle when they had no money was the last straw. Tafika ise analume kuzawona tauni, she recalled his words on arrival. Couldn’t he wait for the others to leave before coming to see the town?

“You must send him back,” Mdatha said seriously, returning to the matter at hand.

“Come on, Mdatha, wona Mdatha, amama anighanighanirenge vichi ine?”

“She’ll have to understand. This is just a small house but you’ve your mother, elder brother, two young brothers, two nieces, three cousins and now an uncle. It’s simply not on. And nchimwamowa, a drunkard!”

“Mdatha, enya nkhumanya nchilowera kweni he’s the one who paid my school fees up to college when my father died. And you know he’s a nice gentleman…”

They could hear the voice of the man they were talking about commenting on the movie he was watching at the top of his voice as if he was a football commentator. It was his habit to throw in a comment whenever he was watching a movie, “Mtimbe wangakunjiranga yaye!”  The man got on Mdatha’s nerves.

“Let’s face it, Dumbani. I understood about you keeping your two young brothers when we got married because you wanted them to finish school. But your mother, she has been here for six months, doing what? She is not sick…”

“Mdatha, ukumanya nimama wane…”

 “And then you’ve brought in your nieces. At any point there are one or two visitors from the village here. It’s impossible!”

“Mdatha…”

She cut him with a wave of her hand. “And sometimes it’s as if everyone from the North is your relative. You meet a certain Nyirenda and then you go like nyirenda wake mbuni and it ends up that the nyirendas are related to the msowoyas and the msowoyas are related to nyasulus and the nyasulus are related to gondwes and the gondwes are related to us mkandawires and therefore the damn dude is our relative!”

Dumbani shook his head. “And that’s the beauty of being a tumbuka, we take care of our extended relations. What’s wrong with helping each other? Extended families are good because they ensure that the disadvantaged are assisted. So you want that it should just be you and me?”

“Nkhung’anamula nthena yayi but we can’t keep all these people in this house…”

Dumbani took a deep breath. “I understand what you are saying. But these are my relatives. I can’t turn them back.”

“You’ve to make them understand there are a maximum number of visitors we can entertain at one point,” Mdatha explained. “That’s all I’m asking of you. Naweya.”

A smile spread on Dumbani’s face. “There is nothing to worry about. Come with me.”

She followed him to the sitting room. “Walala, walala, vikuwoneka nge tili na suzgo,” he announced. “Ma unisi yamagesi yatimalira.”

Dumbani’s uncle picked up a bottle of beer, removed the bottle top with his teeth and spat it out. He took a long pull, belched with satisfaction and bawled out his trade mark laugh. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Iyo ni nkhani yaye,” he dipped into the pocket of his jacket and fished out a wad of banknotes. “Here’s some money.”

“No problem, nilutenge ine namugula ma unisi,” volunteered Dumbani’s older brother jumping up.

“Mwana wane, wangulekerachi kuyowoya luwiro?” Dumbani’s mother asked Mdatha with a smile. “Vyakuti usuzgikenge pano ise tilipo cha!” 

Mdatha was amazed. Talk about family ties; these were the best she had ever seen! How lucky she was to marry a Tumbuka!

End