Maria demands her share

You want to hear my story? It is long. I hope you have time to hear it all. Some of it takes place in Rwanda. That is the happy part. I wish I could forget the part that happens in the Congo, it is the worst. From Congo I came back to Bufumbira where I have faced only quarrels and conflicts ever since.
Maria’s voice is soft but firm. She is looking at me rather suspiciously. She is obviously not convinced that anyone would be interested in her story.

“Feel free Maria, You can tell me your story. I have the time to listen”.

We are sitting outside in the garden. The garden and the surroundings are quiet except for the occasional two or three bare-footed women who shuffle past talking loudly. The foot-path that runs along the garden is not a thoroughfare; it is narrow and only leads to some few homesteads a little further up the hill. Only muffled sounds of the few vehicles in the town can be heard from the distance.

“My childhood was very ordinary except that I grew up partly in Bufumbria and partly in Rwanda. Maama was a Congolese, but before she met my father she was married in Rwanda where she produced two children with her Rwandan husband; a girl followed by a boy. She told me that her first husband was not a bad man but later misunderstandings developed in their marriage.

“Are you a married woman, madam?” “Yes”, I answered, “I am”. “Then you know that problems come to every marriage, even to the best”. Maama decided to leave her husband and follow her brother who was at the time working at Mutolere Parish here in Kisoro as a teacher. She arrived here with her son still very young strapped to her back. She found her brother living at the mission, it was here that my father met her. My mother was still young and beautiful and my father fell in love with her. The Priest wedded them soon after .My parents had three children—a boy, a girl, then myself .The boy is the oldest, I am the youngest of Maama’s children with my father.

“The happiness in Maama’s and Daata’s marriage did not last long. You see, my father was a womanizer, He loved many women. He brought some of them home and kept others in rented rooms .After only a short while he would chase away one and bring another. Other times the woman themselves would leave when they realized that the man himself was not serious. Fortunately for Maama, all the woman left before they bore any children. At least Maama was saved the burden of raising other women’s children

Whenever she complained about his behavior, my father would beat her. He was not only a womanizer, he was a wife-beater as well. Maama was not happy.”

Maria stops and coughs a dry sharp cough. She digs for a handkerchief in the right pocket of her dress, and puts the handkerchief to her mouth as she coughs. Her hands look soft and beautiful. The tapering fingers end in nails kept short and clean. She notices me looking at her hands. She looks down at them also and smiles. Her teeth are white and even.

“I do not work in the garden anymore because of my sickness. Even as a young girl, I did not do much fieldwork. When others went to work in the gardens, I did light work at home like cooking and cleaning. I don’t know what would have happened had I married a peasant. Hard work, like digging, makes my head ache. I was very lucky to marry an educated man who did not require me to work in the gardens. My husband was employed and we had money to buy food and hire labourers to work in the gardens

………………………………… To be continued…………...... .

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