I, woman

Ihuoma isn’t sure what she’s doing here with all these women who have something to lose, something to fight for. She feels like a fraud, but still she offers the same sentiments when the woman leader speaks of the atrocities that women all over are facing in the hands of the warrant chiefs.

If she’s being honest, she doesn’t really mind getting counted to pay the tax; she doesn’t have much, has never had much. Even when she married her husband, it wasn’t out of love, neither was it out of a burning desire to have wealth.

If it was for wealth, she would have married any of the other men who came to ask for her hand in marriage. It’s true that her parents are disappointed by her choice of man, but it has always been her desire to live her life as lowly as it can get. Too much wealth means that family members will come calling in to ask for favours, to ask how she is doing, to ask about her husband, and maybe a lot of them will pay attention to the fact that she hasn’t had a child after so many years of marriage.

People still care about it, but Ihuoma reasons that it would be worse if she had married an even richer man. She can count her fortune on one hand: three goats, all of whom like her have no children of their own. It makes her think that it’s the house she married into that has the fault and not her. The hens she has disprove the theory by laying as much eggs as they can. Sometimes, it feels like they are looking down on her. The hens that is.

They never cower in fear when she tries to scare them away from pecking on the corn she dries in the middle of the compound. They, like all the women in the village, think she’s less than because she doesn’t have a child.

“Umunne kwenu,” someone thunders, and Ihuoma is pulled out of her head fast enough for her to join the chorus of, “yah!”

The woman standing before them is Adanne. Everyone knows her; she is one of those people who don’t take things sitting down regardless of who you are. She has a mind and she makes sure that everyone knows she has one. If it gets physical while she’s making that fact known, she’d rather get killed than back down from the fight.

From what Ihuoma has gathered, she is the one who was tried, the one who the messenger of the warrant chief made the very mistake of angering.

Everyone knows you don’t anger Adanne and get away with it.

No one knows exactly what happened. Ihuoma is glad she’s present today to hear the story from the horse’s mouth because the rumors flying around has been scaring and impressing her.

“You all know me,” Adanne says, “I don’t like to be insulted.”

A chorus of agreement rings around the open space. Night has settled above them, the shinning moon is the only source of light in the open space. If they are to light a fire, the men will know where they are. None of them wants that.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” Adanne says, and everyone goes quiet to listen to her. Ihuoma doesn’t know if it’s because Adanne has told so many tales growing up to get out of whatever trouble she roped herself into, or if she was just born with the talent. Whichever one it is, Adanne is a fantastic storyteller.

“I was in my house squeezing palm oil. You know how hard it is to obtain palm kernels these days. These men keep trying to cut people’s heads as if it’s not for them their wives come to buy these palm oils. As if it’s not the palm oil that keep their wives in business.”

Another chorus of shouts erupts in support of her words. Ihuoma joins in this time even though she sells the meat her husband hunts. She likes situations like this when she gets to sit around with the women and they don’t see her as someone with less.

“Ikenga shows up saying the warrant chief sent him,” Adanne carries on with her story. Then she shakes her head, “mba, what he said was, ‘I’m sure you know what is going on. Go in and count all your animals.’”

As she says this, Adanne raises her shoulders to show how pompous Ikenga was as he asked her to count her livestock. This enrages the women further. They lift their voices higher and Adanne keeps talking, and even though Ihuoma can’t hear her, she knows it has nothing to do with the tale she’s sharing.

The women leader manages to calm everyone down and asks Adanne to continue her tale.

“So, what will I do? Why am I being expected to pay taxes? When did that one start? How will you come into my house and tell me what to do? Did anybody build house for me? Did anybody buy goat for me?”

As she asks her questions, the chorus of nos grows stronger. Adanne lifts her voice, and the women try to match her.

“I asked Ikenga, ‘did they count your mother?’ and Ikenga decides to attack me.”

“Abomination,” someone from the crowd yells louder than the affronted noises filling the air. Many women are on their feet, yelling at each other, but not in an against manner. Some are stomping their feet, and Ihuoma wants to laugh and smile stupidly because this is all very exciting to her, but she keeps her cool.

“He grabbed my neck,” Adanne says, and beats her chest, “does he not know who I am? Do they tell a deaf man that it’s time for war?”

“Mba,” the women chorus and Ihuoma joins them in standing. She joins the outrage, and now, she doesn’t even want to pay the tax.

“Mu bu Adanne,” she says and beats her chest again, “I showed him why I’m not his mate. I met him where he was.”

There’s clapping now; the women are getting louder. Ihuoma wishes in her next life to be as brave as Adanne. If she was the one, she’s certain she’d have gone to count her goat, even counted the tax money to give to Ikenga. But Adanne is braver than any of them.

“Umu nwanyi,” their leader says when she manages to calm them down. “We have all heard from our sister, the wickedness that has been shown to her for standing up for herself. It can be any of us tomorrow. How will we, the women, be asked to pay taxes? And for what? For a community we’re responsible for? Do people now ask their mothers to pay for giving them life? Do people no longer have respect for their mothers?”

The women cheer even louder.

“Look at what we’ll do,” she says, “since the warrant chief will not listen to us, we won’t rest until our demands are met. Tomorrow, we’ll go and sit on his head. Nobody is moving until all our wishes are met.”

“He must resign,” someone yells from the crowd, and everyone agrees with them.

“We must collect his cap,” the leader continues. “We are the backbone of this community and it will never be heard of that we allowed ourselves to be humiliated like this.”
Ihuoma nods in agreement.

“Something has to be done,” she says loudly and everyone choruses their agreement. Ihuoma feels giddy

“Tomorrow,” the woman says, “we’ll start spreading the news of out protest to other communities. When the time is right, we’ll send the information across with the use of palm fronds. But until then, we should calm down. Two moons from today, we’ll go to protest.”

When she sees the palm frond in her basket, Ihuoma isn’t sure how to react. She already knows that will be the signal, the greenlight for every woman to know that it is time to take action. It is time to go give the warrant chief a sip of his own medicine.

There’s still meat on her table, but Ihuoma packs it all up. Her heart is hammering really loud now, and her hands tremble slightly.

It’s not the palm frond per se that gives her the jitters, it’s the fact that the women dropped it off for her. Her Ihuoma who have no child of her own, her Ihuoma who doesn’t have much wealth to boast of.

It seems like the women have finally taken her as one of their own and she isn’t going to disappoint them. That’s why she’s leaving early.

When she gets home, she’ll clean the house, prepare a meal for her husband. He might not be the man she loves, not that she has anyone who makes her feel that emotion, but he’s the husband she has. And she will take care of her husband because it’s a womanly thing to do.

If she can’t give a child, she’ll take care of a husband, she’ll join the other women with children to fight for a cause. Somehow, anyhow, that should be enough for a god to look down on her and grant her a child.

Ihuoma walks home with her eyes fixed on the ground. She refuses greetings, refuses eyes contact, questions about her husband, her mother, her health. There are better things to do than gossip.

Tomorrow, she’s going to stand as a woman, and she’s going to refuse to pay her taxes.

The march is silent.

Nothing like Ihuoma imagined. She thought there would be a lot of noise as they made their way to the house of the warrant chief, she assumed they would cry out in loud voices, make accusations along the way, let people feel their wrath, their anger.

Instead, their leader lets them know that it will be as peaceful as possible. They’ll march to the warrant chief’s house which also doubles as his office. And there, they’ll let out all the noise they can make.

“It is in his front door that he’ll meet us,” she had said. “If he hears us coming, he might run away. Better for us to get there and announce our presence, than to start on the road and lose our aim.”

Everyone comes out of their houses as they walk by.

Ihuoma raises her shoulders, hoping that everyone sees her amongst these women, that everyone knows that even if she has no child, these women have accepted her into their fold, have taken her along on a journey that signifies her stand as woman.

A lot of people have called her a tree that bears no fruit, a man since she has no idea how to make use of the womb she has. What then makes a woman who is unable to bear a child? She’s going to have one, Ihuoma decides as the house of the warrant chief comes into view.

When she has a child, she’ll make friends with Adanne, and her child will play with Adanne’s.
They’ll be best of friends, and everyone in the village will take her seriously, will refrain from asking her annoying questions because not only does she have a child, she marched with the other women, and still managed to be friends with Adanne.

Nothing says excellent woman like that.
Not to mention, her meat business is doing fantastically well.

In front of the warrant chief’s house, they sit in rows. Every woman, without being reminded, takes a seat behind the woman in front of her.

Corrections are made here and there, but in the end, the sitting arrangement is achieved.
Ihuoma can’t believe that these women, who are loud and quick to act, can behave in such orderly manner. It makes her want to try harder, want to not stand out in a way that make the other women shake their heads at her.

The only woman standing is the leader. Ihuoma realizes now that she doesn’t know her name. In fact, she doesn’t know what nearly all these women are called. It is just Adanne and her clique that holds her attention. What she will give to be a part of them?

Afterall, it is from eavesdropping into their conversation that she heard about the meetings that finally landed her here.

“Umu nwanyi,” the leader begins. “I’m happy that we’re all here today, that we decided to stand in unity.”

There’s a crowd behind them, mostly children of the women who are now sitting on the floor. Some of the children weave their way into the crowd to sit beside their mothers.
Most mothers chase their kids away, elder siblings pulling resisting younger siblings out of the way.

Ihuoma decides that having two children is better, and that is what she’s going to do. She’s going to give birth to two children so they won’t be lonely.

The speech is concluded, and Ihuoma hates that she didn’t hear any of it, too focused on the children around her. It doesn’t matter because something is going to give at the end of the day, and when they reconvene, someone is going to mention the speech, give a reenactment of it before flattering the woman leader to no ends.

She’ll hear about it then. For now, they sit and wait.

Ihuoma hears it before she sees who’s brandishing the gun. A shot to the air followed by loud screams. The women are standing, some running away, others looking around for their children.
She has no child of her own, so she looks for the woman she holds dear to her heart, the woman she’s going to be friends with when this is all over. She needs to find Adanne and drag her out of her before something happens to her.

Then she sees Adanne charging towards the guard with the gun. She tackles the unsuspecting man to the ground, throws one punch and then another. When she stands up, the gun is in her hand.

Adanne turns to the rest of them, now scattered, now watching from wherever they’re standing. Her hand is in the air, the gun in it. A triumphant smile sits on her face, and then Ihuoma starts to smile because the woman with the gun in her hand is a force of nature and she’s pleased that nothing has happened.

All that pleasantness last only a second.

A second shot rings in the air. Adanne jerks forward and blinks rapidly. The smile wipes from her face and her hand lowers ever so slowly. Another shot, and a gasp escape. Blood splutters from her mouth.

The air is silent, charged.

Then Adanne crumbles to the ground, gun still in hand.

Ihuoma hears a curling scream; she can’t tell if it’s from her. Her legs move before she can stop them, she runs towards the fallen woman, grabs the gun where it’s on the floor, Adanne’s hand still curled around.

She’s nothing if not a hunter’s wife. She takes her aim; the bullet leaves the gun and her target drops to the ground.

The women yell around her. It’s not one of horror. They charge pass her, towards the guards.

It begins.