Khira

Loveless marriage. It's an attempt to display just how impossible it is to have such a conversation of unrequited love in the context of African cultures. As Khira, impose a western approach of solving a matter amicably in a Tswana court where not only do men sneer at him, they find him deplorable.

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The court, referred to as kgotla in Tswana, was a place of final word. Where the chief and his councilmen solved the village matters — trivial matters as to whose son, stole whose livestock and unjustly at the whims of esoteric beliefs, which witch was caught naked on whose backyard, and on fairer occasions, to pray for rain or to brazen out big matters such as how and when, should bogwera commence and which mountain was best suited to dispense such a sacred ritual of grooming boys into men.

And of course, ‘Discretion is absolute,’ as the chief oftentimes said. But occasionally, the kgotla had ‘gossip-like matters that spread the village like a wildfire,’ as oftentimes complained one councilman of the kgotla, whom whenever he said a word, everybody would pay less attention to his word and more to how he blinked fast between words. Everybody dubbed him Panyi which is short for panyapanya (digital watch) and that was without a doubt, a long day for Panyi at the novelty of a woman entering the kgotla.

‘Pula! (Rain),’ greeted Panyi and everybody yelled: ‘ayene! (Let it rain),’ to greet back. ‘Gentlemen! Need I remind you that this kgotla is reserved for men and men only? No other way. The only things allowed within this barricading wall of boulders is us the councilmen along with our chief and a word. Nothing more and certainly, NO WOMAN!’ A clamour erupted to protest against the presence of a woman.

But Panyi exaggerated. Even on the wall of the kgotla. It was made of rocks, not boulders. And it was indeed rare to find a woman inside the kgotla, so rare that a misconstrued tradition came and created a belief that it was a taboo for one to enter. But a woman was welcome; a woman is an important figure in a Tswana culture for even a chief cannot be crowned without the presence of his rakgadi (aunt).

‘Gentlemen! Calm down! In here, everybody is allowed,’ said the chief calmly.

‘This woman here, is Mrs Mafora.’

‘Mrs Mafora?’ asked one councilman.

‘Yes. Don’t you men know her? She’s the wife of our very own Mr Mafora here of the council.’ Everybody looked at Mr Mafora, wondering why he brought his wife for questioning. The chief continued:

‘Mr Mafora requested for his wife to be present.’

The chief gestured in the accused: Serame, then two witnesses and Mrs Mafora herself to enter the kgotla, and asserted fiercely: ‘Gentlemen! Before we get carried away. Last time I checked, it was me who decide what goes.’

One councilman dared to say his mind:

‘My chief! The carrier of the blue sheathed Dakar that glisten with rain,’ he said his praise, ‘I don’t mean to defy you but it seems this matter is personal.’

‘Exactly what I’m thinking!’ said Panyi.

‘Gentlemen! If Mr Mafora brought the matter to us, then he need it resolved. That’s it,’ said the chief sternly, sitting before all of them on an arm chair that stood incongruously eminent and embellished with a skin of an indefinable animal. ‘No such a thing as a small problem if it denies one of our own a sleep at night.’

The councilmen thought it through momentarily, and looked at each other indecisively before they silently nodded to reciprocate on the proceeding of the kgotla. Before a chief could commence the proceeding, a man stood at the entrance and yelled his praise in English: ‘My chief! The carrier of the blue sheathed Dakar that glisten with rain.’

‘What’s your business here?’ asked the chief rudely.

‘Please my chief! I have a word or two.’

It was Khira! ‘The annoying poet,’ said one councilman, his neighbour.

‘You may enter,’ said the chief. But offended that Khira requested his sitting in English as everybody else whispered their disapproval to which the chief retorted:

‘I won’t be repeating myself as to whose final word goes in this Kgotla…Mr Mafora!’

‘Yes my chief?’

‘Over to you…as to what do you seek justice?’

‘My chief! The carrier of the blue sheathed Dakar that glisten with rain,’ began Mr Mafora, ‘gentlemen! I come before you all with a heavy heart. My wife here have sought to betray me and did so heartlessly with this treacherous scum before us.’

A hubbub broke out.

‘SCANDALOUS!’

‘ORDER! ORDER!’ the chief demanded and Mr Mafora continued indignantly:

‘Each day I’m here in this kgotla, solving the matters of the village. This man was bedding my wife.’ A hubbub of disapproval broke out again. ‘Yes! Though the intention is not to humiliate her, but if I do, it won’t be as much as she has humiliated me and as one among you – one with you, I am asking that you help purge the evil out of my house,’ he said and pointed a finger at Serame the man who allegedly bedded his wife, as he Mr Mafora yelled with a killer face: ‘BAN THIS MAN FROM THE VILLAGE!’ The councilmen exclaimed their disapproval of Serame’s treachery except for Panyi, he said nothing; he was not interested in this court matter.

‘Calm down everyone!’ said the chief, triggered. ‘I am sorry to hear that Mr Mafora,’ he said sympathetically and looked at the first witness. ‘I believe you are a shepherd?’

‘Yes my chief! I shepherd for many men here on the council.’ Khira looked at him suspiciously, and looked at the chief with protruded eyes and mouth to protest that the witness couldn’t be trusted but the chief ignored him.

‘Do you corroborate to the accusation?’

‘Yes indeed. I have many a time, during the day…saw this man getting in…and sometimes getting out of Mr Mafora’s house when I’m shepherding the cows to the dam.’

‘What about you?’ asked the chief to the second witness, ‘who are you?’

‘Mr Phala…Mr Mafora’s neighbour.’

‘And?’

‘I too have seen this man enter Mr Mafora’s house… .’ One councilman whistled and shook his head to herald the trouble Serame faced as the chief said fiercely to Serame the accused: ‘You with the guitar. Introduce yourself to the kgotla and tell us your side of the story.’

‘My Chief! The carrier of the blue sheathed Dakar that glisten with rain. My name is Serame Seitlhamo – the son of the bakwena who crawl with the crocodiles as one blood —’ the chief interrupted his clan praise, that Serame shouldn’t waste their time. ‘I’m sorry my chief, I’m not a man of many words nor I’m I a man of many faults but on this matter, I have indeed wronged Mr Mafora for I not only bedded his wife, but endeared her with love.’

The hubbub of disapproval broke out. Mrs Mafora hastily buried her face down and hid herself with her long head-scarf that rested loose on her shoulder, as the councilmen slowly shook their heads and glared at her as though to exorcize adultery out of her.

Serame was quick to admit fault because he hoped for a pardon on his honest plea. But the setting of which the kgotla was; was in a biased manner that prosecuted the accused before the proceeding was underway, for the accused had to sit alone, before a pliable and gullible group of councilmen (the jury) and beside the accused is a whip of which should the verdict determine, the accused get whipped, and nothing excited the councilmen than seeing a menace being whipped. As then:

‘He must be whipped!’

‘Yes indeed! He must be whipped!’

‘EVERYBODY CALM DOWN!’ said the chief and looked at

Serame. ‘You with the guitar! Help me understand.’

‘Yes my chief!’ Shaking, in fear of being fined or banned.

‘You admitting fault?’ Serame nodded. The councilmen shook their heads in disapproval and the chief looked at Khira. ‘You! Whoever you are, what word were you going to say when the man have admitted —’

One portly man of the council interrupted the chief calmly as though to suggest something civil: ‘Nna kene kere monna ona a kgwathe. (I was thinking that this man be whipped.)’

‘No! No…no…my chief,’ began Khira in English, ‘whether or not the man is at fault according to the principle of this kgotla, does not mean he’s at fault according to what his heart or hers says or even the constitution of South Africa —’

‘This is our village! Not South Africa,’ interrupted Panyi impatiently and everybody was stunned at his erroneous assertion. Khira continued:

‘As I was saying, this is the matter of the hearts of which no one does anyone harm if their heart, unite with a willing heart of another,’ said Khira and looked at Mr Mafora. ‘No offence to you sir!’

‘What’s your name? And what’s your relation with the accused?’ asked the

Chief.

‘Khira my chief! No relation but as a concerned denizen of this humble beauty, if I’m to make a dwelling here for years to come, I need to do so knowing that I can love whoever I want, as have these two.’ He said, or rather lied in English. He loved Serame’s beautiful sister whom promised should he Khira help Serame, she should return to Johannesburg with him and marry him.

‘Khira,’ began the chief. ‘You know what I hate more than guitars and filthy fingers that covet to other men’s wives? A mockery of a man and that’s a Tswana man who speak English among Tswana men. You are a grown man, act like it and realise this is not England!’

Everybody laughed except for Panyi, as if he had finally learnt that his assertion earlier on was folly but he was annoyed. Amid the cheer of the mockery, was a laugh so loud and distinctively recognisable – it belonged to Khira’s neighbour who hated him for that ever since he came to the village, he taught his children liberal ideas. They began to question everything, everything really! Including his authoritarian style of parenting. As for other councilmen, they considered Khira a worthless fool for he wasn’t married nor owned cows or anything of value in their uncultured eyes but he was Khira. The man with the outright erudition of the spoken word — Tiragalo Moletsane by real name. His grandmother had tried to dub it Tira but due to ageing and lack of teeth, she could only say Khira. From thereon, everybody mocked him Khira but on the sentimental wane of his youth, he began to love the name and thought it was perfect for a stage name; a poet — a theatrical lecturer and an actor from Johannesburg.

***

It was almost sunset and the sun was fading with the searing fate of Serame — fear was present and Serame’s face wore it all. He didn’t want to be fined nor banned. The village was everything to him. He also couldn’t leave his sister who won the heart of Khira but Serame didn’t know of their relationship nor did he know who Khira was, or understand why a stranger tried so hard and vehemently, to convince the chief and the councilmen that a man who admitted fault, was not at fault.

‘Gentlemen! Can we please conclude this matter with delicacy?!’ suggested the chief, breaking a brawled argument.

But Mr Mafora was heated as he disregarded the chief’s request and yelled in English that he was fed up of Khira for his stupidity. ‘HE’S DOM THIS ONE!’

‘That’s right! I’m the idiot yet you left your wife to a musician.’

The chief was now triggered.

‘SHUT UP!’

‘IT’S A LOVELESS MARRIAGE!’ Khira reiterated angrily.

‘I SAID SHUT UP!’

The chief was ready to whip everybody on sight, but that’s not how the kgotla worked. He was only a mediator and whipped only if the verdict determined so. He calmed himself and warned Khira on his English: ‘For the last time, this is not England.’

Khira apologised in his broken Tswana. He was everything but not pretentious. He grew up in a white neighbourhood where his domestic workers of parents, met. And they allowed the white employers to practically raise him as their own. And going from one fancy boarding school to another as a little boy, Khira was disconnected from his culture and hardly spoke Tswana.

The chief ignored his apology, frowned and pointed a finger at him to warn.

He turned to Mrs Mafora.

‘You have been quiet all day, do you care to say anything?’

She was more embroiled in anger than shame nor sadness.

‘I won’t be saying anything my chief,’ she said conclusively.

‘I can assure you. In this kgotla, discretion is absolute.’

‘With all due respect, I don’t wish to become the talk of the village, my private business is mine and if my husband wish to publicise it, he can on his own. I won’t partake.’

Mr Mafora’s face shrank with shame. Everybody looked at him with disapproval; needless to mention that the councilmen were pliable towards any opinion – specious or honourable, stupid or honourable. They agreed with anyone!

But not so much with Khira for he spoke in English.

‘If Mr Mafora fail to handle his domestic affairs, how do we trust that he can handle the delicate problems of the villagers?’ asked the portly man of the council.

The chief scowled: ‘STOP IT! We wasting time and I want to put this matter at

rest.’

‘My chief, the carrier of the blue sheathed Dakar that glisten with rain,’ Khira said in Tswana and he took forever to finish his closing statement. His Tswana was indeed the debris of all language. ‘I would like to apologise for everything, I didn’t mean to disrespect this kgotla. I myself, I’m Tswana and I love our culture and my chief, you might have the ability to do so and purge a loving heart, but that will only show within the eyes of the people: an unjust chieftaincy.’

‘What’s your point?’ asked the chief curiously.

‘This is worse than gossip,’ said Panyi abruptly.

‘Panyi SHUT UP!’

Khira continued: ‘I believe power is mercy. I’m saying that in this matter; no one is at fault. Earlier on you interrupted the accused speaking and it’s to my understanding that it is against the principle of this kgotla for everybody in here, have the right to speak.’

‘What are you hoping to achieve?’

‘That no one is perfect. I’m asking you to forgive this man. Do not ban nor fine him and allow Mr Mafora to deal with his domestic affairs privately. This is indeed not the place, adultery is not to be condoned but it certainly is unpunishable as far as the principles of this kgotla stand. These are two adults, with willing hearts. To purge them, is to purge the whole village and history will judge you as the mad chief.’ Concluded Khira, picked his hat and requested to leave but the chief declined. People could only leave after the verdict.

‘Mr Mafora, you brought this matter to me as my councilman. What do you wish to say before we close this matter?’

‘I WANT THIS MAN BANNED,’ he yelled and yelled again in English: ‘HE GOES! HE GOES AWAY!’ He threw his hands in the air to indicate that he didn’t care where Serame went, as long as it was far away.

‘And so you keep saying,’ signed the chief. ‘Everybody here seem to not like this poet, the musician too and I too don’t like them. They have wrong ideas about freedom, of which they act without responsibilities and I don’t like that in a man.’

Silence intensified with few councilmen nodding to agree with what the chief had said. He continued:

‘But this poet said something that’s also important.’

Everybody listened attentively.

‘I cannot risk the power my people entrusted me with to dispense punishment because one of my own need it for his own personal battle,’ said the chief and his words fell on earnest ears. He continued momentarily:

‘It doesn’t work that way. And the poet… .’ Khira knew the mention of his name would end with a sting. ‘No man should speak English in my kgotla. I want him gone out of my village.’

Khira’s neighbour welcomed the verdict and cheered overtly in approval.

Mr Mafora avoided eye contact with his wife and walked out with the displeased rest, leaving his shamed wife behind with a wish to hear Serame’s songs one more time. But it never happened. Divorce was a shame more scorning than walking naked in public.

The end

By Tshepo S. Molebatsi

From: South Africa

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