I still get a tickle out of the skills we were told we must master during the civil war years we spent in my village.
One of them still ranks high on my list of accomplishments. I was led to believe that mastery of this skill will fetch me a good husband, but no man ever did ask me how good I am at it. It does not have much utilitarian value but it still elicits awe and admiration when I show-off a version of this skill.
I’m talking about the ability to balance a pot or bucket of water on the head! My peers and I did it “hands-free” and walked miles home barefoot on soil baked by the sun. And most importantly, we met the standard: you must not lose a drop of water. Well, if you do, don’t let it show.
When I first started “streaming” I used to return home with my clothes drenched in water. Very embarrassing! I practiced and practiced until I became a pro like my peers and earned the village creds I yearned for. Later, I was able to join in the animated conversations my peers engaged in as we walked home without losing balance.
Ichu nku (fetching firewood) is another highly-prized civil war- time experience. My sister and I used to beg my mother to let us join the other girls in their fire wood gathering expeditions that started at the crack of dawn. We would wake up really early and start begging her until she gave in. My mother wanted the firewood gathering left to the house maids and the older relatives who lived with us and I suppose she did not want us becoming too villagy. After all, the children of the families we were supposed to be in competition with were not allowed to mix closely with other village girls and romp with them through the forest.
My cousin, N.K, and I used to compete over who would carry the most firewood, so we each ended up with heavy payloads that strained our necks. But her older sister didn’t care too much about the village women’s opinion of her. She is the one who could carry only one piece of firewood on her head and strut home defiantly. As we approached the village, the older women would shudder at the sight of her and her single log in the midst of her peers bearing respectable loads of firewood. They must have spat out “tufiakwa,” performing the bodily motions that underscore disgust. We did hear their spoken comments such as: Who will marry this one? They made other comments and noises to register their disapproval.
Just a few months ago my defiant cousin and I were reveling again in our delightful war-time village experiences and we tried to dissect what her childhood defiant attitude predicted about her. She still derives great satisfaction from having been smart enough to let her sister and I compete for praise for our firewood bearing skills. It doesn’t help me that nobody remembers the praises we earned and nobody now cares how much firewood we could carry on our heads. “I continued with my defiant attitude,” she said proudly, “I still don’t care too much about other people’s opinion.”
I have rebelled against some village norms myself —- on matters of principle, I hasten to add. Under the veneer of a good village maiden was a rebellious streak that sometimes reared its head. It took some people in my village many years to forgive me for what they consider the ultimate act of defiance.
I still marvel at how I could bear heavy burdens on my head at about age 7. It took some skill to be able to hoist the heavy load onto my head and to be able to lay it down safely —- without breaking my neck.
While visiting my late fiance in Hawaii, I used to say to him, “You don’t seem to care how well I can balance a bucket of water on my head or how much firewood I can carry on my head. I was told mastering those skills would fetch me a good husband so I would like to impress you by showing off my skills. Where is the nearest stream? Where can I go fetch firewood?”
He would say: In America all you have to do is turn on the taps and turn on the stove. See. (He would turn on the taps and the stove as he said this). And use the dishwater. Welcome to the wonderful life.
My determination to parley my obsolete skills into some modern day benefits paid off during my years as a substitute teacher. I could elicit stunned silence in a noisy class by balancing an object on my head and striding nonchalantly in front of the class.
I also deployed my hands-free balancing act at a fund raising event for Haiti after the earthquake. I placed a colorful basket on my head and sashayed down the aisle urging the visibly impressed audience to drop their gleanings into my basket. I stooped low to allow them to drop their donations.
