Roseline Orwa - Bridging Dreams

 

When I was in my 20s, I returned to my rural village, to my home in Western Kenya, to attend my own dowry refund ceremony. You see, in my community, dowry price, once paid, settles a woman into her marital home forever, in life or in death in most cases. And it's called upon, strange, almost a taboo for goats and cows paid as dowry price to be refunded to a suitor. In my case, it was two goats and two cows that became a refundable gift. Because in my community, a woman's worth is measured by the number of children she births. I did not give birth to any child, hence this cultural divorce. 

 

The eight-hour bus drive to my home, to my widowed mother, was filled with a lot of fear and unspoken pain, because three weeks prior to this trip, I chose to walk out of my marital home for good, a home I had shared for three and a half years. And what befell me were fateful events that would take a toll in any human spirit. I had just had two surgeries close by. One was endometriosis, and this one, ectopic pregnancy. But it wasn't the scars on my stomach that were most painful. My losses and my pain and my grief, no words could be put to it. But I was also afraid of something else, what the community would say, and particularly, what my mother would say. 

 

So, when I arrived, and my mother made that a long prayer, she often prayed, I bowed in shame literally. As we waited for the collector's party to arrive, my mother had a slight argument with my uncle, who had wanted he be the one to lead that ceremony. My mother made it clear in my hearing that it was her sole responsibility to set her last-born daughter free. So, when the collector's party arrived, a group of three men, she was summoned to come to the front door. She walked in her full power and authority, like a woman who knew her place. I must admit I admired her. Quickly, they greeted her. She did not respond to their greeting. Instead, she pointed to the male relatives manning those two cows and two goats to release them towards the gate, and they did. 

 

The elderly man of the party, leader of the party, quickly shook my uncle's hands and muttered a quick, “It's over. It’s over,” and off they went. I was standing at the door and I said loudly, to no one in particular, “Who really takes back dowry? And could I have had my own children, would they have taken the animals back?” They all heard me, but no one responded. Instead, my mother went to sit back behind the house under that tree where she read her Bible. 

 

This ceremony was attracting villagers, especially women from the nearby homestead. Some were helping themselves to the snack that was at the veranda that the visitors did not touch. Others were murmuring in low tones, looking at me, pointing at me with their noses, the way people do when they consider you different than themselves. My uncle sat in our living room, throwing glances at me, bowing his head down, perhaps also feeling my shame. So, I decided to get myself busy. I took the last night's dishes and went to clean them at a rack near my mother was seated outside. I was hoping to catch a conversation. 

 

My mother's best friend arrived, a woman I had known in the church. She began to question my mother, why her prayers were not long enough, deep enough, strong enough for God to bless her last-born child with a child of her own. My mother did not say anything back to her. She went on and on. My mother said nothing back. I was cleaning those plates, putting them on that wooden rack that my father had built years ago. That rack had termites eaten one side. It was slanting, falling apart. I was falling apart just like that rack, listening to the woman question my mother about me. 

 

Two days went by with an awkward silence in our house. And the villagers kept on coming to still trigger conversation with my mother. She did not respond to any of them. So, I went into her bedroom that second day in the morning, she was cleaning the floor, sweeping those corners that children often don't clean when they're asked to clean the house. And I stood at the door and asked her, “Mama, why did you not say anything back to your best friend?” She heard me. She did not look up or say anything. I said, “Mama, I know you hear me. Why did you not say at least to your best friend? Forget the other villagers. Why did you not say anything back to your best friend? You are a teacher. You know it is endometriosis. It causes women infertility. You could have defended me. I am your last-born child.” 

 

She slowly lifted her head and looked my way, caught my eyes and said, “What is there to tell them? There is nothing to tell them. Give me a new story to tell them. Use the committee in your head.” The committee in your head was a common statement in our household. Six of my sisters and I were familiar with it. It meant, you are the treasurer, the secretary, the chairperson and the member. You are to come up with the best decision and show it in practice. We had heard it too many times, so I knew what she meant. I grabbed my yellow notebook from on top of the cabinets in her bedroom, and I went and sat under that tree. 

 

Under that tree where she had prayed life upon my soul when I got back a few days ago. She had told me, seated under that tree, that life was lived in the future with the lessons of the past. I knew she was on my side. So, I began to journal my losses in my own handwriting in my notebook. I had lost a marriage, perhaps love. I'd lost a business and an income. I'd lost a job and a chance to advance my career. I was also losing parts of my body, but I was still alive. So, I questioned myself in my notebook, where were women like me? What was their story, what were they doing and where could I find them? 

 

So, that evening, when a male cousin who knew my situation came by for dinner. I asked him if he knew women like me, women in my village who lived with infertility. He gave me a list of five. Two of these women, I had known them in the church and in the village market. Coincidentally, they were called Margaret. So, the next day, he walked me into the first Margaret's home. It was about lunchtime. She was preparing a meal to serve two children she was caring for. When she saw me, she ran to her doorstep and hugged me in places I needed to be hugged, ushered us into her living room, served us a cup of tea and a snack alongside those children. 

 

Quickly, those children went back to school. When we were left alone, I asked her, “Do you also not have children of your own?” And she said, “Yes, those two belong to my deceased sister. I care for them.” She shared with me how she had lived with infertility and what her experiences had been. We quickly left to the second Margaret's home, which was also just nearby. It's a small village. It's a walking distance. We found her seated under the tree with some women who knew my story, I had made the village gossip. When they saw me, they threw the look, pointed with their noses and quickly bid their goodbye. 

 

Margaret instinctively knew why I was there. She shared with me her story how everybody in her family had passed away. She was caring for five orphans, and often going to the village meeting to defend the land rights of those children. I tell you, those two women gave me a glimpse how women in my community lived with infertility. So, immediately, I invited them to come to my mother's kitchen the next Saturday. And they came. Two of my sister in laws, who are also widows, came with their children. That Saturday, we cooked a large pot of meal, laughed and told stories and fed 17 orphans. While we were cooking, my mother was still seated there, throwing glances how her firewood was going down, her cooking oil, her salt. But I did not mind her look. She had wanted a new story, I gave her one. After all, she had said, use the committee. In my head, I had used it. 

 

For me, it was the intimate stories we told, how the women laughed at all the demeaning names they called us, the one whose womb is dry, the one whose womb is closed, how they laughed. The one with an evil spirit and shall never have children, the one who committed a sin that bars her from having children, how they laughed. When I showed them how women were pointing at me with their noses, they had known the same kind of stigma and they told me I would be okay. It is that soul sisterhood conversation, a bond, a tribe of women who understood how to live with their infertility in my community, I found my tribe. What began with one daughter giving her mother new story became a group of women showing another woman how to heal. 

 

When I showed them the scar on my stomach, that long scar where women carry children home with, and because it was ectopic pregnancy, I bear it for life with no child, they told me it would heal. Indeed, I began to heal. So, what began with the daughter giving her mother a new story has become a project and a school that supports 150 children daily, and empowers more than 8,000 women in my community.

 

Today, I am a mother. Not the kind of mother my mother who had seven children of her own was. No, not that kind. I am a mother who will not bury any umbilical cord nor go into labor pains. I labor differently. I labor to provide love, fees, support, food, accommodation. I provide emotional support, just like biological mothers do to their children. I am a woman using my personal story to support vulnerable children and give invisible women their voices back. Hopefully, someday, my community and the world will and mother the woman. Thank you.