[Published in the Malawi News of 30 July 2011]
It was an evening of dark skies. The sun that glared all day, now hidden under thunderclouds, was fast setting. Sindi the new chief was reclined quietly into his Ndalema chair. He was alone with his thoughts, mulling over his installation in three days time, particularly anxiously thinking about the subject of domestic violence he intended to include in his inaugural speech. He knew talking openly about it was a taboo, punishable by banishment. That was why he planned to talk about it after accepting the throne; per tradition he would then be untouchable.
It was an evening of dark skies. The sun that glared all day, now hidden under thunderclouds, was fast setting. Sindi the new chief was reclined quietly into his Ndalema chair. He was alone with his thoughts, mulling over his installation in three days time, particularly anxiously thinking about the subject of domestic violence he intended to include in his inaugural speech. He knew talking openly about it was a taboo, punishable by banishment. That was why he planned to talk about it after accepting the throne; per tradition he would then be untouchable.
Sindi had hated domestic violence since he was eleven years when he had witnessed his sister nearly getting murdered by her husband. He had vowed to fight the social evil at the slightest opportunity he would have. It was no wonder then when he was chosen to succeed his ailing uncle to the throne that he accepted it gratefully. He could not have asked for more. With the chieftaincy he knew it was a matter of days the verbal, physical, and emotional suffering of women, enshrined in a sickening culture of silence, was history.
“After condemning it in my speech, I’ll go further to mandate that the girl-child should go to school.” Sindi pondered on that evening for he knew women were suffering mostly for lacking empowerment. And he knew the surest way of empowering them was through education.
“Cases like that of Logisi, this fifteen-year-old girl who was fished out of school and forced to marry a forty-year-old man, won’t be part of my village, never again.” He vowed.
He even planned to outright tell his people to come out of their cocoons, to stop acting as if domestic violence did not exist or was not a horrible act, compassionately pointing to the gruesome murdering or maiming of women like Mdyomba and Chigiledala by the men who were to protect and love them. But he knew he had to carefully do it, step by step.
“Yes, I should first accept the…”
The hollowed cry, a scream of terror, slashed Sindi’s thoughts like a razor-sharp machete. He got up with a start, an eerie feeling prickling down his backbone. He found himself hurrying towards the distressed wail. A small crowd was watching the brawl. A muscular man called Asilo was battering his wife, Mai Amikhe, with a big stick as if she was a snake, shouting at her degrading adjectives. Sindi shuddered and spat in fury, a chill cursing through him. His passion projected. He furiously rushed and pushed the thug.
“What the hell is this?” Asilo tersely asked, his eyes rudely raking Sindi head to foot as though he suspected he had concealed a bomb somewhere on his person.
“I must ask you that,” Sindi retorted.
“That’s ridiculous,” Asilo intoned feeling uneasy. “You’ve just pushed me…?”
“Why are you thumping your wife like garbage?” Sindi cut him short.
Asilo sniggered sarcastically. “Because you’ll be chief you think you can poke your dirty nose in family issues that don’t concern you?”
Sindi’s countenance darkened. He felt his fists clenching with anger. But before he could censure the brute that what he was doing was no family matter but sheer brutality, the grisly battered Mai Amikhe, oozing blood from gapping holes on swollen lips, shouted at him that ‘it was none of his business.’
Sindi was startled. Prickles of shock danced mockingly along every nerve. He never expected that statement, at least from her. He left in frustration, and nearly shouted scorn at the crowd, which was murmuring and pointing fingers of accusation at him, the reaction that did not surprise him though, considering how deep rooted the social evil was.
Nevertheless, he was stunned that evening when the Appointment and Advisory Council came and demanded his apology to the village at the ground for what he did.
“Even you who were to provide advice health for the village, you’re telling me to apologize for condemning senseless pain in my village? You can’t be serious.” Sindi heatedly declared. He watched emotions working across their faces, respect contending with disgust. Disgust won by a knock out.
“Nonsense,” Vibula, officious in the group, grouched defiantly. “You’ll apologize tomorrow morning, or else forget about the throne.” It was a command. Sindi gaped, feeling a dull headache.
The following morning people were called to the ground to witness Sindi apologize for ‘embarrassing the village over a petty domestic issue’. Within minutes it was fully packed and buzzing. But a strong rumour was making round that Sindi had vowed on his soul he would never apologize. To whom that was made, the people could not tell. It was a spot full of nervousness. An hour later it fell dead silent when Sindi had walked to the podium and cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry for what I did yesterday,” he said and watched the hushed group, especially a number of women. Sindi could tell their disappointment from their faces. When these women had secretly come deep in the night to declare women’s happiness and support for him, he had vowed that he would never apologize.
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