The Other Woman

By Grace Ogot

Grace Ogot is a well-known Kenyan novelist. In this collection of nine stories, she explores themes of social, cultural and spiritual importance. Her imagery is designed to unveil evils which bedevil modern society, such as violence, lust for power and wealth, and family turmoil. Her stories are imbued with the culture of Kenya.

• Language: English
• Publisher: East African Educational Publishers
• Release date: Jun 15, 1992
• ISBN: 9789966566126

Grace Ogot

Born in Kenya's Central Nyanza district in 1930, Grace Ogot was a founding member of the Writers' Association of Kenya. She can be credited with being the first African woman writer in English to be published with two short stories in 1962 and 1964. Her first novel The Promised Land (1966) was published in the same year as Flora Nwapa's Efuru and deals with the subject of migration. Her second novel, The Graduate (1980) relates the story of a male protagonist who, after studying in America, returns to Kenya. The novel also offers a comment on Kenyan women's inequality in the political process and intimates how successful they can be when given the opportunity to participate. Ogot has also published three volumes of short stories, as well as a number of works in Dholuo. Her attitude towards language is similar to that of her fellow Kenyan, Ngugi wa Thiong'o's, but until recently her writing has not received the critical appraisal bestowed on Ngugi's writings.

Book preview

childhood

pay day

It was a thunderous noise, sharp and deafening, though it did not last. The shattered old mahogany door crumbled into a heap and the deadly rock that had caused the damage rolled on dangerously towards the other wall, crushing whatever stood in its way. The voice of a girl, a very young girl, screamed out in terror, and the clear childish sounds tore the silent night. It suddenly cut off, without a whimper or a sob. The rock had stopped rolling too. Its assignment was now done.

For a moment, Awino felt as if she would go mad. The room receded and swam back in dizzy circles, and her bed seemed to have moved from the wall. She had made a great effort to jump up when the rock rolled through the shattered door and the child screamed, but her body refused to obey her will. Her whole being was drained of life; only her heart refused to stop beating.

My baby, my baby, she moaned helplessly, unable to stand and gather the remains of Anyango, her little niece whose body had been rent apart by the rolling rock!

There was a rustle around the door. Awino stared in horror as two masked figures entered the one-roomed square hut. She screamed, but no sound came out of her parted lips. Then she saw another group of masked men enter the room, and the tips of sharp pangas gleamed in the dim light. Suddenly powerful torches were shone on Awino’s eyes, blinding her.

Give us the money! a man’s voice demanded. Give us the money at once! and he slapped Awino so hard high on the right cheek that for a moment she had a complete black-out.

No money, Awino groaned, and she broke down completely in violent jerks and sobs.

You were paid today, you liar. You give us all of it or we will chop your head and your legs.

We get paid tomorrow, Awino whispered, between sobs. We get paid tomorrow.

Liar, you old liar, said an angry voice from behind. Move out of the way, you coward, let me deal with her. The leader of the gang pushed his way towards the bed-side. He slapped Awino on the eyes, on the face and mouth and made a deep cut on her neck with a panga.

Now will you give that money — eh! you Christian woman? Christians don’t tell lies! Come on now – tell us where the packet is, and I shall leave your head where it belongs.

The panga cut deep into Awino’s neck. Her eyes, almost blown out of their sockets, could not now focus. She could not see even the powerful light of the torches. The warm fluid that ran out of her mouth could only be blood oozing from the butchered gums. Her whole body was on fire, and the perspiration, blood and tears ran down her face and found a common meeting-place on the pillow.

Tie her legs, and her arms. She must be keeping the money on this bed.

Awino jerked her head to ease the panga edge from her neck, but quickly changed her mind as the jerk made the deadly weapon cut deeper into her skin. A rope joined her numb legs together, then her hands.

Throw her on the floor, the head of the gang said, removing the bloody panga from Awino’s neck. This indeed lifted the weight of the panga from her neck – but the pain remained, burning and stinging as though the sharp poisonous edge had left behind a kind of detergent strong enough to destroy human tissues. They whisked her off the bed and threw her roughly on the hard floor. Her sobs now came in short gasps that shook her whole frame. Then there was a scream – sharp and deafening, and for a moment the gang were disorganized in panic. They became aware of another being in the room.

Who is there? A man kicked Awino where she lay in a heap. But before she could answer the gang had discovered Anyango lying under the bed where she had miraculously crawled when she narrowly escaped being crushed by the deadly rock. Her eyes were bulging out and her mouth open wide in horror.

The leader of the gang shouted, Drag her out! Silence her! The young fellow holding a small torch hesitated. But she is just a baby, sir.

Come on now, the leader grabbed the young man’s shoulders roughly. No playing babies in this game. Remember your contract – or – or. . .

The young man hesitated again. Anyango’s bulging and innocent eyes cried for mercy. But he had to honour his contract, and the oath of allegiance he had sworn. He dragged the young girl from under the bed mercilessly, slapped her and kicked her before tying her hands and legs together. She must have long passed the point of pain, for she did not even whimper when she was kicked in the direction of the battered body of her aunt.

The gang was out for scalps.

The chilly wind blew directly on their half naked bodies, but they were not cold. Awino vaguely saw them out of the corner of her eye. They moved like ghosts from place to place searching everywhere for the pay packet. They pulled out blankets and sheets one by one from the bed. There was no money. Their sadistic glances emphasised the grimness of the situation. Awino’s badly damaged left eye caught sight of a nimbus, and this gave her courage.

Let them take my life, but spare this child. She is not mine, she whispered in prayer. Then Awino let her head fall back in sheer exhaustion and pain.

Give us the money, you old bitch. They all kicked Awino and the child. They felt cheated. It was as though she had known they would come.

I have told you I was not paid, she groaned. Not paid – not pa-----d and her voice faded away. . . .

All right, you old bitch, you bloody Christian liar. We will take what we can find now, and come back when you are more sensible next month. Now make up your mind on this second point, while we are packing. Make up your mind which head we take to our master — one head in place of the cash. Quickly now, teacher.

The fear passed over Awino like a morning shadow, quickly come and quickly gone. She had never thought her life would end this way. All her days she had loved God and led a virtuous life. She had been married for fourteen years but she had not been lucky enough to have a baby.

When she married Julian, a handsome civil servant, her dream had been to leave teaching, have babies and make a cosy home for him and the children. But a year passed, and no baby came. Then a second and a third year passed, and still no baby came. Awino moved from doctor to doctor and all of them assured her that there was nothing wrong, that one day she would have a baby. But the years slipped by, and as they did, the craving for a baby – an extra sound in the sometimes lonely house – grew like a stone wall between Julian and the woman who adored him. When relations became strained, Awino pleaded with her husband: Jully, let’s bring a woman here who can bear children. Build her a hut of her own, but let me stay, Jully, please. Let me stay so that I may share your happiness. I know the children will belong to their mother, Jully, but your blood will run in their veins. . . and whatever is yours I can share, Jully, can’t I darling? Then she stood there and looked into his large eyes, searchingly. But he did not answer her – and his cold eyes made her womb and her virgin breasts ache instinctively. It was a warning! The other woman would never let her share her babies.

The gang had long ransacked the whole house, and now they squatted near the cooking place eating the meat left over from the previous meal. This done, they rubbed their hands, packed up all the cooking utensils and started to carry everything to the yard. When they had finished, the leader of the gang kicked Awino hard on the chest.

Which head do we take to our master? We have given you enough time. The room smelled of sweat and blood. Awino’s hands and legs secured brutally by sisal ropes no longer belonged to her: they would soon be gangrenous.

A spell of dizziness came upon her and disappeared and then came again. She would probably be gone before they cut her head away. She made one last effort, knowing she had nothing to lose now. She yelled at the gang as her last breath wheezed away.

You take all that I have laboured for all my life, and you still want to kill me. Your wives and children are fast asleep in your huts, yet you come to rob and kill a poor woman without a husband or child. The eyes of the ancestors are upon you.

Sweat broke all over Awino now, and a wave of regret swept over her – now the gang would kill both of them. A voice from behind rang in her ears: Kick her mouth! and one of them rushed towards her with a raised panga. But the leader of the gang barred his way.

Let’s get away from here, he whispered and he pushed his way towards the door.

You come back, Awino called at them.

Do you hear, someone said, nervously. Come on! Hurry up! the leader of the gang commanded.

But Awino called loudly –

Come – back – Come back. . . .

The leader of the gang stood still. Awino’s ghostly voice would not let him run. He turned sharply towards the shattered door. What do you want from me now, eh; I have left your head where it belongs!

You loosen our hands and legs or take our heads away.

Crazy woman – you must be –. The leader walked back to the haunted room and loosened the sisal ropes, but did not let them free. Then throw me one dress. You can’t leave me naked. I teach your children.

As the gang started to run – chilled by the dying woman’s tongue – they threw her something. It was probably a dress or a sheet. Then they ran away without looking back.

The battered door lay open revealing the gloomy sky that turned human beings into ghosts. The school compound was absolutely still now. Awino knew she would never be on duty again during the school holidays. The panga cut on her neck continued to bleed, and her eyes and mouth stung. Anyango lay beside her – it was difficult to tell if she was still alive.

Awino’s head was still throbbing dully, and she felt faint and sick, but her mind was capable of re-visualizing the ghostly act in its proper sequence. Oh, Julian, Julian - my son - my flesh - my husband. She burst into tears and the violent sobs of accumulated emotions over a period of years almost drained her last breath away. July-July she whispered between sobs. But she knew her cry would never be heard. Julian’s head now lay peacefully under the arms of another woman who would not let her stay to share the warmth of their baby. Awino strained her eyes hard to see. Yes, the nimbus was still there, and she thought she could see an angel watching over her.

the middle door

It was already 5.30 p.m., but my husband was nowhere to be seen. In sheer panic I called a taxi. You can’t catch that train, the taxi-driver said. Please try, I pleaded. I just must catch it, please As you like, madam. The heavy slamming down of the receiver, and his voice, indicated that it did not matter to him either way. He would be paid whether I missed the train or caught it.

My heart raced – apprehension about my husband’s safety, and the fear of missing the train made my eyes watery as Osanya and I rushed to the yard with the luggage to wait for the taxi. A thought came to me, ‘Cancel the journey — you cannot go on such a long journey without seeing your husband. How can you tell what has happened to him?’ But before I could make up my mind the taxi zoomed in at breakneck speed, stopping just a few inches from my feet. The man flung both doors open. We jumped in without a word, my suitcase propped up beside me, and Osanya sitting with the driver in front.

We wriggled our way between the buses and the large cars, taking narrow chances at every roundabout. At the junction of Jamhuri Avenue and Uhuru Highway we only just missed two pedestrians who had expected the taxi to slow down. We swerved right, left, and then right again, to get out of the way of a Mercedes Benz which was coming at a high speed on the outer lane on the left-hand side. Its throaty hooter nearly blew us off the road. As they passed us, the driver, clad in starched uniform and a peaked hat, gave us a dirty and accusing look while a rotund figure in a black suit and wearing thick rimmed glasses sat in the middle of the back seat holding a strap. Dignity and power distorted what would have been, at first sight, a very handsome face. He eyed us much longer than his driver did, obviously feeling insulted that the rickety taxi did not move out of his way quickly enough.

I clung tight to the back seat. The driver swore under his breath, Shenzi, we all pay for our licence. Osanya muttered something about ‘Bwana mkubwa’ but I did not comment. We took another risk at the next roundabout opposite the railway station and stopped the car at the ‘Staff Only’ white lines.

The large clock at the entrance to the station read a minute or so to six o’clock. I rushed through the gate without even showing my ticket. Osanya and the taxi man were running behind me.

My left foot was still on the pavement when the whistle went, announcing the departure of the train. How the taxi-driver and Osanya got my luggage in my compartment, I do not know. I just managed to get the right foot on the train before it moved away. Perspiration ran down freely under my arm and then rolled down along my side. I dashed to the window in compartment D.

"Pesa, mama, pesa."

Oh my God, I gasped. The ten shilling note for the taxi-driver was still in my sweaty hand. The train was already moving, but the two men ran faster. I threw the ten shilling note at them. They caught it in the air, to the laughter of all. Now they waved and I waved back genuinely – to chase away the evil thought which nagged at me.

All other passengers are seen off by their beloved ones, while all you have is a taxi-driver and a gardener.

Tell the Doctor to ring Kisumu, Osanya, eh – don’t forget, or I will have nobody to meet me the other side.

He said something which I did not hear. The train had gathered momentum and the gap between us widened. I waved till we took a bend and were out of sight.

We entered a tunnel and there was complete temporary darkness. I wondered now why I had decided to travel by train after six years! Suddenly we came out into the open, and the landscape facing Limuru was a magnificent sight. Here and there ridges rose high revealing rich red soil between the shrubs only to taper down gradually into a valley below. The rusty tin-roofed huts standing together marked out a small family homestead on the ridges, leaving the sloping land and the valley below for cultivation. Here and there smoke curled skywards where women were preparing the evening meal. As it was harvesting season, the aroma of the new maize on the cobs, being roasted by the boys on the open fires, filled the air, and sent saliva jetting out from our mouths. Heavy footsteps at my door drew my attention from the beautiful scenery. My eyes rested on a woman carrying a huge kikapu. She was trying to push her way through my compartment door. Behind her a porter whose khaki uniform carried the letters E.A.R. & H. also entered the room carrying a big red cock and a three foot bunch of unripe bananas. He dumped the bananas and the cock on the floor and, completely ignoring me, said to the woman, ‘I hope you will now feel comfortable.’

The cock with legs tied and wings left free, flapped dangerously towards me. I moved my legs in haste to protect my new pair of stockings. The woman pulled the cock away. She then rearranged the kikapu and the bunch of bananas in the small space between us, and made herself comfortable next to me. She broke the silence.

"Misawa," she said.

"Misawa," I replied coldly.

Where are you going? she asked.

To Kisumu, I said half in a temper.

Oh, we have the same destination, she said politely.

The train rocked away, and my stomach churned. Anger welled up in me. Could this be true? I pay sh128 for a first class compartment, only to land with that amount of luggage and a squawking cock on top of it. No, this could only be a big joke. I threw a side-glance at the newcomer. Her face was slightly turned towards the door, so that I could clearly see her without her knowing. She was perhaps younger than I. Her dark face was smooth and without any wrinkles or sordid make-up. Her dress with simple gathers, as was worn in the village, hung just below her knees. Her head-cloth was a bright multi-colour print. She was fat, but was somewhat heavily built, revealing the comfortable life she led.

Many thoughts raced through my mind – ‘Tell her to move from here at once, this is a first class compartment. This is not your place, not your place, not with a cock anyway. Tell her I paid sh 128 to be alone.’

But then I could not summon up enough courage. The words ‘Independence’, ‘equal rights for all’ were written everywhere I looked. Did equality mean inconvenience? Did freedom give licence for chickens to travel first class? I got really annoyed, yet I could not pull myself together to throw this woman out of my room. Then a thought came to me which cooled me down a little. I got out my writing case and sorted out the papers which I wanted to work on – and piled them between the woman and myself. Now I turned to the woman whose eyes were fixed on the papers, out of curiosity,

I was thinking that perhaps they could get you a different compartment, I told her.

Why? she asked politely. There are two beds here.

Her well-mannered attitude annoyed me. I was in for a quarrel. I wanted an excuse to have a row, an excuse to tell her what was in my mind. I cleared my throat and then said, ‘I write books you see, that’s why I travel by train. I have urgent work here which I must finish tonight, so I shall be keeping all the lights on. You will not be able to sleep.’

She hesitated, and I thought her temper was rising. But I was wrong. She eyed me from head to foot and then said:

You write books for children, do you? For everyone, I said, wondering if she could tell the difference between children’s and adult’s books.

That is very important, she said in a matter-of-fact way.

I was furious with her. I was expecting her to be impressed and to say something like, ‘Oh you are so clever to be writing books.’ But instead, she continued in her indifferent style, Children of today need good books to read, they are no longer listening to their parents.

At that point, a forced smile crept to my lips. The lady obviously had assumed that I was employed by the Government to write books on delinquency. That, of course, was an