Our village rests in darkness, deep as my own skin. The moon twinkles high above us like a small lantern. The wind laments the forthcoming evening. I sit beside a woman, beautiful as the night itself. Her name is Zuri. And she is my wife.
She has soft, medium brown breasts that shine like gold. Her lips are touched with a faint pink, her upper lip barely there. Her hips curve like the clay pots I make, wide and strong, with a fullness that carries our son, Banji, as he sits upon her. She is a woman who loves my lips. She is Zuri. A wife of my soul.
As we sit together on the bamboo chair, the full moon shining overhead, Zuri turns to me.
‘Mosi, Mosi,’ she says.
I shift, meeting her eyes, and take her right hand in mine. ‘Yes, Zuri,’ I reply.
‘I have a few words for you,’ she whispers, then leans in to kiss my lips.
I smile, looking up at the sky. ‘Go ahead,’ I say.
She takes a breath. ‘Mosi, Mosi… You are my husband. You have seen thirty rainy seasons. Seven seasons of rain have passed in our village of Ukwakwe, and in that time, you have fathered three beautiful children. Chola, our eldest son, Mpimpa, our daughter, and little Banji, who speaks so few words.
‘Your strong lips captivate my soul. You are not just the husband of our home but of my heart. The pillar of my world. The Mosi of our village. A warrior who has never known defeat. A man who toils under the hot sun so that our children may know abundance.
‘My gods, my gods, grant him strength to fill our hungry bellies.
‘Mosi, Mosi, the man who won my heart when many failed. The man who kisses my lips and makes me believe that love has no end. You look at my breasts as though they are made of gold. You gaze into my eyes as if they are stars in the sky. You are my beloved husband. You are Mosi, Mosi, the courageous man.’
Tears of joy stream down my cheeks. ‘And you are Zuri, a woman who loves me wholly,’ I reply while wiping away my tears.
‘I love you,’ she says, kissing my lips again.
I place my left hand on the bamboo chair. ‘I love you too,’ I reply as I hold her beautiful hips.
I kiss her lips and hold her like a baby. She is Zuri, and she is my wife. We rise from the bamboo chair, draped in chitenge clothes, and walk to our front door.
‘Mosi,’ she says, looking at my face.
‘Yes, Zuri, my wife of twenty-five seasons,’ I reply.
‘Are you going to the farm tomorrow?’ she asks, staring at the moon above us.
‘Yes, I am,’ I say. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I wanted to know so that I can prepare warm water for you tomorrow morning,’ she replies, walking into the house.
We walk to the living room, where Zuri has prepared food. ‘That’s kind of you, Zuri, the wife of my soul,’ I say as Zuri washes my hands.
We eat nshima and chicken while the night watches over our lives. After finishing our meal, my Zuri washes my hands once more. I lean back against the bamboo couch, watching the full moon through an open window.
I stand to my feet and walk towards my children’s room. I peer through the door and see them asleep.
‘Mosi,’ Zuri calls.
‘Yes, Zuri,’ I answer.
‘I have prepared the bed for you,’ she says as she walks to our bedroom.
‘I’ll be there shortly,’ I reply, leaving my children’s room.
I walk through my house—our house, as I think of work at Mpembe Farm. I see my wife already under the blankets, already smiling, already waiting for my face. I enter our bedroom and close the door behind me. I take off my trousers and t-shirt, then slip into the warm blankets.
Zuri spins around to catch me off guard, but I am not surprised. She does this all the time. She smiles, her hands lingering on my face like she’s blinded by love. I smile back, closing my eyes as if accepting her affection. But I’m tired from the long day. I yawn, showing Zuri how weary I am.
‘I know your tricks, my husband,’ she teases, leaning in for a kiss.
I kiss her lips and say, ‘Zuri, I’m tired.’
She turns to face the skies. ‘Come, sleep on my breasts, so that you can only dream of your wife,’ she commands softly.
‘Yes, my commander in love,’ I reply, resting my head on her golden breasts.
I wake up in the morning and find the bed empty. I stretch my long legs as they pop out of the blanket. I sit on the edge of the bed and offer a prayer for the peaceful night. I put on my white vest and shorts, then walk to our thatched kitchen, where I find my family already awake.
‘Good morning, Father,’ my children greet me.
‘Good morning, my beautiful and handsome children,’ I reply, walking towards Zuri.
After the children finish their breakfast, they head off to school. They walk 8 kilometres every day. I wave them off, then stroll to have a bath. After bathing, I prepare for the day ahead.
‘Mosi,’ Zuri calls.
‘Yes, Zuri?’
‘I’ve finished preparing breakfast,’ she says. ‘Hurry up, or you’ll be late for work.’
I walk to the kitchen and eat my breakfast. Then I grab my farming tools and kiss my wife goodbye.
‘Good day, my husband,’ she waves as I walk out of the thatched gate.
‘Thank you, Zuri,’ I say, closing the gate behind me.
I walk to Mpembe Farm, and on my way, I see hippos lazing in the morning sun. I arrive at work and head into the fields. Fortunately, our supervisor hasn’t arrived yet. I begin ploughing the maize while selling it to customers. The farm employs over a hundred people.
The only time we speak is when we’re knocking off from work. A customer approaches me and asks, ‘How much is a gallon of maize?’
‘Seventy kola,’ I reply.
The customer looks at me with pride and says, ‘Here is seventy kola.’
I collect the money and hand him a gallon of maize. The day goes on until evening sets in. I knock off from work and head home, my friends already gone. I arrive home, and the night follows its familiar cycle.
The next day, I return to work. As I labour in the fields, I hear my close friends gossiping about me. I continue ploughing and planting.
Then, my supervisor approaches and tells me to follow him. I do as he says, following him to a secluded corner.
‘Morning,’ he greets.
‘Good morning, boss,’ I reply.
His eyes betray no emotion. ‘I have some bad news for you,’ he says.
‘Sure, boss. You can tell me,’ I reply, my hands trembling.
‘Did you sell maize to a man of pride?’ he asks, his words oddly phrased.
I think for a moment, then recall the man I sold maize to for seventy kola yesterday. ‘Yes, I remember him well. What happened?’ I ask, wondering what could have gone wrong.
‘Don’t worry, he’s fine,’ my supervisor says.
‘Okay, then what is it, boss? I’m really worried,’ I smile.
‘The owner of the farm has decided to lay you off,’ he says bluntly.
‘What?’ I exclaim, nearly collapsing but holding myself strong. ‘What did I do?’
‘You sold that customer a gallon of maize for seventy kola instead of thirty-five,’ he says with anger.
‘But I thought the price was still seventy kola,’ I explain.
‘No, we changed it. It’s now thirty-five kola.’
‘You can deduct the difference from my salary,’ I plead. ‘I need this job.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s already too late. The customer went directly to the owner, not me. He made a complaint, and the owner made the decision. I’m really sorry,’ he says as I walk back to the main dusty road.
I can still hear my supervisor’s voice and the chatter of my friends, but my world has ended. Seventy kola has made me lose my job. Seventy kola has shattered the peace in my home. Seventy kola has brought me tears.
I arrive home early and open our thatched gate. I make no noise as I step into the yard and sit under a Milemu tree. My mind races with thoughts as I think of what to tell Zuri. Seventy kola has ruined my life. I will not receive any benefits from my work because I am now seen as a thief. All my hard work has slipped through my fingers because of seventy kola.
The man of pride has destroyed me. Just thirty-five extra kola made him report me to my boss. He cost me my job. Was it jealousy, or something else?
‘Seventy kola,’ I ponder, tears streaming down my cheeks.
As I sit under the tree, I see Zuri coming out of the house. She notices my tears while coming over; and sits next to me. She wipes my face and says, ‘Stop crying. I already know.’
Panic swells through my chest. ‘About what?’ I ask, my voice trembling as she continues to wipe away my tears.
‘You got fired. Rumours spread fast in Ukwakwe village. But I have more sad news to share,’ she says, her own eyes filling with tears.
As if losing my job wasn’t enough. ‘Tell me, Zuri, what happened?’ I ask, bracing for more heartache.
‘Our village chief wants to take me into his palace as his tenth wife,’ she confesses.
‘Does your father know?’ I ask, my heart pounding.
‘He knows. Soon, we’ll go and defend my case before our chief and the village elders. Afterward, they will vote,’ she says as I slump to the ground, her words crushing me.
I wake up in bed, dazed. I know Zuri has gone to the chief’s palace. I sit up and walk outside. It’s almost evening, and my children are playing in the yard, unaware of what’s happening around them. I make my way to the Milemu tree and find a gourd of palm wine. My father-in-law must have brought it for me. He understood I needed a break and palm wine was my break.
I start drinking. Seventy kola has made me a drunkard. The village chief wants my Zuri—the woman I fought so hard to win when many in Ukwakwe failed. Zuri, the woman who understands my soul… Tears come faster, my heart aching.
‘My gods, what have I done wrong? Please forgive me. I am a humble man. I’ve never cheated on Zuri. I’ve always given to the needy in our village. But now, I’ve lost everything—my job and my Zuri, my wife with breasts of gold,’ I cry in despair.
As I finish drinking palm wine, I hear my children running towards Zuri and my father-in-law. I get up from my seat and walk towards the thatched gate. I see Zuri holding Banji, walking beside my father-in-law.
‘Evening, father,’ I greet him as I kneel down.
‘Evening, my son-in-law,’ he says, winking his right eye.
I open the gate, waving to my father-in-law as he disappears into the trees.
‘Welcome back,’ I say, hugging Zuri and Banji.
‘We won the case. I’m still your wife,’ Zuri says, and my happiness knows no bounds.
My tall frame stretches toward the sky, almost touching the clouds. My children, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, join in. We all jump up and down, laughing as the evening falls.
Zuri heads inside to prepare supper with Mpimpa, while I sit with Chola and Banji under the Milemu tree.
I wake up the next day and find Zuri fast asleep beside me. Her breathing is soft and glamorous. I slip out of bed, pulling on my white shirt and shorts. The early morning air is cool as I step outside. I make my way to my favourite spot under the Milemu tree and sit down.
As I sit, I see Kato, my best friend, walking into the yard. He arrives just as the first light of the sun breaks over the skyline.
We settle under the tree, a large gourd of palm wine between us.
Kato pours us each a drink, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘You’re quiet today, Mosi.’
I take the cup and drink. ‘Just thinking.’
‘About work or Zuri?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow.
‘Both,’ I reply, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
Kato lets out a short laugh. ‘You’re lucky to have Zuri. Some of us aren’t so fortunate.’
I nod, my eyes resting on the ground. ‘That I am. She’s been my strength, especially now.’
Kato leans forward, concern in his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
I shift on my seat, adjusting my posture as I place my cup on the ground. ‘I lost my job yesterday.’
His eyes widen in shock. ‘What? How?’
‘Over seventy kola,’ I say, the pain clear in my voice. “I sold maize at the old price. Didn’t realise they had changed it. The customer complained, and just like that, I was out.’
Kato shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Seventy kola? That’s nothing!’
I look up at the sky. ‘It was enough to cost me everything.’
Kato places a hand on my shoulder. ‘But you still have Zuri and your children. You’ll find another job, Mosi. You’re a hard worker.’
I take a deep breath, anxiety still clutching my chest. ‘It’s not just the job, Kato. The chief… he wants Zuri. He’s trying to take her as his wife.’
Kato’s face darkens with anger. ‘The chief? That old man! That’s not right,’ he says while shaking his head. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘We fought it,’ I reply. ‘We won. She’s still mine.’
Kato nods, drinking palm wine. ‘Good,’ he smiles. ‘You’ve been through a lot, but you’re strong. You’ll get through this too.’
I smile at him, grateful for his support. ‘Thanks, Kato.’
‘Anytime,’ he says, pouring more palm wine into my cup and his.
We sit quietly under the Milemu tree, the palm wine flowing as the evening falls. Seventy kola cost me my job, and I can’t shake off the pain of that loss. But as I drink from my cup, I start to wonder—maybe, just maybe, there’s a reason behind it all.
——–
Image: Copilot AI remixed