The ground was parched and the grass was brown and insatiable drifts of dust dirtied everything. Finding quarters in the most inconvenient of places; underneath finger nails, in between toes and most annoyingly, right in the face, clogging tear ducts and reddening eyes. The Sky, in what the people believed a fit of anger, had withheld its water for more than fourteen months now. Fourteen months in which Mundu had worked hard to prove himself a worthy man. In hunting and in protecting the village and in other such things and he wore his fresh scars with pride. For when one ceased attaining scars from childish play and instead from exploits considered manly, in his village, this was something to be proud of. Whether they were worthy of Sera’s hand however, was still yet to be seen.
It was no secret that Sera’s father was an extremely hard man to please. And because he never took a second or third wife, after the death of his beloved, Sera became his most prized and he made it resoundingly clear that he would only allow the best to take her away from him. Seven times Mundu had asked for her hand and seven times he had been refused. Sera herself had tried to soften her father’s resolve, pronouncing her love for Mundu clearly and passionately but her father would have none of it.
“You are the daughter of the Umwami We Sikuka.” would be his answer every single time. “The man who you take as your husband will be my successor.” he would inadvertently add. “He must be worthy of it.”
“And you don’t think Mundu a worthy successor?” Sera would always ask. Though it was always more of a statement than a question.
“No.” He would answer. “Not yet.”
Now Mundu stood at the entrance of The Umwami’s hut, the head and coat of a lion under one arm (the proof of his latest exploit) and a calabash of hard sought for coffee beans in the hand of the other. He had been told to wait until the sun was at its highest point before he would be permitted to enter. That had been two hours prior.
The merciless sun beat down on him and his arms ached and he felt faint but he did not move. He waited. He was determined. And then finally…finally…finally the sun reached the crest of its journey and Sera came hurrying out of her father’s hut towards him. She saw the strain on Mundu’s face and the twitch of his muscles as he struggled to maintain a stoic poise. Her heart went out to him. She wanted to hug him, she wanted to kiss his cracking lips, she wanted to smooth away the crease in his brow with a cool and dripping cloth but she could do none of these things. Her father was sure to be watching from his perch inside the hut a few meters away. And so instead she took the calabash of coffee beans from him and issued a hoarse,
“Come.”
With that single syllabled instruction Sera quickly turned and headed back towards the hut, Mundu stiffly in toe.
The inside of the hut was dim and cool, a welcome respite from the brightness and heat from which Mundu had just come. It took a few moments for Mundu’s eyes to adjust but once they had he noticed The Umwami sitting at the far end of the hut, directly opposite the entrance. Taking the coat of the lion from under his arm he took it in both hands and walking towards The Chief, knelt and laid the lion skin at his feet.
“For You.” he said, head bowed.
Without acknowledging it, Sera’s father stood and stepping over the skin walked towards the entrance.
“Follow me.” he said gruffly and disappeared into the sun.
Mundu searched for Sera with his eyes.
“Go.” she said. “And hurry.”
Quickly getting to his feet Mundu did so and found The Umwami behind the hut, hands clasped behind him, staring off into the distance where Masaba stood still and silent.
“I heard the stories but I did not believe them.”
The Umwami said without turning.
“I am pleased that they are true but I have no use for the skin. It is your trophy and you are to keep it.”
The Umwami turned, Mundu bowed his head.
“Yes sir.”
“You slay lions and yet you still fear to look upon my face.” The Chief observed.
“You are the Umwami.” Mundu answered. “It is custom.”
What followed was a thoughtful silence and then,
“But it is also custom to look upon the face of the father of the woman you intend to marry, is it not?”
“It is sir.”
“Then do so.”
And so Mundu did.
Sera’s father’s face was like granite. Just like the rest of him. Hard and craggy and plucked and marked with scars from many battles and many journeys and many exploits…he was Umwami.
“You have proved yourself a man of strength and of valor.” The Umwami began. “But you have yet to prove yourself a husband to my daughter and a leader of this village. I have one more task to ask of you.”
Mundu squared his shoulders.
“Yes sir.”
The Umwami once again turned his back on Mundu.
“Masaba and I were once very close. He would ask of me what he would and I would do it and in turn, if I asked of him something, he would reciprocate.
“It has been long since we have talked, him and I. Long since I have spoken and he has answered. Long since he has spoken at all. I fear that he no longer acknowledges me as Umwami.”
At this he turned to look at Mundu.
“But he may acknowledge you.”
Sera’s father let this sink in.
“What do you need me to do?” Mundu asked.
“We have been without rain for a very long time. We can not go without rain for much longer. It is simple,” The Umwami We Sikuka said,
“Move Masaba to action, and make it rain.”
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