about her seemed to change something inside him. This girl, as you probably guessed, was my mother, Agnes.
Well, my father must not have been very smooth, because my mother was well aware of him staring, the way he gazed at her like a puppy at the henhouse door, never sure what to do. She’d asked around and knew his reputation. For some odd reason, these stories of fighting and misbehaving made her excited. Each day she couldn’t wait for her mother to send her to the market. Even before entering the rows of wooden stalls, her heart would pound like the chiwoda drums of her childhood dances. Making herway across, it took everything inside her to keep from grinning. But my mother couldn’t let on; she was no easy fish to catch.
This game of staring continued for several months, and my mother wondered if this man would ever make his move. If he was so strong and brave, then why on earth was he frightened of her? (As my father tells it, she was always too far away to chase after, and also, yes, he was terrified.)
Finally, my mother decided to test this big, powerful man.
One morning, my father saw her enter the market, and as usual, he quickly became lost in the sight of her. But this time she did something different. She took a new route through the market—one that was bringing her straight in his direction.
My father became nervous, but knew the time was now or never. This is my big chance, he thought, but what will I say? He didn’t have time to think, because in a matter of seconds, my mother was right upon him. It was the closest she’d ever been, and the sight of her skin made his heart go mad, as if it was trying to run away.
Somehow, he found his courage and leaped over his stall. As she passed, he shouted, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!”
My mother spun around. My father was standing there in the row, arms open, those same eyes now meeting hers.
“I’ve loved you my entire life,” he said. “And I want to marry you.”
Struggling to stay composed, my mother said, “I’ll have to think about that one,” then turned and ran away.
Well, my father didn’t give her much time. That very afternoon he was at her house, asking again. The next day, the same thing. My mother’s older brother Bakili warned her about my father. Bakili was also a trader in the market and knew my father’s reputation.
“He’s always in the bars, drinking and fighting,” he said. “Sister, this man is not a good husband.”
“I don’t care,” my mother said. “He’s so strong, and I love him.”
Bakili then told their parents. My grandmother Rose was a tough woman, so tough she’d built the family home with her own hands while my grandpa worked as a tailor in the market. She’d even built the furnaceand molded the bricks herself, which is not an easy job, and even today, not the job of a woman.
Hearing the news, my grandmother and grandfather confronted my mother.
“Now tell us the truth, Agnes. Are you serious about this man?”
“Yes,” my mother said. “Double serious.”
As it turned out, my grandfather had proposed to my grandmother in much the same way, after seeing her dance in a village competition. “The way she was dancing just stole my heart,” my grandfather said. “And I said to myself, ‘I’m going to marry her.’” He’d sent a young village girl to inform my grandmother he wanted to speak with her, only to have my grandmother confront him personally.
“You want to talk to me?” she said. “Then talk to me. What do you want?”
“For you to be my wife,” he answered.
So what could my grandparents really say now? Six months later, Agnes married my father, and the following year, my sister Annie was born. But even with all these new developments, my father remained the Pope.
Well, the Pope’s drunken lifestyle soon began to take its toll. My mother grew increasingly tired of him coming home drunk and smelling of booze, and often they’d argue. It
Eve Paludan, Stuart Sharp