“I bought you, woman!”  He bellowed as he kicked her.  “You are my property!  You hear me?  Mine!”

            “Vumilia.  Get used to it.  That’s marriage,” her mother and aunts told her whenever she could sneak to them in tears.

But she could never get used to the beatings that took away her ability to have children, left her left eye partially blind, third degree burns on her right shoulder all the way to her waist and half a moon scar on her forehead.  No, she could no longer be tolerant.  She begged him for a divorce, but the more she begged the more beatings she received.

            “You want to leave, huh?  Go!  Afterall you are good for nothing!  You can’t even bear children!”  He screamed one day as he kicked her.   “Pay me back the mahari I paid for you, then  leave!”

He had paid five goats, a sack of rice, a barrel of local brew and a blanket for her grand mother.  The next morning after he had left for work she rushed to her relatives and borrowed whatever little money they had, but it wasn’t enough to buy even a baby goat. 

She walked back home with her shoulders slumped, her eyes blinded with tears.  A shirtless sweating man pushing a heavy laden mkokoteni cursed her as he nearly knocked her down.  Another shirtless man covered in soot, carrying a sack of coal cursed her mother as he collided with her.

            “Mayai, mama,” a little boy pushed a tray with hard boiled eggs to her face, “shillingi mia mbili tu.”

Dazed, she looked at the little boy who should be in school.  In tattered school uniforms and bare feet.  The little boy stood there for a few minutes, waiting for her to buy.  Concluding that she was just another crazy woman, he cursed under his breath and left.  She followed him with his eyes until his little frame with the tray of eggs on his shoulder disappeared in the massing crowd.

After that day, everyday she woke up at the crack of dawn, pounding rice which she bought with the borrowed money to a soft flour and made vitumbua, which she sold at the roadside to students and workers rushing to school and work. 

Every afternoon she bought more rice, beans and spinach from the money she got from selling vitumbua and made food for construction site workers.  Mama Ntilie they called her.  She would carry buckets of food on her head, balancing one on top of the other and looked for a site that didn’t have a Mama Ntilie already selling. 

Every evening after cooking his dinner, she would buy fish, cassava and paraffin oil and made food for late workers.  At a street corner she would set up her stall, selling to prostitutes, thieves, robbers and those who worked double shifts, under the moonlight and dim light of the paraffin lamp.

The smoke from the coal stove always made her cough until she choked and tears of pain run down her tired face.  The distance she walked with the buckets on her head strained her already frail shoulder.  A doctor warned her to take it easy, that she should take better care of her health, but she never gave up - that could wait until she was out.  She had to repay that bride price.  Wanamgambo in olive green uniform always chased her as she didn’t have a permit to sell, sometimes even spilling her food - but she never gave up.  The next day she came again - more determined than ever.  She had to raise that money to pay back the bride price.

After months of sweating and toiling she raised the money and some change.  She slept in that day, she did deserve the rest afterall.  After waking up, she quickly cleaned their two rooms and went to a msusi.  She has to look at least presentable when paying back her bride price, she thought as she hummed happily. 

She came back that evening with neatly plaited hair, a mkokoteni on tow laden with a sack of rice, a barren of local brew, a blanket and five goats tied together to one handle of the mkokoteni, bleating as they went.  She tied the goats at the back of the house were she and the other tenants did their cooking, the blanket, the barrel and the sack she took inside their two rooms.

He watched her as she moved gaily preparing him dinner, humming as she went.  The goats at the back bleated as if in chorus with her humming.  His eyes kept darting from her to the packages in the room, not saying anything.  After serving him dinner, she rushed to her relatives, asking them to join them the next evening.  She hummed happily as she walked back home.

When she came back she found him sitting with a group of men.  She could smell a feast.  Dazed she walked to the back.

            “Shoga,” one of the neighbours started, “shemeji is full of surprises!  A party at this time of the night?”

            “Yeah,” another one jumped in, “he untied two of the goats and told the men to slaughter them and us women to cook pilau!”

Blindly she walked back inside, where he was with eight other men.  Eating, drinking and shouting.  As his eyes met hers, he got up and walked towards her.  She flinched as he drew closer.

            “So you found another man, huh?”  He hissed.  “You thought you could leave me?  You are mine!”

Even as she cleared the dishes, she could not believe what her eyes had seen and ears had heard.  Her tongue felt lifeless in her mouth.  She stood there dumbfounded, not knowing what to do.  She felt like weeping but no tears came out.  She felt the wall surrounding them could feel her pain, shame and dismay.

Yes, she had indeed been bought.  Only a sign on her forehead saying, ‘once bought can’t be returned’ was missing.