My Husband’s Tongue is Bitter by OKOT P’BITEK My clansmen, I cry Listen to my voice: The insults of my man The insults of my man Are painful beyond bearing. My husband abuses me together with my parents: He says terrible things about my mother And I am so ashamed! He abuses me in English And he is so arrogant. My husband pours scorn On Black People, He behaves like a hen That eats its own eggs A hen that should be imprisoned Under a basket. His eyes grow large Deep black eyes Ocol’s eyes resemble those of the Nile Perch! He becomes fierce Like a lioness with cubs, He begins to behave like a mad hyena. He says Black People are primitive And their ways are utterly harmful, Their dances are mortal sins They are ignorant, poor and diseased! Ocol says he is a modern man, A progressive and civilized man. He says he has read extensively and widely And he can no longer live with a thing like me Who cannot distinguish between good and bad, He says I am just a village woman, I am of the old type, And no longer attractive. Ocol is no longer in love with the old type. He is in love with a modern girl; The name of the beautiful one Is Clementine. Brother, when you see Clementine! The beautiful one aspires To look like a white woman; Her lips are red-hot Like glowing charcoal, She resembles the wild cat That has dipped its mouth in blood, Her mouth is like raw yaws It looks like an open ulcer, Like the mouth of a fiend! Tina dusts powder on her face And it looks so pale; She resembles the wizard Getting ready for the midnight dance; And she believes That this is beautiful Because it resembles the face of a white woman! Her body resembles The ugly coat of the hyena; Her neck and arms Have real human skins! She looks as if she has been struck By lightning; Or burnt like the kongoni In a fire hunt. I am not unfair to my husband, I do not complain Because he wants another woman Whether she is young or aged! Who has ever prevented men From wanting woman? The competition for a man’s love Is fought at the cooking place When he returns from the field Or from the hunt. You win him with a hot bath And sour porridge. The wife who brings her meal first Whose food is good to eat, Whose dish is hot Whose face is bright And whose heart is clean And whose are not dark Like the shadows: The wife who jokes freely Who eats in the open Not in the bed room, One who is not dull Like stale beer, Such is the woman who becomes The head-dress keeper. I do not block my husband’s path From his new wife. If he likes, let him build for her An iron roofed house on the hill! I do not complain, My grass thatched house is enough for me. I am not angry With the woman with whom I share my husband, I do not fear to compete with her. Listen Ocol, my old friend, The ways of your ancestors Are good, Their customs are solid And not hollow They are not thin, not easily breakable They cannot be blown away. By the wind Because their roots reach deep into the soil. I do not understand The way of foreigners But I do not despise their customs. Why should you despise yours? Listen, my husband, You are the son of the Chief. The pumpkin in the old homestead Must not be uprooted!
Posted on: Sat, 05 Oct 2013 05:20:05 +0000
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