Abstract
Tanzanian flash fiction writer and poet
Neema Komba, an award-winning poet and writer from Tanzania
CREDIT: Jamie Pilarczyk, University of Tampa
Let Them Eat Fruit Cake is set in her native Tanzania and describes the challenge of a woman trying to stand up for her own wishes and feelings as others try to bulldoze over her while arranging her wedding via committee.
Wedding committees are normal in Tanzania, where a group of, often older, people will organise the day on the couple’s behalf. Sometimes the bride-to-be is not even invited to join the committee, although things are starting to change.
Komba, 31, who is a 2014 Etisalat prize winner for flash fiction literature, said: “It was about trying to figure out how it doesn’t just stop at the top level. People lose their voices at the smallest things.”
The inspiration for the story of the wedding cake came partly from her experience when her brother was married a few years ago and someone on the wedding committee attempted to stop the family getting the wedding they wanted.
“We ended up alienating him and he was like the chair of the wedding committee but he didn’t really end up doing anything and we took over,” she said.
The family story speaks to a much wider situation in Tanzania at the moment, where bloggers are being forced offline by the need for a licence that costs as much as many annual incomes. Other new rules include fines or a jail sentence for publishing material that is “indecent”, “annoying” or that “leads to public disorder”, as well as mandatory surveillance cameras in cybercafes.
“A few years ago we had so much freedom we could pretty much say anything about the president. At the time we still thought he was a pretty awful person, but now we have a new one and now, in terms of freedom of speech, things are really terrible,” said Komba.
As a writer, Komba feels strongly about what is going on around her and has been mulling over how to respond to it. Her story, she thinks, considers how if you don’t address small issues, and speak up for what you believe in, they can boil over “and become something huge, because it is not being addressed”.
With the story she tries to confront “how you could really lose your voice, even in a normal setting, because when you are looking at it from a family perspective you can think: ‘What can I do, I am so small?’.”
She added: “It was about trying to figure out how it doesn’t just stop at the top level. People lose their voices at the smallest things.”
The story is, she says, “a wake-up call even to myself. As a writer I’ve been really afraid to say things, because, well, if I say this I am tipping the scales a bit”.
“I felt it was also to remind myself things become worse if you don’t address them at the time,” she added. “They can continue and get worse.”
Komba, who has a business degree and runs a soap factory when she is not writing, is using her experiences in her next piece of writing, a memoir she has just finished. Her other ambition is to write a book about important women who have made a difference in Tanzania.
Let them eat fruit cake
“I want a vanilla cake.” She practised the words in her mind. Simple. Definitive. She wasn’t going to beg. After all, it was her wedding.
It was the third committee meeting, the day to pass the budget for the wedding, but it looked to be more of a get together to eat and drink. All afternoon, the kamati members sat in their chairs, eating mishkaki – roasted beef skewers – with chips and plantains, while slowly nursing their beers. There was no discussion about the wedding. Everything the chairman proposed was unanimously passed.
The kamati members were from Tito’s side of the family. It’s the groom’s family that prepares the wedding, and Tumaini’s family would simply be invited to attend. The send-off is the bride’s ceremony. For the send-off, the bride’s family would prepare the ceremony and the groom’s family would be invited. It’s tradition. Family and friends usually contribute money to attend a wedding, giving them some kind of say in the wedding – like shareholders, maybe even tax payers. The wedding committee is accountable to the contributors and to the family. They have almost a fiduciary duty to act in the best interest of the wedding contributors, to give them the best return on their contribution in the form of a lavish party with bottomless drinks, amazing food and entertainment. Some committees don’t even care about the bride and groom, for whom the entire wedding committee is set.
This kamati was different. On the second meeting, they had invited Tumaini to be a part of the preparations. It was unheard of for a kamati to consider the bride’s opinion and Tumaini was honoured that they cared for hers. She felt lucky that she could have the option to fulfil her wishes, but she wasn’t particularly trying to overstep her boundaries. Tito worked at a gold mine and was often out of town, leaving Tumaini on her own.
She had never been one of those girls who dreamt of her wedding day in great detail – from the kind of flowers at the doorstep to the colour of her nail polish. She had been too busy caring for her four-month-old daughter, Kajala, to think about such details, but in that second meeting she felt like she owed it to them to give her opinion since they had gone out of their way to include her. So, when the chairman opened the floor for contributions, she wanted to give one.
“Is there anyone who has objections about the cake?” He smiled at the members, expecting total agreement from everyone. His eyes bulged when Tumaini raised her hand.
“Mkwe (in law), we haven’t even married you yet and you are already trying to call the shots?” He sneered at her and the other members laughed. Tumaini was confused. Didn’t they say they wanted her opinion? Why invite her if they didn’t mean it? She had tried again a few times in that meeting to get a word in, but the chair never let her speak.
“You are marrying into our tribe now,” he told her. “Our women are reserved. Sio kimbelembele (not assertive).” Tumaini was offended by his remarks but didn’t want to stir the pot, so she smiled.
The mwenyekiti (chairman), Mzee Kapalila, was Tito’s uncle on his mother’s side. He was a short and stout man, with erect shoulders that elevated his stature. He was a man of few words with a thick northern accent that made every sentence sound like a command. He didn’t have any apparent charm, but people still took to him. He was on their side, promising the best use for their money. In tough economic times, people wanted that kind of assurance, someone that would use their money frugally. It didn’t matter when he dictated how much the wedding dress should cost, or that his cousin should supply the drinks. According to Kapalila, it was better for the kamati to deal with someone he knew and trusted. So, when he proposed that his wife be the treasurer for the committee, everyone agreed without any hesitation.
Tito’s mother had been grateful for Kapalila’s involvement since Tito’s father had passed away. She also thought she could enjoy her son’s wedding without the stress of planning it. She could focus on getting her women’s group to organise a bag party to give him presents to start his life. The wedding was just too big a production for her.
However, as mwenyekiti, Kapalila hated to be contradicted. The only opinion he wanted to hear was the one that agreed with his own.
After the second meeting, Kapalila pulled Tumaini aside.
“Listen, we are all here working to make your wedding great. Why are you making it so difficult?”
“I just…” Tumaini tried to explain, but he cut her off.
“These people are paying a great deal of money – they want to eat, they want to drink. Not all this other female nonsense – dress, decorations, cake!” He paused for a moment, then raised his voice to reach nearby committee members continuing to drink after the meeting was over.
“People want BEER!” The remaining kamati cheered.
Tumaini walked away unsure of what to do. It was her wedding, but was it really hers if someone else was paying for it? As she approached the blue metal gate, one of the kamati members, Mama Anasi, Tito’s eldest cousin, ran after her. “Baba means well,” she said in a breathy voice. “We all just agree with him because we know he wants the best for the wedding.” She said. “I know he can be a bit… much… sometimes, but he really cares.” She placed her hand on Tumaini’s shoulder to give her a bit of assurance. “You don’t want to oppose him!” She flashed a big smile.
CREDIT: Alex Green
Maybe he really did care. Maybe he really meant well. He had pledged the most money for the wedding. He had yet to pay it, but he wanted to give two million shillings. Tumaini thought about it all the way home and decided to stay quiet about the cake. She wanted peace with the new family, peace on her wedding day. Silence was the best way to accomplish that – because it’s simpler, she thought. All she had to do was stuff her voice in the deepest parts of herself, and to be their idea of a dutiful wife until the wedding passed.
***
She found her mother watching the news – about some banned hip-hop song that spoke ill of the government. Tumaini didn’t pay attention to that kind of news and was surprised that her mother paid any mind to it.
“Silence is cancerous, it rots things,” her mother said mindlessly before switching off the TV. “Someone somewhere has got to be brave for all of us.”
It must have been her mother’s words that became the catalyst to her thoughts all the way to the meeting. Suddenly she had this need to speak out at the committee.
She thought of how dishonest and shameful it was to feign apathy when she cared about the kind of cake they served at her wedding. How cowardly it was to choose silence. She thought about how embarrassed she had been to bring Kajala to the meeting – how she didn’t want Kajala to see her mother so voiceless.
And so, that afternoon she found herself pacing outside the Udasa club searching for words to go against mwenyekiti. A trickle of sweat ran down her armpits and she could feel her blouse dampen. She took a step, then two, until she was face to face with the committee, but then she froze in their presence.
This wasn’t just some committee. This was her future family. Mwenyekiti wasn’t some tyrant. He was Tito’s uncle, a man who had stepped into Tito’s father’s shoes to plan a wedding for them. Her words had consequences. Speaking could cost her the entire wedding, and even the love of her life. No vanilla cake could ever be that important. So, she pulled up a chair and sat silently at the edge of the group.
The treasurer was passing the budget. Everyone was mindlessly nodding to everything she said – like a bad catchy song – “Ndio. Yes. Of course.”
“Mkwe!” Kapalila called to her. “Karibu (welcome)! You are just in time. We were discussing about how mama Kapalila here will make your wedding cake. She makes delicious fruit cakes.”
There were more nods from the kamati.
“It costs next to nothing. Just one million.” He gave her a sinister smile, then yelled at the waiter.
“Leta (bring) BEER!” He laughed, and just like that, the discussion was over. He ignored Tumaini again as if she were a decorative fixture with nothing to say.
Tumaini wanted peace. She clenched her fists and swallowed her voice deep inside her. But the voice grew inside her stomach. It was a tornado, maybe a volcano. It seethed. Like a reflux, it rose back to her chest all the way up to the tip of her tongue. She didn’t mean to raise her voice, but the words came out louder and angrier than she intended.
“I don’t want a fucking fruit cake! I want a vanilla cake – plain and simple. Is-It-Too-Much-To-Fucking-Ask?”
And the committee went silent.