Marriage Is a Private Affair Chinua Achebe Have you written to your dad yet?

asked Nene1 one afternoon as she sat with Nnaemeka in her room at 16 Kasanga Street, Lagos. No. Ive been thinking about it. I think its better to tell him when I get home on leave! But why? Your leave is such a long way off yetsix whole weeks. He should be let into our happiness now. Nnaemeka was silent for a while, and then began very slowly as if he groped for his words: I wish I were sure it would be happiness to him. Of course it must, replied Nene, a little surprised. Why shouldnt it? You have lived in Lagos all your life, and you know very little about people in remote parts of the country. Thats what you always say. But I dont believe anybody will be so unlike other people that they will be unhappy when their sons are engaged to marry. Yes. They are most unhappy if the engagement is not arranged by them. In our case its worseyou are not even an Ibo. This was said so seriously and so bluntly that Nene could not find speech immediately. In the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the city it had always seemed to her something of a joke that a persons tribe could determine whom he married. At last she said, You dont really mean that he will object to your marrying me simply on that account? I had always thought you Ibos were kindly disposed to other people. So we are. But when it comes to marriage, well, its not quite so simple. And this, he added, is not peculiar to the Ibos. If your father were alive and lived in the heart of Ibibio-land he would be exactly like my father. I dont know. But anyway, as your father is so fond of you, Im sure he will forgive you soon enough. Come on then, be a good boy and send him a nice lovely letter . . . It would not be wise to break the news to him by writing. A letter will bring it upon him with a shock. Im quite sure about that. All right, honey, suit yourself. You know your father. As Nnaemeka walked home that evening he turned over in his mind different ways of overcoming his fathers opposition, especially now that he had gone and found a girl for him. He had thought of showing his letter to Nene but decided on second thoughts not to, at least for the moment. He read it again when he got home and couldnt help smiling to himself. He remembered Ugoye quite well, an Amazon of a girl who used to beat up all the boys, himself

included, on the way to the stream, a complete dunce at school. I have found a girl who will suit you admirablyUgoye Nweke, the eldest daughter of our neighbor, Jacob Nweke. She has a proper Christian upbringing. When she stopped schooling some years ago her father (a man of sound judgment) sent her to live in the house of a pastor where she has received all the training a wife could need. Her Sunday school teacher has told me that she reads her Bible very fluently. I hope we shall begin negotiations when you come home in December. On the second evening of his return from Lagos, Nnaemeka sat with his father under a cassia tree. This was the old mans retreat where he went to read his Bible when the parching December sun had set and a fresh, reviving wind blew on the leaves. Father, began Nnaemeka suddenly, I have come to ask for forgiveness. Forgiveness? For what, my son? he asked in amazement. Its about this marriage question. Which marriage question? I cantwe mustI mean it is impossible for me to marry Nwekes daughter. Impossible? Why? asked his father. I dont love her. Nobody said you did. Why should you? he asked. Marriage today is different . . . Look here, my son, interrupted his father, nothing is different. What one looks for in a wife are a good character and a Christian background. Nnaemeka saw there was no hope along the present line of argument. Moreover, he said, I am engaged to marry another girl who has all of Ugoyes good qualities, and who . . . His father did not believe his ears. What did you say? he asked slowly and disconcertingly. She is a good Christian, his son went on, and a teacher in a girls school in Lagos. Teacher, did you say? If you consider that a qualification for a good wife I should like to point out to you, Emeka, that no Christian woman should teach. St. Paul in his letter to the Corinthians says that women should keep silence. He rose slowly from his seat and paced forward and backward. This was his pet subject, and he condemned vehemently those church leaders who encouraged women to teach in their schools. After he had spent his emotion on a long homily he at last came back to his sons engagement, in a seemingly milder tone.

Whose daughter is she, anyway? She is Nene Atang. What! All the mildness was gone again. Did you say Neneataga, what does that mean? Nene Atang from Calabar. She is the only girl I can marry. This was a very rash reply and Nnaemeka expected the storm to burst. But it did not. His father merely walked away into his room. This was most unexpected and perplexed Nnaemeka. His fathers silence was infinitely more menacing than a flood of threatening speech. That night the old man did not eat. When he sent for Nnaemeka a day later he applied all possible ways of dissuasion. But the young mans heart was hardened, and his father eventually gave him up as lost. I owe it to you, my son, as a duty to show you what is right and what is wrong. Whoever put this idea into your head might as well have cut your throat. It is Satans work. He waved his son away. You will change your mind, Father, when you know Nene. I shall never see her, was the reply. From that night the father scarcely spoke to his son. He did not, however, cease hoping that he would realize how serious was the danger he was heading for. Day and night he put him in his prayers. Nnaemeka, for his own part, was very deeply affected by his fathers grief. But he kept hoping that it would pass away. If it had occurred to him that never in the history of his people had a man married a woman who spoke a different tongue, he might have been less optimistic. It has never been heard, was the verdict of an old man speaking a few weeks later. In that short sentence he spoke for all of his people. This man had come with others to commiserate with Okeke when news went round about his sons behavior. By that time the son had gone back to Lagos. It has never been heard, said the old man again with a sad shake of his head. What did Our Lord say? asked another gentleman. Sons shall rise against their Fathers; it is there in the Holy Book. It is the beginning of the end, said another. The discussion thus tending to become theological, Madubogwu, a highly practical man, brought it down once more to the ordinary level. Have you thought of consulting a native doctor about your son? he asked Nnaemekas father. He isnt sick, was the reply. What is he then? The boys mind is diseased and only a good herbalist can bring him back to his right senses. The medicine he requires is Amalile, the same that women apply with success to recapture their husbands straying affection.

Madubogwu is right, said another gentleman. This thing calls for medicine. I shall not call in a native doctor. Nnaemekas father was known to be obstinately ahead of his more superstitious neighbors in these matters. I will not be another Mrs. Ochuba. If my son wants to kill himself let him do it with his own hands. It is not for me to help him. But it was her fault, said Madubogwu. She ought to have gone to an honest herbalist. She was a clever woman, nevertheless. She was a wicked murderess, said Jonathan, who rarely argued with his neighbors because, he often said, they were incapable of reasoning. The medicine was prepared for her husband, it was his name they called in its preparation, and I am sure it would have been perfectly beneficial to him. It was wicked to put it into the herbalists food, and say you were only trying it out. Six months later, Nnaemeka was showing his young wife a short letter from his father: It amazes me that you could be so unfeeling as to send me your wedding picture. I would have sent it back. But on further thought I decided just to cut off your wife and send it back to you because I have nothing to do with her. How I wish that I had nothing to do with you either. When Nene read through this letter and looked at the mutilated picture her eyes filled with tears, and she began to sob. Dont cry, my darling, said her husband. He is essentially good-natured and will one day look more kindly on our marriage. But years passed and that one day did not come. For eight years, Okeke would have nothing to do with his son, Nnaemeka. Only three times (when Nnaemeka asked to come home and spend his leave) did he write to him. I cant have you in my house, he replied on one occasion. It can be of no interest to me where or how you spend your leaveor your life, for that matter. The prejudice against Nnaemekas marriage was not confined to his little village. In Lagos, especially among his people who worked there, it showed itself in a different way. Their women, when they met at their village meeting, were not hostile to Nene. Rather, they paid her such excessive deference as to make her feel she was not one of them. But as time went on, Nene gradually broke through some of this prejudice and even began to make friends among them. Slowly and grudgingly they began to admit that she kept her home much better than most of them. The story eventually got to the little village in the heart of the Ibo country that Nnaemeka and his young wife were a most happy couple. But his father was one of the few people in the village who knew nothing about this. He always displayed so much temper whenever his sons name was mentioned that everyone avoided it in his presence. By a tremendous effort of will he had succeeded in pushing his son to the back of his mind. The strain had nearly killed him but he had persevered, and won.

Then one day he received a letter from Nene, and in spite of himself he began to glance through it perfunctorily until all of a sudden the expression on his face changed and he began to read more carefully. . . . Our two sons, from the day they learnt that they have a grandfather, have insisted on being taken to him. I find it impossible to tell them that you will not see them. I implore you to allow Nnaemeka to bring them home for a short time during his leave next month. I shall remain here in Lagos . . . The old man at once felt the resolution he had built up over so many years falling in. He was telling himself that he must not give in. He tried to steel his heart against all emotional appeals. It was a reenactment of that other struggle. He leaned against a window and looked out. The sky was overcast with heavy black clouds and a high wind began to blow, filling the air with dust and dry leaves. It was one of those rare occasions when even Nature takes a hand in a human fight. Very soon it began to rain, the first rain in the year. It came down in large sharp drops and was accompanied by the lightning and thunder which mark a change of season. Okeke was trying hard not to think of his two grandsons. But he knew he was now fighting a losing battle. He tried to hum a favorite hymn but the pattering of large raindrops on the roof broke up the tune. His mind immediately returned to the children. How could he shut his door against them? By a curious mental process he imagined them standing, sad and forsaken, under the harsh angry weathershut out from his house. That night he hardly slept, from remorseand a vague fear that he might die without making it up to them.

Making Meanings Marriage Is a Private Affair

First Thoughts 1. What are some similarities and differences between your generations attitudes toward love and marriage and those of the generation before you. How would you compare the attitudes you have written down with the attitudes between generations in this story? Shaping Interpretations 2. What is the irony of the storys title? 3. This story bursts with conflicts among people and ideas. What are at least two of these conflicts? Does the story resolve them? If so, how? 4. How would you describe Okekes character? Use details from the story to support your answer. 5. What do you think happened to the herbalist, and why would Achebe include that anecdote? 6. What might the rain at the end of the story symbolize? 7. The storys subject is a marriage that occurs against a parents wishes, but what is the storys theme? 8. Both Achebes story and the poem Going Home (see Connections) are about generational and cultural conflict, but they differ in narrative point of view. From whose point of view is each told? How does the point of view shape your response to each work? Extending the Text 9. You hear much talk today about traditional values and about the multicultural society. What are some contemporary examples of clashes in values, and how would you relate them to this storys plot and theme?

THE SHOE BAG (This is a story from The Female Cell by Rumaizah Abu Bakar.) Kak Teh and I take off our rubber slippers and put them in two lime green shoe bags with our name tags and tighten the strings to secure it. Our travel agent has provided them to us when we checked into the hotel and advised us to take them to the mosque. It is common for pilgrims to lose footwear left outside. At the entrance, a woman security guard in black looks into our bags. She mumbles something in Arabic as she returns them and gestures for us to proceed. I take my sister's hand as we enter we admire the floral motifs carved on the entrance arch, the walls are of white marble that have light grey strokes in them, the high ceiling is carved in arabesque and the white marble floor we walk on while pilgrims shuffle around us hurriedly. We ignore the shoe racks around the pillars as we have our footwear in our bags. Yesterday, we had trouble finding our shoes at the racks. We have, also, carefully hidden our flat purses in the deep pockets of our robes as a precaution. We go up a flight of steps to another large area and down again to another. The joints in my knees wobble from fatigue and I see that Kak Teh is a little out of breath. We had planned this journey for a long time, depositing a part of our monthly salary into our Tabung Haji accounts. When we learned we had made the Malaysian hajj list for the season, Kak Teh and I were very excited. Tabung Haji also appointed an ustaz from the group as our muhrim as we had no male family member with us. After our husbands passed away, we have both been on our own. The giant cube at the central courtyard looked majestic Al-Haram mosque takes my breath away. The Kaabah is fifteen meters high and is draped in black silk with gold-embroidered calligraphy. According to Islamic theology, Al-Baytul Mamur was built by angels before the creation of mankind as ordained by God, to be a place of worship on earth to reflect the one in heaven. I feel like the Kaabah is waving at me, welcoming me to the house of God. I wave back and move closer. Thousands of pilgrims are performing the tawaf, going around the Kaabah seven times, keeping their left shoulders parallel to it. It is crowded. Pilgrims walk back to back, with chests touching the backs of those in front, chanting in high spirits, Allahuakbar! Allahuakbar! Allahuakbar! We see the Hijir Ismail, separated by four foot high semi-circular wall on the Southwest side of the Kaabah. It is the place where one asks God to grant ones wishes, but we have to skip it as it is too crowded. It is a clear and sunny outside, a warm dry day in December but everybody seems oblivious to it. There is much hustle and bustle as people hurry around the mosque, but it is neither chaotic nor noisy. I look around and absorb it all. It feels serene. It is still two hours away from the Zohor prayers, but rows of people are already seated. We find a space on the floor next to three young women. From their crisp

white embroidered telekung and baju kurung, we know that they are Malaysians. Assalammulaikum, We greet them and extended our hands in the customary salam. They smile and rise a little, offering their hands, Waalaikumsalam. We spread our sejadah to face the Kaabah, the qiblat. Outside Al-Haram mosque, jemaah or group prayers are performed in straight rows with everybody standing behind the imam. However, here people stand in circles around the Kaabah. Where are you from? I ask one of the young women. Kuala Lumpur, and where are you from Auntie? Kedah. You can call me Mak Su. This is my sister, Mak Teh. Im Iza and these are my cousins, Siti and Ayu. How long have you been in Makkah? Two weeks. How about you? We arrived two weeks, as well, but today is the first time we have come by ourselves. Our roommates will be here later for maghrib and isyaq prayers. I see. I open my copy of Quran. Kak Teh takes out her tasbih beads and starts to recite the zikir. Halfway through the first chapter, I look up and see waves of water approaching us. I hear a whistle and a man shouting, "Hajjah! Hajjah!" He gave instructions in Arabic. People already seated rise and hurry towards the steps nearby. The three young women next to us get up, grab their sejadah and bags, hold one anothers hands and rush behind the crowd. I struggle with my stuff, help Kak Teh and dash for the steps as well. Though I have witnessed this scene several times, it never seizes to amaze me. The group of men in jade green uniforms march closer with a tanker mounted vehicle. I see the words Haram Captor printed on it. Three men hold up a thick red rope to isolate the area being cleaned. One man pours pails of soapy water onto the floor while two others mop. Then, finally, a machine with bristles at the bottom polishes the white marble to a shine. They are quick and efficient and they do not leave behind a strong smell of detergent when they are done. This troop is responsible for keeping the grand mosque clean twenty four hours a day and seven days a week. They have to work while pilgrims go about with their devotional duties and the grand mosque is never empty. I am amazed at how enthusiastic they are. I have never seen another bunch of janitors so proud of their work. I smile and turn around to say something to Kak Teh. To my horror, I see a stranger stands behind me. My sister is nowhere to be seen. Panic overtakes me. I run around like a headless chicken, yelling, Kak Teh! Kak Teh! Where are you? Kak Teh! Heads turn to look at me. I run from one pillar to the next. I go around in circles, as they all look the same. I sweat profusely and my heart beats violently. Where is she? An old woman in black speaks to me in Arabic. Several more approach, all talking in Arabic. Their voices are kind but I cannot understand a word they say. Tears flow down my cheeks. Then, I catch sight of three familiar figures in the middle of the mosque where rows of zamzam water containers line the floor; Iza and her cousins. I approach them, panting, and tap Iza's shoulder. She turns around, startled and looks at me. Have you did you see my sister?

She shakes her head. Wasnt she with you? No, she was holding my hand when we rushed up the steps. Then, when I turned around, she was gone. Oh, dear! I have looked around this area already. Mak Su, why don't you wait here? We'll look for her. Having seen her only briefly, I am worried that they would not recognise her. But they are sure that they would know my sister from the silver embroidery on her white telekung that they had so admired, and her matching bag. Iza talks to the other two women. Lets try that floor, she points up the steps. You can take the left half and Ill take the right. We meet here in twenty minutes. She points to the steps on the other side of the mosque, across the circular courtyard downstairs. You see the sign there? The four corners of the Kaabah roughly faced the four cardinal points of the compass; Hajr-al-Aswad, Rukun-al-Iraqi, Rukun-al-Shami and Rukun alYamani. They look up, squint and nod. We meet at Hajr-al-Aswad. There is a long queue where she points. Pilgrims are waiting for their turns to touch and kiss the sacred black stone that is set four feet above the ground towards the east of the Kaabah. It is believed to have been white when it fell from heaven and turned black from absorbing the sins of millions of pilgrims. Now cracked and in pieces, it is held together within a silver frame. Recite the salawat while we look for her, she says to me. I nod meekly as they spread out. The Tabung Haji officer has told us that the Al-Haram is large enough to house almost four millions worshippers, indoors and out. The mosque was built around the Kaabah during the reign of Caliph Omar Ibn al-Khattab in 634 CE. It was rebuilt twice after natural disasters. To accommodate the increasing number of pilgrims, it has gone through at least four major renovations under several rulers, with more being planned. Currently, it has nine minarets and is one of the worlds largest airconditioned buildings. I spread my sejadah on the floor, sit down and lean against the marble pillar. Kak Teh could not have ventured too far in such a short time. I continue reciting the salawat softly. I recall stories of pilgrims losing their way in the mosque. They say one has to watch ones words in the holy land for Allah's punishment would come swiftly. I wondered if my sister had said something that she should not have without realising it. I should have held on to her hand instead of assuming she would follow me. It feels like a long time before the three women return. They are all out of breath and, to my horror, Kak Teh is not with them. Oh my God! What do we do now? I hope they would have a solution. The area around the Kaabah is crowded. People have laid prayer mats on the floor to reserve their places for the zohor jemaah prayers in one hour. The area upstairs, where we are, is full too. The walkaways are blocked; there is no way we can get out. Its impossible for us to go anywhere now, Iza says. Tears stream down my face. Oh, what about my sister?

Lets sit down and recite the solat hajat; may God help us find her and may she be okay. Afterwards, when the crowd will eases, inshaAllah, we look for her again then. I nod, reluctantly. We spread our sejadah on the narrow space on the floor between two Arab women in bright clothes. After completing our prayers, we wait for a while for pilgrims to leave before the group launches another search for Kak Teh. The three women tour the whole of the ground floor before checking the basement and the first floor. After a long while, they return to the big pillar next to the womens entrance where I am. Where do you keep your shoe bags, Mak Su? Iza asks. Why? We will see if Mak Tehs bag is still there. We will know then if she is still here. Maybe she met someone she knows and is back in the hotel. I shake my head and show her my green bag. We carried them with us into the mosque. Oh! Mak Su, let us take you back to your hotel. I think it is best that we report this to Tabung Haji, and get their help. She tries to smile. * I sit on my bed and leaning against the wall. Six single beds with clean white sheets occupy the room, four in a row, with another two laid perpendicular to them. I am still dressed in my embroidered black robe. My white telekung lies next to me. My four roommates look at me from their beds, awaiting the full account of what happened to my sister. I lost her at Al-Haram, I start. We were running from the cleaners. Then, when I turned around, she was gone. Ya Allah! They gasp. Weve reported this to the Tabung Haji Officers. Theyve recorded her name and details in the Missing Person Log Book. Then I start crying. Be patient, Mak Su. Minah gets up, sits on my bed and hugs me. The Tabung Haji officer said they would notify the other hotels. Since she has been missing for less than twenty hours, they will not notify the Saudi Arabia authority yet. Oh dear. Yes, they say that many missing persons are found within a few hours, or a few days at the most. I sob. After a while, everyone starts talking at the same time, shooting questions at me, curious about the incidence and concerned. Do you think she is still at the mosque? Minah says. I shrug, I dont know. I only hope she is safe. I do not follow my roommates to the mosque when they leave two hours later. I am worried of Kak Teh coming back and not finding me here. There is not enough space to pray in the room, so, I spread my sejadah on the landing outside the door, with my tasbih beads at the right corner and with my Quran raised on a tissue box. After completing the mandatory maghrib prayers, I continue with others and conclude by reciting the solat hajat to, specifically, request Gods help to find Kak

Teh and protect her from harm. I sit on the sejadah, with prayer beads in my hands, pleading to Allah to bring my sister back safely. * When I go downstairs for breakfast with my roommates the next morning, I do not feel hungry. I see a black and white poster on the lift wall with an enlarged passport photo of my sister: Missing Malaysian pilgrim: Zalina Mohamad, 64, staying at the Qurtubah Baraqah, has been reported missing on 23 December 2006. She was last seen at Al-Haram before zohor. Anyone who has seen her are advised to report to the Tabung Haji Administration Office. My eyes filled with tears again. I have not slept at all. I have, instead, been up all night praying. Dont worry, Mak Su. Allah will take care of her, Minah says and hugs me again. InshaAllah, I nod. When we reach the hotels dining hall on the ground floor, four of them join the queue for roti canai and fried noodles while Minah and I proceed to the next counter to trade our beverage coupons for six mugs of hot teh tarik. We head for the only available round table in the corner where I sit next to Minah. For a long while, I can only stare at the food and drink in front of me, as my roommates open their plastic containers and start eating their roti canai and noodles. I, finally, sip my teh tarik. * It has been five years since I last saw Kak Teh at the Al-Haram Mosque. I have not stopped trying to find her. Tabung Haji Officials and various ustaz, tell me to pray for her soul, and hope that she is in heaven, InshaAllah. I miss her so much.