No cows, no 'I do': The custom keeping Pokot playboys in line

In the rugged landscapes of West Pokot County, a centuries-old custom is causing turmoil in the hearts of young lovers and stirring debate among community members. Known as 'Achulla', this practice requires men to pay compensation for impregnating women out of wedlock – a tradition that's both praised for promoting responsibility and criticised for perpetuating gender inequality.

The price of passion: Kaptuya's dilemma

Kaptuya Limasya*, a 23-year-old man from Chepareria, finds himself caught between love and tradition as he prepares for his December wedding. But before he can say "I do," he must first settle an old debt – the Achulla payment for a child he fathered four years ago with another woman.

"I have to pay two cows before proceeding with plans for my wedding," Kaptuya reveals, his voice tinged with anxiety. This payment comes on top of the ten cows he's expected to provide as dowry for his bride-to-be, creating a financial burden that's all too common for young Pokot men.

Kaptuya's story is far from unique. Another 28-year-old man, who wishes to remain anonymous, confesses, "I have many children born out of wedlock. I paid three cows for my firstborn child, a girl. If others hear I've paid for one, they'll start demanding too."

Compensation or consequence?

Achulla, which translates into "paying the damages," is rooted in the belief that premarital pregnancy damages a woman's reputation and future marriage prospects.

Elder William Lopetakou explains, "The custom remains important and relevant to many single mothers and their families, shifting between the younger and older generations."

The practice varies among families, with payments ranging from cash to livestock. Typically, a higher price is demanded for male children. The ritual involves the young man bringing alcohol and money for the girl's family elders, symbolising his acknowledgment of responsibility.

Lopetakou clarifies that the payment doesn't equate to marriage: "Sometimes by the time the man is making the payment, the girl in question is perhaps already married to someone else." He adds that without paying Achulla, the woman can "disturb" the young man even after he marries another person.

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While some community members staunchly defend Achulla, others view it as an outdated custom that perpetuates gender inequality.

Pastor James Akazile supports the tradition, stating, "Even though we evolve and modernise quickly, this is one of the many practices I have noticed many families still uphold." He believes it helps prevent out-of-wedlock pregnancies and promotes family stability.

On the other hand, Sigor resident Gladys Cheyech dismisses the custom as antiquated and harmful. "I cannot allow a man who failed to marry me to pay for such things," she asserts. "It creates feelings of devaluation, stigmatisation, distress, anger, father-child separation, and even conflict."

Gladys argues that the custom is disempowering to women and holds little value in modern society. She points out that women are often excluded from the negotiation process, as it's considered a predominantly male-directed affair.

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Achulla’s impactextends beyond individual relationships, shaping broader societal attitudes and behaviours. Community facilitator Emily Partany notes that men who don't pay Achulla face social consequences, including forfeiting the right to receive dowry for their own daughters when they get married.

For women, the custom can be a double-edged sword. While it provides some financial support, it also reinforces notions of women as property to be "damaged" and compensated for. This perspective can contribute to the already high rates of teenage pregnancy and female genital mutilation (FGM) in West Pokot County.

Selina Chepkerker argues that Achulla is still practiced in modern society to discourage deadbeat dads who don't want to take responsibility. "Some youths resort to marrying the girl because it is expensive to pay Achulla and later pay a dowry for a different lady," she explains.

However, critics like Gladys prefer child maintenance over Achulla payments, citing financial constraints and scepticism over paternity claims. She highlights the negative impact on family dynamics: "We have many cases of demoralised fathers who have lost respect, 'domestic power', and dignity in the eyes of their children and wives."

A custom at a crossroads

As West Pokot grapples with modernisation, the Achulla custom stands at a crossroads. While it continues to play a significant role in curbing single parenthood and promoting responsibility, its critics argue for more progressive approaches to addressing unplanned pregnancies and supporting single mothers.

Ferdinand Powon Longronyang, a Pokot resident defends the practice, saying, "It becomes hard for a girl to get married, but Achulla makes the family get something and console themselves. It is just an appreciation."

The story of Kaptuya and countless others like him illustrates the complex interplay between love, tradition, and social responsibility in Pokot culture.

In a region where teenage pregnancies and FGM rates remain alarmingly high – with West Pokot County ranking second in the country for teenage pregnancies at 36 per cent and an FGM rate of 44 per cent – the evolution of customs like Achulla may prove crucial in shaping a more equitable future for Pokot men and women alike.

Partany emphasises the custom's role in curbing social issues: "It still holds great significance in addressing cases of single motherhood, teenage pregnancies, and the burden on the elderly who take care of children left at home."

As the sun sets over the rolling hills of West Pokot, Kaptuya contemplates his future, weighing the cost of tradition against the promise of new love.

*The name of the man has been changed to protect his identity.

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