A Girl Named Disaster Page 8

  Nhamo sank to the ground and burst into wild sobs. Rosa came running from the house. “What is it? Are you hurt?” She knelt and took the girl into her arms. Nhamo wept until she was exhausted. Rosa led her into the house and made her lie down on the big bed across from Jesus.

  “Drink this, little Disaster,” she whispered, holding a glass of dark red liquid to Nhamo’s mouth. Nhamo almost choked on the sweet, fiery substance, but Rosa refused to go until she finished. “Stay here. Sleep,” Rosa murmured, stroking Nhamo’s forehead.

  Nhamo woke with a start later. The first thing she saw was the dead man on the wall. He was a murder victim, so he had certainly turned into an ngozi. Was he still wandering around, looking for his enemies? Nhamo rolled off the bed and crouched on the floor where Jesus couldn’t watch her. She heard voices outside, speaking Portuguese.

  Her chest ached from her crying earlier. A heavy feeling of despair weighed down her arms and legs, but she realized that Ambuya needed care.

  “Little Disaster!” cried the trader as she came out to the porch. He and Rosa were sitting next to Grandmother.

  Nhamo was surprised. It was daytime, and the trader was supposed to work until midnight.

  “I come home special for you,” Joao explained. “Rosa send message: You cry, cry. Make yourself sick. She explain better what we got in mind. Speak better Shona.”

  “We know all about the muvuki. He’s an evil man!” began Rosa.

  “Bad bugger ten times over,” Joao added.

  “He tells people to wait, so his spies can find out their secrets. Then he pretends the spirits told him everything. It’s all lies.”

  Nhamo was worried. It was dangerous to criticize the doctor. He might find out and harm Joao and Rosa.

  “He always has someone at the trading post because, sooner or later, everyone goes there,” Rosa went on.

  “I big fool, getting this old lady to talk. The witch doctor hear about you, Nhamo. He smack his lips, you bet. Get out the salt and pepper.” The trader nodded at Ambuya, and she watched him intently.

  “We’ve met your grandmother before, when she came to trade livestock and gold,” said Rosa. “She’s a remarkable woman, intelligent and independent. Look at the way she sent your mother off to school. We know she wouldn’t want you to be an ngozi bride.”

  Nhamo hung her head. It was kind of the trader and his wife to be sympathetic, but they had no idea how desperate the villagers were. They were fighting for their lives. The happiness of one girl wouldn’t concern them.

  “We think—although we aren’t sure—that your mother became a Catholic before she was married. That makes you a Catholic child, Nhamo. You can’t be given away in a pagan ritual.”

  Nhamo looked up, startled.

  “Our little Maria die of cholera,” said Joao. “Rosa sad all the time. No have any baby. She want for you to be hers.” Rosa took Nhamo’s hands, and her eyes glistened with tears. Nhamo was astounded. Live here? With these kind people? Was it possible?

  “Your ambuya would like that,” said Rosa. Nhamo looked down at Grandmother. The old woman brought her withered hands together as though she were trying to clap, the way one did to say thank you.

  “Oh, Grandmother,” murmured Nhamo. She felt dazed. Could she really stay here—and talk to Rosa all day—and listen to the guitar—and eat fish from a can? She would work in the garden and kitchen—she would work day and night to make them like her! But she wouldn’t see Grandmother or Masvita anymore. And what about Mother! Would she still be able to have tea with her?

  “You wouldn’t be able to see your family anyhow, if you got married,” Rosa said, understanding Nhamo’s sudden look of dismay. “You’d be nothing but a slave. Do you think your husband would let you run off on visits? Husband! How could anyone think of marrying you off? You don’t look over eleven.”

  “I’m the same age as Masvita,” said Nhamo.

  “Going by her, you might be as old as twelve. That’s still a shocking age to get married.”

  “Uncle Kufa will never agree,” Nhamo said. She didn’t dare let herself hope for too much.

  “I deal with him,” declared the trader. “I fill him up with presents. He fat as hippo by time he go home.”

  But the trader had underestimated the depth of Uncle Kufa’s fear. “No!” Uncle Kufa shouted that night. “No! The ngozi killed my relatives. It made my daughter sterile. It will kill us all if it doesn’t get satisfaction.” Uncle Kufa’s brother, waiting in the shadows near the porch, grunted in agreement.

  “I talk to Goré Mtoko’s brother, make big offer. He happy, Goré happy. Go back to boneyard where he belongs.”

  “You don’t understand! What the ngozi wants is a son. No one can give it to him except Nhamo.” Uncle Kufa talked as though Nhamo and Rosa didn’t exist, although they were standing right in front of him.

  “She too small for wife,” Joao said. “You leave her here one year. Then she marry.”

  “No one expects her to behave like a grown woman yet, but she has to move into her husband’s house,” said Uncle Kufa. “The ngozi has to understand that we’re serious. And I see right through your schemes, Portuguese. If I leave the girl here, you’ll hide her next time I visit.” His brother moved from the shadows to sit on the edge of the porch. Nhamo’s hopes evaporated.

  “Make Ambuya happy,” Joao pleaded. “She old, old. Have much love for granddaughter.” Grandmother lay on the bed, watching the argument. Her eyes flickered from one man to the other.

  “Ambuya is my greatest concern. She won’t recover until the ngozi is satisfied.”

  “I think Nhamo’s father was Catholic,” said Rosa suddenly.

  Uncle Kufa looked straight past the woman and addressed the empty air. “The girl grew up in a traditional village. She belongs to us, not the Catholics.” He said the word as though it were a curse.

  “She belongs to her father,” Rosa emphasized. Nhamo was impressed. It was a good argument: Perhaps her uncle didn’t have the right to dispose of her after all.

  “He caused the problem,” Uncle Kufa said, still speaking to the air. “It is right and fitting that his daughter pay for his evil deeds.”

  “A true thing,” commented Uncle Kufa’s brother from his perch.

  “The problem was cholera,” Rosa cried. “Hundreds of people died. Do you think your ngozi was responsible for them all?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps someone should ask the muvuki.”

  “That monster who keeps his son’s heart in a pot? Anyone who consults him is an idiot!”

  “Rosa…,” said Joao, putting his hand on her arm.

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, throwing this child away to save your miserable skins!”

  “I see your wife has forgotten the traditional humility of our foremothers. Or perhaps it is the teachings of the Catholics.” Uncle Kufa might have been discussing the weather with the trader, but Nhamo could tell by the stiff way he stood that he was in a cold fury.

  His apparent indifference drove Rosa into a rage. She thrust herself forward and screamed in his face, “Don’t pretend I’m not here! I’ll make you listen if I have to ram the words down your throat!” Nhamo covered her ears. Joao grabbed his wife and pulled her away.

  “Stop it, Rosa! You make things worse!”

  Uncle Kufa signaled to his brother that they were to leave. “Be ready at first light,” he told Nhamo. He left the porch without a backward glance.

  Rosa struggled in Joao’s arms. “You can’t let them take her.”

  “Minha vida,” whispered the trader. “My love. I no can stop them.”

  “Go to the Frelimo soldiers, those women with men’s clothes and guns.”

  “No want guns here, my darling.”

  “Frelimo is against the old ways. They’ll stop this craziness.”

  “Is too dangerous!”

  “If you won’t go, I will!”

  “Okay, okay.” The trader sighed. “But minha vida, the soldie
rs no like visitors after dark. Maybe they use me for target, bang-bang. You cry if I come back full of holes?”

  “You can’t get out of it that easily. I know they all like you,” said Rosa, smiling through her tears.

  “Oh, yes! All the time threaten to pour beer into stream.”

  Nhamo knew Frelimo was opposed to alcohol, but they had reached a truce with the Portuguese trader. Him they could control. They knew where he operated and could round up the shake-shake drinkers if they became too rowdy. Any other beer seller might hide in the forest and cause more trouble. Joao took a lantern and set off down the trail.

  Nhamo and Rosa bathed Grandmother and fed her chicken broth and thin porridge. They arranged her again on the bed.

  “How far is the army camp?” asked Nhamo.

  “About an hour’s walk, on the other side of the trading post.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Joao won’t go alone. He’ll pick up his assistant.”

  The conversation lapsed. Nhamo’s nerves were strung as tightly as a bowstring. She didn’t know what to hope for. She wanted to stay with Rosa—but she didn’t want her family hurt. What would happen when Frelimo showed up with their guns? And if she didn’t marry Goré Mtoko’s brother, wouldn’t the ngozi kill the rest of her family?

  Nhamo sat on the floor next to Grandmother’s bed and held the old woman’s cold hand. “What should I do, Ambuya?” she pleaded. “If you want me to stay with Rosa and Joao, please move your fingers.” But Grandmother did nothing, either because she hadn’t understood or because she, too, couldn’t make up her mind.

  In the distance, Nhamo heard voices and saw lights moving among the trees. They were coming from the direction of the trading post. “Rosa!” she cried.

  “That can’t be the soldiers yet,” Rosa said. Very quickly a crowd poured into the trader’s garden, trampling the plants and forming a semicircle in front of the house. Nhamo was startled to glimpse Joao’s pale face. The crowd consisted of Uncle Kufa and the villagers, the muvuki, and his son and servants. They carried blazing torches.

  “Ah!” cried Rosa as Joao and his assistant were thrown to the ground. Their hands were tied behind their backs.

  “By what authority do you challenge me?” roared the muvuki. He drew a small gun from his belt and pointed it at the trader. Rosa screamed. “You can’t tell me what to do!” the muvuki went on. “You are not my father, and I am not your child. You will not be permitted to interfere.”

  “I only go for check store,” Joao protested.

  “You liar! You were on your way to the Frelimo camp. I heard you talking to your assistant,” Uncle Kufa shouted.

  “If the Catholics want war, then war it shall be,” the muvuki screamed. “We’ll see who wins, your dead man on a stick or the living spirits of Africa!” He fired the gun into the air. Nhamo gasped with terror.

  “I go for take brandy to soldiers,” said Joao, suddenly inspired. The muvuki stopped and considered his captive. The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Something about their expressions seemed odd to Nhamo. In spite of his threatening words, the muvuki didn’t look particularly angry, nor did the trader appear frightened.

  “Frelimo is against alcohol,” the doctor pointed out.

  “Big boys on top no like,” Joao said craftily. “Little guys on bottom drink, drink. Chase women, too.”

  “That’s so,” agreed one of the villagers. “You can tell Frelimo women are trashy. They wear pants like men.”

  “Is this true? You were taking brandy to the soldiers and not asking them to rescue the girl?” the doctor said.

  “Delivering drinks in the middle of the night? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Uncle Kufa.

  “If I go in daytime, the big boys shoot me.”

  “It makes sense.” The muvuki put the gun away. Suddenly, Nhamo understood that an agreement had been reached between the doctor and the trader. They had to live together in this community. They might dislike each other, but they were both businessmen, with the same customers. As long as the muvuki maintained his supremacy, he was quite willing to let a Catholic trader operate in the same area. Joao, for his part, had to protect Rosa. Uncle Kufa was an outsider.

  “Aren’t you going to punish him?” said Uncle Kufa.

  The muvuki ignored him. He called for his son to bring him a seat. The young man went into the trader’s house as though he owned it and returned, lugging Joao’s easy chair. After the doctor had settled himself down, he told his servants to untie Joao and the assistant. Rosa ran to her husband, crying.

  Uncle Kufa didn’t understand the delicate trading that had gone on under his nose. He looked both angry and bewildered, something Nhamo would have enjoyed if her own situation hadn’t been so desperate.

  She knew the battle was over. She was doomed. She watched passively as Grandmother was bundled into a carrying chair. Rosa wept in Joao’s arms, and he looked past her into the dark forest. Nhamo turned away, resolutely following Ambuya’s chair as it swayed along the trail. Perhaps the trader and his wife saw her leave, perhaps not. It didn’t matter. The sooner she was gone, the safer they would be.

  11

  Nhamo stared at the open door of the hut. The light outside was blinding; inside, it was cool and dark. She heard Grandmother’s steady breathing from the mat behind her.

  Tomorrow was the first day of the handing-over ceremony. Beer had been brewed and the nganga from Vatete’s village had arrived. During the ceremony, he would be possessed by Goré’s spirit and would list the things it required to leave Nhamo’s family in peace. All the conditions had already been decided. The ceremony was only a formality.

  The following day, Nhamo and her relatives would travel to Goré’s village for the second part of the marriage. She would wear a red cloth over her head until she sat beside the ceremonial pot shelf in her new home.

  For the first time in her life she wasn’t burdened with chores from dawn to dusk. It was as though the village had already said good-bye to her. Masvita, Tazviona, and the others gathered wood and weeded the gardens. They spoke politely to Nhamo when she ventured from Grandmother’s hut, but there was already a wall between them and her. The only encouraging event was the reappearance of Masvita’s menstruation. It seemed the ngozi had forgotten some of his anger.

  What would her new life be like? She knew that Goré’s brother, Zororo, had three wives already. They were all older than Aunt Chipo and so they would be jealous of her. She had seen Zororo. His hair was peppered with gray, and the whites of his eyes had turned a dull yellow. When Uncle Kufa’s hunting dog growled at him, Zororo gave the beast such a kick in the ribs that it ran yelping into the forest. Goré’s brother clearly didn’t tolerate opposition.

  And what would she do about Mother? Only once, in the weeks since her return, had Nhamo gone to the ruined village. It was too disheartening! “Could I take you with me, Mai?” she asked. It might be better to leave the picture where it was. She could always imagine Mother waiting for her there.

  “Little Pumpkin,” came a faint voice behind her.

  Nhamo was so startled she almost screamed. She spun around and saw Grandmother watching her from the mat.

  “D-did you speak, Va-Ambuya?” she quavered.

  “Come here.” The old woman’s voice was low, but perfectly clear. “I don’t want anyone else to listen.”

  Nhamo crouched next to the mat, trembling.

  “I’ve been able to talk for several days. And to listen for much longer. I had to think about what to do.”

  “D-do?” murmured Nhamo.

  “I’m very, very weak,” Grandmother went on. “I doubt whether I can argue with Kufa about your marriage.”

  “You know about it?”

  “I remember everything, including the night we were taken from the trader’s house. I’ve had a long time to think about what Rosa said. Little Pumpkin, you might be a Catholic.”

  “How can I tell?” Nhamo automatically dipp
ed a cloth in a pot of water. She had been cooling Ambuya’s skin so often during the hot days, she hardly noticed what she was doing.

  “I don’t know. But I do know the Catholics would protect you if they thought you belonged to them.”

  Nhamo felt like crying. Why had Grandmother waited so long to give her this information? Any help Ambuya sent for now would come too late. She gently wiped the old woman’s face and arms with the wet cloth.

  Grandmother was silent a few moments. Perhaps she had exhausted herself.

  “Ambuya, would you like some food? Or should I call Aunt Chipo?”

  “No!” Grandmother said with surprising strength. “The last thing I need is a fit of hysterics in this hut. My beloved child, what I have to say is for you alone.”

  At the words beloved child Nhamo began to cry silently and hopelessly. Never in her life had anyone called her that.

  “You must run away to the Catholics today.”

  Nhamo sat up straight. Had she heard correctly? “You mean walk to the trading post by myself?”

  “No. Kufa and that misbegotten brother of Goré would find you in no time. Besides, Joao and Rosa can’t protect you. They are only two against hundreds. You must go to Zimbabwe.”

  “Zim-bab-we?” gasped Nhamo.

  “I’ve been lying here thinking, thinking, thinking. How is it to be done? And at last the solution came to me. The stream flows down to the river—the Musengezi River. I followed it when I came from Zimbabwe. You can use it to go back.”

  “I—don’t know.” Nhamo was aghast. The edge of the river was thickly forested. Not only was it difficult to walk through, but all the animals went there to drink. She would be someone’s dinner before the first day was out!

  “You could take a trail, but you’d probably get lost. Besides, one girl alone wouldn’t last long.”

  Exactly my idea, thought Nhamo.

  “So you’ll have to take a boat. Crocodile Guts’s boat was pulled up on a sandbank when he died. I doubt whether anyone has disturbed it.”

  “It’s still there,” Nhamo said.