A Girl Named Disaster (25 page)

“
Not
Karoyi Mountain,”
Baba
Joseph murmured, raising his head.

“You rest,
oupa
,”
*
the Afrikaner said in a gentle voice.

“No witches here anymore. We threw them over a cliff.”

“I’m sure you did,
oupa
, and a few
Vapostori
, too, by the look of it.”

Daylight and the arrival of help brought most of the prophets back to their senses. Only the man who had fallen off the boulder needed to be carried back to Sister Gladys’s hospital, and to be on the safe side a litter was used for
Baba
Joseph as well.

W
hat happened up there,
Mai
?” asked Nhamo as she drank sweet milky tea at the hospital. Sister Gladys and Dr. van Heerden were splinting the injured
Vapostori
’s leg.

“I’ll take this one to Harare. He needs an X ray,” the Afrikaner told the nurse.

Dr. Masuku grimaced at the word
mai
, but didn’t correct Nhamo. “What do you think happened?”

“
Baba
Joseph drove Long Teats away. I saw it. First she was a giant hyena and then, when he broke the
panga
, she turned into a cane rat, and then she became a blackjack weed. I threw it into the fire.”

“Good for you,” said Mother.

“But I don’t understand how the spirits could throw the
Vapostori
off the mountain,” Nhamo went on. “I thought Jesus was too strong for them.”

“Jesus
is
too strong for them,”
Baba
Joseph called from his bed.

“Go back to sleep,” Sister Gladys said. “Do you know, not one of these fools will take an aspirin.”

“Prayer is our medicine,” insisted
Baba
Joseph.

“I think”—Mother lowered her voice—“that most of the
Vapostori
weren’t born Christians. They were raised to believe in
vadzimu
and the
mhondoro.
It’s very hard to turn your back on something you learned as a child.”

Nhamo nodded. She wouldn’t think of arguing with anything Grandmother had taught her.

“It’s all right to exorcise witches. Everyone thinks they’re bad. It’s different when you try to get rid of your ancestors. I think the
Vapostori
threw themselves off the mountain without quite realizing it. They couldn’t reconcile their childhood beliefs with Christianity.”

Nhamo wasn’t sure she understood this. “Do you believe in the spirit world,
Mai
?”

Mother sighed. “I’m a scientist. I’ve been taught not to believe anything that can’t be proved, and yet…” She gazed at
Baba
Joseph, who had snuggled into the soft bed with a look of bliss. “He often infuriates me, but he’s
old.
I’ve been taught to revere and obey such people. It’s just…built in.”

“Like motherhood,” Dr. van Heerden said cheerfully. “I’m finished, you layabout.” He put a final strip of tape on the injured man’s splint. “If you don’t take Sister Gladys’s nice medicine, every bump of the Land Rover is going to make your eyes cross with pain.”

“Prayer is our medicine,” the
Vapostori
said mournfully.

“Speaking of ancestors, I think you should get in contact with your family, Nhamo,” said Mother. “You have relatives in Mozambique and at Mtoroshanga.”

Nhamo clutched Mother’s hand. She had been forced to flee so often, the thought of going anywhere else was simply terrifying.

“I won’t rush you,” Mother said. “We ought to send a message to your Grandmother, though. I’m sure she wants to know you’re safe.”

“They might make me go back. To marry Zororo.”

“There’s no chance of that!” Mother’s eyes flashed. “The very idea! Trying to force a child into marriage to save their own skins.
Ngozi
sacrifices are illegal in Zimbabwe.”

“I’m…not a child.”

“Oh, Nhamo! Having a few periods doesn’t make you an adult. You have so much to learn—and you’re so clever.”

Nhamo looked down, smiling with pleasure.

“If she’s so clever, tell me how she buggered up half the farm crew,” said Dr. van Heerden as he helped the
Vapostori
hop out to the Land Rover.

Nhamo was happier than she could ever remember. She was accepted. She was safe. And everyone went out of his or her way to make her feel wanted. The cook made her special milk tarts from a recipe provided by Dr. van Heerden. Sister Gladys took time from her busy schedule to give her lessons in arithmetic. Mother let her look through the microscope at wiggling creatures that lived inside the tsetse flies and made them deadly.

Baba
Joseph took a long time to recover from his night-long ordeal on Karoyi Mountain (which he renamed Angel Mountain). One of his sons performed his duties. Nhamo still helped, but she spent several hours a day with the old man, learning to read.

Once she realized the funny marks stood for sounds, she progressed rapidly. She took to reading with a fervor so extreme,
Baba
Joseph had to take the books from her hands by force. “Your eyes are not tractors. They are not meant to pull heavy loads,” he said sternly. Still, Nhamo couldn’t help sounding out every bit of writing she encountered. Some were in languages she didn’t know, like English. It didn’t matter.

Writing wasn’t nearly as easy. Her fingers were callused from years of grueling work. The pencil wouldn’t obey her, and she became so angry she wanted to snap it in two—except that it belonged to
Baba
Joseph. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you to type,” whispered Mother when she found Nhamo in tears over the writing.

But all in all, her life was blissfully free of care. She waited anxiously to hear from Grandmother. “It’s hard to get a message to a place that doesn’t even have a name,” Mother explained. “I sent letters by several people—anyone who might be traveling in that area. They are to ask for
Mai
Chipo, Mother of Chipo, of the Moyo clan, whose childhood name was Nyamasatsi.”

Weeks passed; months passed. Nhamo’s hair grew back, softer than before, and Sister Gladys rubbed coconut oil into her scalp. The smell made Nhamo hungry. The nurse taught her to oil her skin as well, and to buff her fingernails with a piece of leather. She provided her with underpants, something Nhamo found annoying, but Sister Gladys insisted that civilized women wore them. She even came up with a strange strip of cloth with two bags at the front to contain Nhamo’s growing breasts.

That was too much! The bags were uncomfortable. Besides, no one in the village had ever needed such a thing. Nhamo only wore it under the new dress Mother had given her for special occasions. The rest of the time she trotted around bra-less in her dress-cloth.

After work, she liked to sit in the watchtower that overlooked the lucerne fields. During the war, Mother said, it had been a guard post to protect Efifi from attack. Now it was slowly falling apart, but Nhamo could still lounge under the thatched roof and enjoy an afternoon breeze. On this particular day, she had a bottle of red soda from Dr. van Heerden’s fridge. She had a peanut butter sandwich and a heap of guavas. She gazed contentedly at the distant shadow of Karoyi—now Angel—Mountain.

The sun dipped below the trees. A haze began to gather at the rim of the horizon. It spread out in a gray line, and a long, thin finger of it flowed toward the tower. Nhamo watched in amazement. It came from the east, from beyond the border of Mozambique, where her nameless village lay on the banks of an uncharted stream. It surrounded her with a swirl of gray ashes.

Cousin Tsodzo, Cousin Farai. Granddaughter Nhamo. Please do not be frightened. Your relative has died here. We know you would come if you could
, the ashes whispered. And another voice sighed,
If I go to my ancestors before we meet again, my spirit will come to you in a dream. I promise it.

Nhamo screamed and fell to her knees. The soda bottle smashed to the ground below. She stared into the east for a
long, long time. The sky darkened. The first stars came out, and fireflies began to appear over the damp fields of lucerne.

She heard Sister Gladys calling her to dinner. The nurse came to the bottom of the tower and waited while Nhamo climbed down. “What’s wrong?” said the woman, touching the girl’s tear-streaked face.

“
Ambuya
” was all she was able to reply.

In the morning, Mother called her to her office. “I think it’s time we visited your relatives at Mtoroshanga,” she said.

D
r. van Heerden drove. Then he and Mother went off for a cool drink while Sister Gladys alone accompanied Nhamo. Since the Jongwe family was suspicious of white people, they probably wouldn’t welcome a Matabele woman either. Nhamo wore her special dress with the bra underneath. It was hot and uncomfortable. She wore freshly cleaned sandals. Sister Gladys had styled her hair and given her clear polish for her fingernails.

She said Nhamo was beautiful, but Nhamo was afraid to look into the mirror.

Mtoroshanga was covered with dust from mining operations. Some of the houses were attractive; most were merely hovels. Sister Gladys said that many Jongwes lived in the part of town they were passing through. They all worked for the Big Chief Chrome Company, whose manager was Industry Jongwe, Nhamo’s uncle.

Nhamo grew increasingly nervous as they walked. The Jongwes might not like her at all. They might think she was an ignorant Wild Child of dubious parentage. She realized that her mother and father might not have been married at all.

They came at last to a magnificent house with a large lawn and a drive that curved up to the front door. Sister Gladys opened the front gate and went in. Nhamo looked around in wonder. Flowering trees cast shade on emerald grass. They
weren’t even fruit trees. How could anyone afford to have trees that didn’t produce food? And where did they get so much water when the rest of the town was dry?

The windows were covered with iron grilles and the roof was of red tile, like a Portuguese house. The front steps were the same color. They gleamed from a recent application of wax.

“Your father’s younger brother Industry lives here,” Sister Gladys said.

Nhamo was frozen with fear as the nurse rang the doorbell (a doorbell!). Soon a servant (a servant!) in a white apron answered it. She invited them to sit in the parlor while she called her mistress.

“They won’t like me,” whispered Nhamo as she gripped Sister Gladys’s hand.

“They have to. You’re family,” the woman said placidly.

The servant brought them tea, which Nhamo was too distraught to drink. Then a tall, elegant lady in a flowered dress entered and introduced herself as Mrs. Edina Jongwe. Several children peeped out of a back room until the servant shooed them away.

“Dr. van Heerden phoned you about Nhamo,” began Sister Gladys.

“Oh, yes. The whiteman,” said Mrs. Jongwe distantly. “This is the alleged relative.”

“Proud Jongwe’s daughter,” the nurse said.

“She’s pretty,” remarked Mrs. Jongwe. Her cold manner took the pleasure out of the compliment. “How old are you, child?”

“I—I don’t know,” stammered Nhamo.

“When she came to us, she didn’t look over eleven, but actually I think she was around fourteen.”

“Totally uneducated, I suppose.”

“She grew up in a remote village,” said Sister Gladys with a trace of irritation. “Since she’s been at Efifi, she’s learned rapidly. She can read like an adult, and Dr. Masuku is going to teach her typing. She’s wonderful at arithmetic. I think she’s a very intelligent child.”

“How interesting. Well, my husband will be home around five. Perhaps you can come back then and discuss things.” Mrs. Jongwe stood up. Sister Gladys pulled Nhamo to her feet.

They were shown to the door. Very soon Nhamo and the nurse found themselves at the foot of the gleaming red steps.

“I told you they wouldn’t like me,” said Nhamo.

“That witch,” hissed Sister Gladys under her breath. “Did you see her fingernails?”

“They were very long,” Nhamo said.

“That’s to show everyone she doesn’t have to work with her hands. I’d like to stick them into a nice hot tub of laundry.”

Sister Gladys fumed until they found Mother and Dr. van Heerden at a grocery store. “Come back at five! I’m surprised she didn’t tell us to use the servants’ entrance!”

“It’ll be too late to drive back to Efifi afterward, but we can stay at a hotel,” Dr. van Heerden said, trying to calm the nurse down.

“If only we could find Proud. We could forget about the others,” said Mother.

“Don’t worry, Wild Child,” boomed the doctor. “I’ll corner your daddy. I’ll tell Bliksem to track him.”

Nhamo wished he wouldn’t call her Wild Child.

The news of her arrival must have traveled, because at five a small crowd of Jongwes had gathered outside the gate to observe her. Nhamo, feeling extremely self-conscious, made her way past several dozen pairs of eyes. She didn’t know how to react. Did you wave at strange relatives? Would they think she was rude if she didn’t?

Mother and Dr. van Heerden had decided to accompany Sister Gladys on this visit. “I don’t think it makes any difference
who
shows up,” Mother said. “They’re simply unfriendly.”

“Or are hiding something,” observed Dr. van Heerden.

They were ushered into the parlor and again served tea. This time Mrs. Jongwe was joined by her husband and his parents. Nhamo studied them covertly. Industry was dressed in a gray suit and shiny black shoes. His face was carefully
bland. The grandparents were surprisingly youthful, or perhaps they had had easier lives than poor
Ambuya.

What would
Ambuya
have made of these people? “Dressed-up donkeys,” she would have judged them. “What good are claws on a woman?” she would have said about Mrs. Jongwe. “Is she going to hunt dassies for lunch?” Nhamo smiled with her head politely bowed.

“Let’s have a look at the child,” commanded Industry Jongwe, and so Nhamo was made to stand and turn before the assembly.

“She’s pretty,” remarked her grandmother.

“Yes, I noticed that,” Mrs. Jongwe said.

“But she doesn’t look like Proud.”

No, the Jongwes agreed. She didn’t look like Proud.

“She resembles my mother,” said her grandfather. The others glared at him.

“Would it be possible to speak to Proud?” Dr. van Heerden asked.

No, that would not be possible, the others murmured.

“Why ever not?” exclaimed Mother.

The children clustering at the inner door scattered. From beyond, Nhamo heard the
tap-tap-tap
of a cane. The elder Jongwes turned, suddenly tense.

“
Why
can’t we talk to this child’s father?” Mother cried.

An old, old man came through the door. He was dressed in European clothes, but around his neck hung many charms and around his hips was tied a leopard skin. He was unquestionably an
nganga
, and, from the reaction of the others, a powerful and important one.

“Because Proud Jongwe is dead,” the
nganga
said.

Nhamo stood perfectly still as the old man approached her. He lifted her face with a skeletal hand and turned her head from side to side. “She looks like my first wife,” he announced.

A stir went through the room.

The old
nganga
sat in a chair hastily provided for him and motioned for Nhamo to sit beside him. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

She didn’t think to hold anything back. She was convinced he would detect a lie. She told him about the village and her mother’s death. She told him about the
ngozi
and how she had fled from an imposed marriage. She even talked about the leopard that had appeared to her by the water so long ago—if it
was
a leopard and not a trick of the light.

Now and then the
nganga
waved for a cup of tea or tray of snacks. He allowed Nhamo to rest between stories. Night fell outside. The smaller children were hauled off to bed, but no one else attempted to leave.

When Nhamo explained how the
njuzu
had led her to the garden island, the old man bent toward her with great attention. “I gave them Aunt Shuvai’s beads,” Nhamo said. “I didn’t have anything else.”

“You did the right thing,” the
nganga
assured her.

Nervously, she told him about the dead Portuguese and the
panga
she thought he had given her, about the puff adder that had come from the ancestors, and about Long Teats. “But
Baba
Joseph sent Long Teats away,” she said hastily. “He turned her from a hyena to a cane rat and then to a blackjack bush. I threw it into the fire.”

“Good,” said the old man.

By the time the story was done, the smells of good food had been coming from the kitchen for a long time. Nhamo realized it was very late. She gulped a mouthful of tea. It was only then that she looked up at the faces of the Jongwes. They were full of awe, and even fear.

“If this child hadn’t resembled my first wife, I would still have accepted her,” announced the old
nganga.
“She has obviously inherited my ability to communicate with the spirit world. She has been trained by the
njuzu.
I am pleased to welcome her into our family.”