A Girl Named Disaster (26 page)

D
r. van Heerden, Mother, Sister Gladys, and Nhamo were sitting in the dining room of the Mtoroshanga Hotel. They had arrived just before the kitchen closed and were busily applying themselves to curry and rice. Nhamo sat between the two women. She needed them close to her, and she dreaded the morning, when they would leave her.

“You’ve landed with your bum in butter, and no mistake,” said the Afrikaner, wiping his vast chops with a napkin.

“She’s frightened, Hendrik,” said Mother.

“
Ach
, that old man hasn’t eaten anyone for
blerry
years, Wild Child. His teeth have gone soft.”

Nhamo turned her eyes, which threatened to spill over with tears, toward him.

“Don’t look at me like that! You must have learned how to make me feel guilty from
Baba
Joseph,” rumbled Dr. van Heerden. “Listen, any kid in this dust bowl would give her right elbow to live in that mansion. The Jongwes are rich. They’ll send you to the best school, buy you fancy clothes. You can’t afford to pass up the chance.”

“I know,” Nhamo said tearfully.

“The witch almost bit off her long fingernails when the old
nganga
recognized Nhamo,” remarked Sister Gladys.

“Please don’t make her more nervous,” Mother said. She put her arm around Nhamo,
and Nhamo had to swallow hard to keep from crying. It was very clear that all was not harmony in the Jongwe household. Nhamo didn’t know what was wrong, but she knew the addition of a Wild Child from Mozambique wasn’t going to improve matters.

“Remember,” Mother said softly, “if things don’t go well, you can come back to us. We expect you during school vacations anyhow.”

School! That was another thing Nhamo found worrying.

“I’ve got something of yours in my safe, remember,” added Dr. van Heerden.

Nhamo looked up in surprise.

“Your
roora
, Wild Child. Your granny’s gold nuggets.”

“I thought—I mean, I expected—”

“—the old whiteman to pocket them,” finished the Afrikaner.

Nhamo’s face burned with shame. He had taken her in, saved her life, and asked for nothing in return. She had repaid him by slashing Bliksem and stabbing his arm.

“You more than earned your keep with work, Nhamo,” the Afrikaner said, “even if you did disable half the farm crew.”

She was too overcome to speak.

“This calls for ice cream all around,” shouted Dr. van Heerden. The sleepy waiters moved toward the kitchen with resigned expressions on their faces.

The first thing Mrs. Edina Jongwe did was hand Nhamo over to the servants and instruct them to keep the girl out of her sight. Nhamo was glad to obey. She discovered this wasn’t personal. Mrs. Jongwe didn’t tolerate her own children either. They were shunted off to a nanny, who chased them around like naughty mice and fed them beer when she wanted peace. Nhamo was shocked.

Industry Jongwe had a second wife in another, smaller house. Her solitary child, a little boy named Clever, came over and tried to play with Edina’s flock. The other children tormented him, but he was so desperate for company that he
put up with it. “You can beat him if you like,” Mrs. Jongwe said lazily, on one of the few occasions she deigned to notice Nhamo.

That means I’m not
quite
at the bottom, thought Nhamo. I can always thrash Clever if I feel out of sorts.

Instead, she went out of her way to be kind to the miserable child, with the result that he attached himself firmly to her. He was a whining, unattractive creature. In spite of his name he wasn’t bright, and he had yet to master toilet training, although he was old enough to attend school.

Nhamo’s grandparents slept all day and fought all night. Jongwe Senior had developed a taste for whiskey. The smell of his breath made Nhamo’s head swim, and his loud, bullying voice filled her with alarm. He was her grandfather, so she owed him respect—but that didn’t mean she had to stay near him. He was sometimes possessed of strange rages and would strike out with his walking stick and even smash the furniture.

Her grandmother treated him to what were referred to as “curtain lectures.” She didn’t dare humiliate the old man in front of the family, but she could—and did—scream at him behind closed doors.

Nhamo looked forward to school because it got her out of the house. Every morning she and five of Industry’s children set out with book bags over their shoulders. The boys wore khaki uniforms, and the girls had blue-and-white plaid dresses. They all had heavy brown shoes.

Nhamo liked the uniforms. No one could tell she had never been in a school before, or had grown up in a
primitive
village.
Primitive
was one of the first new words she learned from Mrs. Jongwe. Nhamo was no different from any of the other girls until someone asked her a question. Then her extreme ignorance became obvious.

And yet, gradually, her ability to read and do math surpassed that of all but the oldest students. Only writing continued to defeat her. She held the pencil like a butter knife and her penmanship was as bad as Clever’s. I hope Mother remembers to teach me typing, thought Nhamo. She looked forward to summer vacation.

She was sitting in the lush garden one Saturday morning with Clever clamped to her like a leech. “I wish there was school today,” she sighed.

“I don’t. I hate school,” Clever informed her.

The nanny was trying to round up the other girls to dress them for a party. Nhamo wasn’t invited. The girls ran around, taunting the poor woman. Suddenly, the nanny squatted and urinated on the lawn, just like a wild animal. At once she was up again, chasing the excited children. Nhamo closed her eyes. She had behaved in exactly the same way, before Sister Gladys introduced her to underpants.

“Tell me a story,” demanded Clever.

He was the only person who cared to listen to her anymore, although he was a bad audience. His attention wandered. Nhamo remembered a Matabele tale she had heard from Mother. She decided to alter it slightly, to make it more interesting.

“Once upon a time the elephant had two wives,” she began. “The senior wife was a hyena with many children, and the junior was a skinny jackal with only one little boy.”

Clever listened with his thumb in his mouth.

“They hated each other, but they had to pretend to be friendly. One day the two wives were trotting down a path when they saw a band of hunters ahead with meat rolled up in grass mats. As the hunters walked along, blood dripped onto the ground. The smell almost drove the animals wild.

“‘I’m soooo hungry,’ howled the hyena, baring her teeth.

“‘Meeee toooo,’ wailed the jackal.

“They followed the hunters to a village and watched them store the meat in a granary. The granary was up on poles. In the wall was a single round window.

“As soon as the hunters were out of sight, the jackal leaped up to the window and wriggled her skinny body inside. ‘Come on,’ she called to the hyena. ‘This place is loaded with food.’

“‘I’ll never fit through such a tiny hole,’ the hyena protested.

“‘I’ll help you.’ The jackal jumped out again. She let the hyena climb onto her back and she helped her struggle
through the window. Then both of them began to eat for all they were worth.

“‘We’d better go now,’ said the hyena after a while.

“‘You may never get a feast like this again,’ the jackal pointed out. The hyena continued to stuff herself until her stomach was ready to burst. ‘Just one more piece,’ urged the jackal, holding up a chunk of meat. The hyena couldn’t resist.

“The jackal leaped through the window again. The hyena tried to follow, but she became stuck. ‘Help me, O junior wife! I’m trapped here!’ she cried.

“But the jackal ran through the village barking at the top of her voice. This brought out all the hunting dogs. They spied the hyena stuck in the window and set up such a clamor that the hunters came to see what was happening. ‘Look at that ugly beast!’ they cried. ‘She’s eaten all our meat!’ They ran into the granary and killed her at once. The jackal and her one son lived happily ever after with the elephant.”

Clever had fallen asleep after—Nhamo wrinkled her nose—relieving himself on her skirt. She eased him to the grass. A chuckle drifted out of the grape arbor behind her.

“You have a wicked mind, little Nhamo,” said the dry, old voice. “I wonder who the hyena and jackal are?”

Nhamo whirled around. It was the
nganga
, seated in the deep shade. She hadn’t spoken to him since that first day.

“Go change your dress, great-granddaughter. We’re going to visit your father,” he commanded her.

S
he wore her best dress, the one Mother had bought her, and the bra. She was going to do things exactly right for this occasion. Nhamo thought the old man would take her to the local graveyard, but he led her to his house. It was a small place tucked away at the edge of the vast Jongwe estate. People were always waiting outside for advice. They came from all over the country, and they sometimes had to wait a long time for the
nganga
’s attention.

Nhamo spied a pot hidden in the thatch and halted. Horror nailed her to the spot. What did
ngangas
store inside such things? It couldn’t be—she didn’t want to know—

“I’m not the
muvuki
,” he said in a whispery voice that made her jump. “I don’t keep my oldest son’s heart in a bottle.”

Nhamo bit her lip. That was exactly what she had imagined. She looked cautiously at the dried animals hanging on the walls, the heaps of withered herbs.

“I’ve been too weak to undertake this journey until now,” explained the old man. He waved to a young man at the back of the house. “Garikayi is my assistant. He will help us.”

Garikayi loaded a car with bottles of water and food. He helped the
nganga
into the front seat and opened the back door for Nhamo. They set off on a steep road going up into the Umvukwe Mountains. It was here, Nhamo had learned, that
the chrome mines lay. It was the only place on earth where that rare metal was found.

The car struggled up higher and higher. It curved around until the outside world had completely vanished. Nhamo’s eyes opened wide. She had no idea this beautiful green country existed so close to the dusty streets of Mtoroshanga. Yellow weaver birds darted across the road. A stream overhung with palms wound beside them with a loud, heartening sound. She pressed her face eagerly to the window.

Eventually, they came to a meadow. The road deteriorated into a path scarred by deep ruts from the rainy season. They stopped. “Oh,” sighed Nhamo, stepping out onto springy grass.

“We’ll eat first,” said her great-grandfather. Garikayi spread out a cloth and heaped it with food. He helped the old man sit down with his back against a tree. No one spoke, and Nhamo was just as happy to stay quiet. She was in awe of the
nganga
and hardly knew how to address him.

They had lemonade, peanut butter sandwiches, and a kind of pound cake with red jam. Nhamo was now knowledgeable about the food she had seen in magazines so long ago. She could never have imagined then that she would be eating them in a forest glade with her great-grandfather.

When they were finished, Garikayi packed up the food. They set off along the rutted path. The
nganga
had to be carried across the larger gaps. They came to a grassy hill dotted with gentians and pink ground orchids, and began to climb.

It was a long, slow process with many stops to allow the old man to rest. “Would you like to return, honored
Tateguru
?”
*
asked Nhamo.

“If I stop now, I may never have the strength to return. Your father appeared to me in a dream and asked me to bring you here,” he replied.

So Nhamo went up behind him, to cushion his fall if he slipped, and Garikayi half carried him until they arrived at
a jumble of rocks and timbers in the side of a cliff. The
nganga
sat down on a log to catch his breath.

All around were the green hills with the stream chattering below in the valley. Puffy white clouds floated overhead in a blue sky. Nhamo took a deep breath.

“I’m an embarrassment to the family. So are you,” said the
nganga.
“We represent the past, which they are busy trying to forget.” He patted the ground beside him, and Nhamo sat down. “They’re Methodists when it suits them. That’s a kind of Christian.”

Nhamo sighed.
Another
kind of Christian. Why did they have to be so complicated?

“Industry went to church until he decided to take a second wife. Then he suddenly discovered his African roots. The Methodists don’t approve of second wives. Even so, the others occasionally attend church and talk about bringing Zimbabwe into the twentieth century. They aren’t pleased to have a traditional healer in the backyard, but I’m too powerful for them to ignore.”

The old man signaled to Garikayi, who quickly produced cups and a thermos of sweet milky tea.

“My son—your grandfather—made his fortune in the mines.”

Nhamo nodded. He was talking about Jongwe Senior.

“He dug his own tunnel into these hills and made a lucky strike. A lot of men work independently along the Umvukwe range. The place is like a giant anthill. As soon as he got money, he began to imitate the white people, and he changed his Shona name, Murenga, to Lloyd. He wanted to flatter the owner of the Big Chief Chrome Company, who was also called Lloyd. Unfortunately, the owner was killed by a land mine. Then the whites began to lose the war, and it became unfashionable to have a white name.

“As you know, the word
murenga
means ‘revolution.’ What wonderful luck! Lloyd-the-lackey turned into Murenga-the-revolutionary overnight. Oh, he was first in line for the victory parades, as soon as the guns were put away. At the
same time I was promoted from being a senile old peasant to being a revered elder.

“Murenga was rewarded for his patriotism by being made manager of the mines. He had two sons, called Proud and Industry.”

Nhamo straightened up. Here at last was information about Father.

“I think you’ve noticed Murenga’s weakness where alcohol is concerned.”

Nhamo was confused. She was unwilling to criticize her grandfather, but what was she to do when her
great
-grandfather wanted her opinion?

“Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked. How could anyone in that house
not
hear the shouting and fighting? Murenga is an alcoholic. So, unfortunately, was Proud.”

A breeze blew between the hills and bent the grass before it in long waves. An impala buck stepped onto the path far below, turned its head to observe the humans, and led a group of females across to the stream.

“Proud was a good boy,” said the old man, his eyes soft. “He could have been such a fine man, but he started drinking when he was no older than you. I think he used to empty Murenga’s bottles after he passed out. Your father always had such big plans! He was going to
own
the Big Chief Mine; he was going to run for Parliament. The sky was the limit. And then he met your mother.”

Nhamo was jolted out of her reverie. “You knew about Mother?”

“I met her. She was just a little schoolgirl, but very, very beautiful. Proud should have been ashamed of himself. Did you know she was pregnant before they got married?”

“I—I—wasn’t even sure they got married,” Nhamo admitted.

“There was a terrible family row. Murenga refused to give his permission. I did, of course, but at that time I was only an ignorant old peasant. Murenga was in his I-love-whites phase. The Catholics at Nyanga married your parents.”

Nhamo sighed with relief.

“I suppose Proud lied to the priest—neither of your parents was Catholic—or perhaps the priest felt sorry for your mother. He insisted that Proud get an official wedding license from the government, to make sure the marriage was legal. I still have it.

“Your parents traveled to your mother’s village in Mozambique. The next thing we knew, Proud was back, and we got a letter asking for cattle to pay for a murder. It was like someone had tossed a beehive through the window. You wouldn’t believe the fights!”

I might, thought Nhamo, remembering the noises that came from Jongwe Senior’s room.

“Murenga disinherited his son. Proud announced he was going to earn his own fortune. He came here.” The
nganga
gestured at the hill. “He was always full of great plans. He was going to dig the deepest, longest tunnels anyone had ever seen. And so he did. They collapsed one day with him at the very heart of the mountain.”

Nhamo gasped. That jumble of rocks and timber—it was her father’s grave! “Didn’t…anyone dig him out?” she said.

“We tried, but the tunnels went in all directions. No one had any idea where he was when the accident happened. Finally, we conducted the funeral ceremonies here. Murenga wanted it that way, but I always wondered whether Proud’s spirit was happy with the arrangement.”

Nhamo was so overcome with a mixture of emotions, she began to cry. She was glad her parents had been married, but shamed that Mother hadn’t been welcomed by the Jongwes. She was horrified to be sitting next to Father’s grave—and yet relieved to know what had happened to him. She lay on the grass and gave herself up to weeping. The old man handed her a handkerchief when she was finished.

“I think we should go down now. I’m feeling tired,” he said.

“Oh! Of course!” Nhamo was instantly concerned about her frail great-grandfather. She and Garikayi helped him back to the meadow. The sun had slipped low in the sky. The valley was filling up with green shadows.

“Let’s have more tea, little Disaster,” said the old man. “I have one last piece of information for you.”

The ever resourceful Garikayi started a fire and boiled tea with water from the stream. He laced it with sweetened condensed milk. Nhamo thought she had never drunk anything so delicious. In a strange way it tasted exactly like the tea she used to prepare for Mother in the ruined village.

“I think there were
two
spirit leopards involved with your life, Nhamo,” the
nganga
said suddenly. “Goré Mtoko’s totem was the leopard. So is ours.”

“I thought ours was the lion.” Nhamo was appalled. If two people with the same totem married, it was
incest.

“Ours is both the lion and the leopard. That happens sometimes when two powerful clans combine. Our praise name is Gurundoro, the people who wear the
ndoro
, the symbol of royalty. The Mtokos, by the way, are very remote relatives with different praise names, so you can relax. The marriage wouldn’t have been incest, although it would certainly have been evil. My understanding is this: Goré Mtoko’s spirit killed your mother and, I believe, caused your father’s mine shaft to collapse. At that time Goré’s revenge was complete.

“But your father’s spirit was unsatisfied. He knew he had a child who must be brought to her true family. Proud told your mother his totem was the lion because it made him feel powerful, but he was really more like a leopard. A leopard hunts alone in the shadows. He doesn’t face his enemies openly. I think your father’s first appearance to you was by the stream.”

“It might have been a trick of the light,” Nhamo couldn’t help saying.

“Yes, but why did you insist on telling everyone about it? He appeared again in the banana grove the night before
Vatete
got sick, and he left his print on her grave. He was driving you away from your mother’s village.”

“But the leopard on the island—”

“Tell me, did it ever harm you?”

“No,” Nhamo admitted.

“From what you told me, it provided you with meat when you most needed it, and killed the baboon that was a danger to you. At the same time, it frightened you off the island. Otherwise, you might have spent the rest of your life there.”

Nhamo clasped her hands. That was certainly true.

“Proud appeared to me in a dream recently, asking me to bring you here. I think he wanted you to understand what he had done.”

All the way home, Nhamo was sunk in thought. She barely noticed the hills give way to the dusty plain, or the lights of Mtoroshanga as they approached. The
nganga
rapped on the door of Jongwe Senior’s room as soon as they returned.

Jongwe Senior was slumped in an easy chair with a cutglass decanter on a table beside him. His wife crocheted a blanket on the opposite side of the room. She must do that all day, thought Nhamo. The house is full of those crocheted blankets.

“I’ve come for the picture,” said the
nganga.
Murenga stared at his father with red-rimmed eyes. He seemed not to have heard, but his wife put aside her crochet hook. The air in the room was full of the sweet, cloying smell of whiskey, and every corner was heaped with mementos of trips to England and South Africa.

Murenga’s wife cleared away some porcelain statues of white girls in long frilly skirts. She folded up a lace tablecloth. From a tea chest underneath, she removed a portrait of a man in a suit and a woman in a long, white dress.

The
nganga
took the photograph without a word and led Nhamo from the room. “Phew! I need fresh air after that,” said the old man, seating himself by the open dining-room window. The cool smell of lawn sprinklers drifted inside. “They rented the clothes.” He tapped the portrait. “That’s what Catholics wear when they get married.”

Nhamo was afraid to look. She had imagined her parents’ appearance for so long, she didn’t want the image destroyed. But she finally had to open her eyes and acknowledge them. They were so young! Mother wore a gauzy white cloth over her hair and held a bunch of flowers trimmed with ribbons.
Father was cheerfully at ease in the whiteman clothes, while Mother seemed embarrassed. They were both extremely handsome people. “She looks like Masvita,” murmured Nhamo.

“Masvita? Oh, your first cousin. That’s not surprising,” said the old man. “You’re in the picture, too, little Disaster.”

“I am?”

“Right here.” The
nganga
pointed at Mother’s stomach, and laughed at Nhamo’s discomfort. “This picture belongs to you. I’ll give you the wedding license tomorrow. It proves you really are a Jongwe, although sometimes I think that’s not such a wonderful thing.”

Both Nhamo and the old man winced as the first sounds of fighting erupted from Jongwe Senior’s room.