A Girl Named Disaster (6 page)

E
very day Nhamo saw interesting things. A group of Frelimo soldiers gave a speech outside the trading post. They told everyone the people of Mozambique must work together to build a new nation now that the Portuguese colonialists had been defeated. Nhamo had no idea what a
nation
was, but she listened politely. Some of the soldiers were women. They dressed in the same clothes as the men, and they swaggered around like the men, with guns slung over their shoulders.

“I wonder what kind of
roora
they’d bring,” remarked Uncle Kufa to
Vatete
’s husband.

“None at all,” he replied. “Frelimo says paying for women is bad.”

Everyone was shocked. Not pay for women? How were fathers to get back their investment in raising daughters?

“They’re no better than animals,” declared Aunt Chipo. “Marriages that haven’t been paid for can be broken like old pots.”

One night, for entertainment, the Frelimo soldiers set off flares and fired tracer bullets into the sky. The bullets flew like sparks, and the flares went right up into the stars. The explosions made Nhamo and Masvita clutch each other in alarm.

“Stupid soldiers,” muttered
Ambuya.
She was irritable most of the time now. Whether it was caused by the long walk or by grief, Nhamo didn’t know, but the old woman seemed to age more
every day. She no longer bustled around. Instead, she sat against a tree and stared at the stream.

Often Masvita sat with her, too exhausted to work. Then Nhamo wished the
muvuki
would see them quickly, although she was afraid of what he might say.

“Come with me to the trading post,
Ambuya
,” she said one day. “It’s so very interesting.”

“It’s new to you, Little Pumpkin. Nothing surprises me anymore.”
Ambuya
pulled a blanket around her shoulders.

“You can listen to the radio.”

“Shake-shake music,” grumbled
Ambuya
, referring to the shake-shake, or beer, the trader sold. “I should rack my bones to see a pack of drunk fools.”

“The guitarist sits there in the afternoon,” Nhamo coaxed.

“A guitar?” Grandmother’s eyes showed a flicker of interest.

“It sounds like water pouring over a rock. You have no idea how beautiful it is!”

“I know what guitars sound like,” Grandmother said crossly. “I’ve heard them hundreds of times.” But she allowed Nhamo to draw her to her feet. Nhamo supported the old woman as they walked toward the trading post. When they arrived, the guitarist was already playing, and someone had thoughtfully provided him with a bucket of beer. Several people moved to allow
Ambuya
to make her way to the porch. The Portuguese trader found her a stool.

“He good,” the trader confided to
Ambuya
in his bad Shona. “I pay his way to Maputo for play in nightclub. We make money like bandits.”

Ambuya
nodded graciously. Her nose twitched, and Nhamo knew she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

The trader clapped when the guitarist finished, then shouted something in Portuguese. The other people complimented the musician and made requests.

The sun slanted through the
musasa
trees as it lowered toward the horizon. It turned everything gold. For the first time in several days, Grandmother smiled. It made Nhamo’s spirit happy to see the old woman nod her head in time to
the music. If only the golden afternoon could go on forever, with
Ambuya
and her at the center of this friendly crowd. But eventually the musician grew tired and the sunlight faded. The trader’s assistant brought out the hissing lamps and hung them over the porch.

“He go for Maputo soon,” said the trader as the musician slung the guitar over his back. “Make money like bandits.”

Still, the enchantment lingered as the blue twilight flooded the land. No one was willing to ask for the radio just yet. “You have many death in your village, hey?” said the trader suddenly. Nhamo could have killed him.

Grandmother’s face became sad again. “Many people died,” she agreed.

“Cholera a bad bugger. Frelimo send soldiers with
muti
,
*
but too late.
Muti
no work good, anyway.” He shook his head. “You lose someone special,
ambuya
?”

Nhamo wanted to drop a lantern on his head.

“Yes,” Grandmother replied.

“Me, too. My little Maria. My wife cry. I cry, too.” The trader took a picture from his shirt pocket. He signaled to the assistant to lift down one of the lamps. Nhamo saw a girl about Ruva’s age, wearing a beautiful dress covered with ruffles. The girl had on shiny black shoes and she carried a small purse. Pinned over her hair was a lace handkerchief. Maria was almost as dark as herself, so Nhamo guessed that the trader’s wife wasn’t Portuguese.

“I don’t have a picture of Shuvai,”
Ambuya
said with the tears rolling down her face.

“No matter. Her picture here, no?” The trader slapped himself on the chest. “Inside have best photo.”

Grandmother was too overcome to answer. Nhamo was desperate to get her back to camp.

“Can we have the radio?” someone called hopefully.

“Shut up,” roared the trader. “Me and
Va-ambuya
talk seriously. You rascals can get drunk without music.” Nhamo heard murmured grumbles, but no one spoke out loud. The
assistant began bringing out buckets of beer. “Bring something for this old lady, hey? Nice stuff. Not the swill these buggers drink.”

Nhamo’s spirits rose. It was unheard of for
Ambuya
to drink with strangers. Now she would surely ask to go home. But to Nhamo’s horror, Grandmother accepted the dark bottle the assistant brought. He provided his boss with a bucket of “shake-shake.” Apparently the trader had no qualms about drinking swill himself.

Nhamo brooded in the shadows as
Ambuya
and the trader discussed dead relatives. It seemed an insane thing to do, but gradually she noticed that Grandmother appeared more lighthearted. Perhaps, in remembering, her spirit let go of the unhappiness.

Soon, on her
third
bottle of the dark beer,
Ambuya
was recounting how Ruva squealed when a fish she had been given by Crocodile Guts wriggled in her hands. The trader responded with a tale of how his wife heated a can of peas on hot coals without opening it first. “Boom! Peas on the walls. Peas on the ceiling. ‘Ah! Ah!’ my wife cried. ‘It’s a hand grenade!’” Grandmother shook with laughter.

“Come here, Nhamo,” she called. “Tell him about the time you put a grass snake in the boys’ hut.”

Nhamo burned with embarrassment. She still remembered the beating Aunt Chipo had given her.

“They left puddles on the mats, I can tell you,” Grandmother recalled.

“Nhamo mean ‘disaster,’ no? She’s a nice kid. No look like a disaster to me.”

“She’s my wonderful Little Pumpkin,” Grandmother said warmly. “She’s my Runako’s only child, but her birth caused trouble, I can tell you!”

“How so?” The trader called for his assistant to bring them bowls of
sadza
and relish from his kitchen. Nhamo brightened up at once. Her stomach was growling with hunger.

“Runako was so clever! After we left Zimbabwe, her headmaster sent a letter to our village. ‘I have spoken to the nuns
at the Catholic school,’ he wrote. ‘They have agreed to give Runako a—a
scholarship
.’”
Ambuya
’s tongue stumbled over the English word. “That’s a kind of
bonsella
, a gift. Imagine! They would pay for her food, books, everything. I was so excited. I sent her off at once. She was only fifteen.”

The assistant arrived with three large bowls of food. As much as Nhamo was riveted on the story of her birth, her stomach demanded that she pay attention to dinner. The
sadza
was white and beautifully cooked. The relish was like nothing she had ever seen. It was a rich tomato stew flavored with strange spices—and full of chicken! Nhamo, who hardly ever got meat, had to control herself to eat politely. Grandmother was equally delighted by the meal and for a few moments applied herself to steady eating.

“Now can we have the radio?” someone asked.

“Silence, you
tsotsis
!
*
” shouted the trader. “Why do I let you drunks sit on my porch? You better off with the goats.”

“If only I had kept Runako at home,” said Grandmother as she cleaned the last crumbs of
sadza
from her bowl. “She met a boy at that school. He was called Proud Jongwe.”
Ambuya
spat out the words. “Proud! I should like to know what he was proud of.
Useless
would have been a better name.”

“But nice-looking,” guessed the trader.

“Oh, yes.” Grandmother sighed. “Poor Runako. She seemed so intelligent, but they say girls turn stupid for a few years after they become women.”

“That’s true,” said one of the drinkers. “It’s a well-known fact.”

“You be quiet!” the trader shouted.

“They got married in a Catholic church. Wicked, disobedient children!”

“Not bad to marry in the church,” the trader said, slightly offended.

“It’s all right for you. You’re Portuguese. Among us, the son-in-law has to get the family’s permission—and arrange
the
roora.
One day I saw Runako walking along the trail to our village. ‘What happened?’ I cried. ‘Did the nuns send you away?’ Then I saw her stomach.”
Ambuya
paused to finish the beer. She waved a fourth bottle away, for which Nhamo was thankful.

“He was right behind her, the scheming hyena! Not a coin in his pockets, not a cow to his name.”

“Sometime poor man work for pay
roora.
That okay,” the Portuguese man said.

“
If
the man works! I never saw Proud Jongwe do anything. Oh, he was full of plans! He would find gold; he would build a square house like they have in Zimbabwe—our huts weren’t good enough. But the only talent he had was to empty beer pots!”
Ambuya
glared at the shake-shake customers, and they nervously looked away.

“One night…”
Ambuya
paused dramatically until everyone had turned back to watch her. Nhamo held her breath. No one had ever told her about Father. If she approached when someone was speaking of him, people immediately changed the subject—and here was Grandmother revealing the secret to a whole crowd of strangers!

“One night Proud went to a beer-drink in the next village.”
Ambuya
straightened up and put her hands on her hips. The lanterns painted her face with a harsh yellow light. The shake-shake drinkers bent close to listen. “He got into a fight with a man called Goré Mtoko,” she said in a hushed voice. “They were both
tsotsis
, both useless. Goré knocked Proud into a bed of hot coals, and Proud was so enraged he—he grabbed a rock—
and he smashed in Goré’s skull
!”

“Hhhuuu,” murmured all the beer drinkers.

Nhamo felt like screaming, but her throat had closed up so tightly she could hardly breathe. So that was the secret! Her father was a murderer! Her stomach twisted with nausea. No wonder Aunt Chipo and Uncle Kufa didn’t like her!

“Proud ran away like the mangy dog he was. He never even said good-bye to Runako. Later I heard he returned to the Catholic school and borrowed money from the nuns—
told them it was for his wife. He went to Mtoroshanga to work in a chrome mine.”

So much for thinking her father would return to arrange a marriage for her! Nhamo clenched her teeth to keep from crying out loud. Her mother had had no
roora
paid for her. She was one of those women
Vatete
meant who wasn’t even worth a mangy goat. Everyone in the village had known about it except her. Nhamo wanted to tear out her hair with shame. She crouched next to Grandmother’s stool, hugging her stomach.

“
Va-Ambuya
, we were so worried about you,” came Uncle Kufa’s voice. Nhamo squinted at the market area in front of the trading post. She could just make out his figure in the shadows, and that of Aunt Chipo beside him.

“We thought you had fallen into the stream,” Aunt Chipo called.

“As if I would do such a foolish thing,” Grandmother said. She rose unsteadily, and Nhamo rushed to support her. “Thank you, my friend,” she told the Portuguese trader, clapping her hands respectfully.

“You always welcome,
Va-ambuya.
You got sense in that old head. Not like these buggers.” The trader scowled at the beer drinkers.

“
Now
can we have the radio?” someone called plaintively.

Grandmother leaned heavily on Nhamo as they made their way back to camp. “You—you’ve been drinking,” murmured Aunt Chipo.

“What of it?”
Ambuya
said belligerently.

When they were well away from the trading post, Uncle Kufa said quietly, “I thought we agreed never to talk about Runako’s husband.”

“Am I to fill my mouth with clay? Am I to be lectured by one who was wetting his loincloth when I was out buying cattle for my family?”

“Mother…,” faltered Aunt Chipo.

“Yes! I am your mother, and you would do well to remember it!”

No one said anything for a while as they felt their way
along the dark trail. Nhamo was too disturbed to pay much attention, but gradually she began to sense that something was very wrong. It wasn’t common for women to drink, of course, but it wasn’t unheard of. Grandmother had always been independent. She smoked a pipe. She sometimes sat in the men’s
dare.
She maintained far more control of her wealth and affairs than any woman Nhamo knew. That was Grandmother, and no one expected her to behave any differently. Uncle Kufa and Aunt Chipo were too quiet, however. Nhamo sensed a current of disapproval; for once it wasn’t directed at her.

“There’s nothing wrong with visiting people,”
Ambuya
said suddenly.

“You don’t know who was in that crowd,” Uncle Kufa replied in a tight voice that told Nhamo he was struggling not to get angry.

Grandmother thought for a moment. “The whole business was laid to rest years ago.”

“Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t.”

More silence. More unspoken disapproval.