A Girl Named Disaster (7 page)

Nhamo couldn’t make sense out of the argument, but she knew better than to ask questions. When they at last arrived in camp, Nhamo helped Grandmother to bed. Then she presented herself at the makeshift cooking area to clean dishes. Her mind was whirling with what had happened. She barely heard the other girls’ voices, and as soon as possible she stretched out on a sleeping mat. She pretended not to notice when Masvita lay down beside her.

Father was a murderer. He ran away before he could be punished, and that meant Goré Mtoko’s family hadn’t got revenge on him. A crime like that cried out for punishment. Nhamo remembered
Ambuya
telling a story about a man who murdered his wife in Zimbabwe. He was sent to a whiteman’s prison. That was all very well, Grandmother said, but everyone knew the wife’s spirit wouldn’t be satisfied. When the murderer was finally set free, he began to act very strangely. He dressed in women’s clothes and spoke in a high-pitched voice. He shouted at his sisters and said, “Why did your
brother kill me?” Then everyone knew he was possessed by the spirit of the dead wife. He wandered around, Grandmother said, until he was run over by a bus. “
She
made him walk in front of that bus,”
Ambuya
said with satisfaction.

Perhaps Goré’s spirit pursued Father even now. And yet Grandmother had said the whole business had been settled years ago. Did she pay compensation to the Mtoko family? That would have been unfair—after all, she was no blood relative of Father’s—but perhaps they blamed Mother.
Ambuya
would have done anything for Mother.

Nhamo’s throat ached from holding back tears. A daughter belonged to her father’s family. Most people would have sent her away after Mother died, but not
Ambuya.
Grandmother had insisted on keeping her, had treated her kindly and called her Little Pumpkin. When she remembered this, Nhamo’s control broke down. Tears poured out of her eyes and she clenched her teeth to prevent herself from making a sound. Her whole body trembled, but she managed to keep from disturbing Masvita at her side. Lucky, lucky Masvita!
Her
name meant “thank you.” Her birth had been welcomed and, in spite of recent troubles, everyone would rally around to make her future as pleasant as possible.

I
t’s happened!” cried Masvita, pushing through the reeds of the stream. Nhamo was perched on a rock, watching the effect of a fish trap she had made.

“What’s happened?” she said.

“The
muvuki.
” Masvita had been running so hard, she had to sit down to catch her breath. “He says we can see him tomorrow. Ah! That’s a clever device.”

Nhamo bent down, whisked a smallish fish from the cone-shaped trap, and popped it into a basket. Her heart was beating very fast, but she didn’t want to show her cousin how frightened she was. “Thanks. I learned to make it at the trading post. There’s a man there who can weave almost anything. Are…we all going?”

“Oh, yes! We have to be present in case, in case…” Masvita’s voice trailed off.

In case one of us is discovered to be a witch, Nhamo thought.

“It’ll be wonderful to get it over with. I want to go home. I thought I’d like travel, but really all I want to do is stay in one place and never, never have any surprises.” Masvita opened Nhamo’s basket and counted the fish inside.

“I don’t like surprises either,” murmured Nhamo, thinking of Father.

When they returned to the camp, everyone was busy packing. They would return home soon if everything went well. Uncle Kufa went to the
trading post to buy powdered milk for Aunt Shuvai’s baby. The infant was recovering rapidly—his face had already rounded out, and he seemed to have accepted Masvita as his new mother. This, in turn, had an excellent effect on Masvita.

She already looks like a mother, thought Nhamo. She could be five years older than I—but then, she grew rapidly like a weed. Grandmother’s comment had once made Nhamo smile, but now it only aroused a dull ache in her heart. It doesn’t matter if I turn into a fruit tree in five years, she thought. Who would want to marry the daughter of a murderer then—or ever?

Early next morning everyone dressed with particular care. Masvita combed Nhamo’s hair and rubbed her skin with butterfat. Her cousin’s hands were cold, and Nhamo knew that she was frightened, too. They set off just as the sun rose in a dull red ball beyond the
musasa
trees. The trail was damp under Nhamo’s bare feet, and the forest was full of glossy starlings with dark blue-green feathers and orange eyes.

The settlement was built in a long line close to the stream. The trader’s house, Nhamo had learned, lay at one extreme, with the
muvuki
’s house nearby. The Frelimo camp was at the other. The store was at the center. The villagers followed the stream past clusters of huts and granaries perched on stilts. Uncle Kufa was at their head, and the men carried presents for the doctor.

One mile, two miles passed. They came at last to the
muvuki
’s garden. He had a square house with a red tile roof, and his garden was full of heavily laden banana and papaya trees. A boy passed them on the way, herding a flock of sleek nanny goats. Each one was fitted with a cloth bag over her udder to keep the milk from being stolen. Nhamo thought that was ludicrous, but she was far too worried to laugh.

“
Takutuka chiremba
,” the adults shouted in unison before they entered the garden: “We have scolded you, doctor.” Nhamo didn’t know the meaning behind this strange saying, but Grandmother said it was the correct way to enter a
muvuki
’s yard. The doctor was dressed in a gray suit like a picture in a magazine, and he was eating breakfast at a table
on the porch. Nhamo saw with fascination that he used a knife and fork instead of his fingers. Suddenly, he looked up and gazed straight at her. She felt as though her bones had turned to water.

“
Vahukwu.
Welcome,” he called. He put down his utensils, and a servant removed his plate.

“I see you, Va-Nyamasatsi,” he said, giving
Ambuya
’s real name. “And you, Va-Kufa.” Nhamo felt goose bumps on her arms as he singled out every person in the group. How could he do this? He had never seen them before.

He then slowly and impressively listed all the people who had died. When each name was uttered, everyone cried, “
Womba!
Amazing!” He pointed at a grove of trees at the far end of the garden and abruptly entered the house.

“What happens now?” whispered Nhamo.

“That is his
vukiro
, his sacred grove,” Grandmother whispered back. “We must wait there until he is properly dressed.”

Everyone sat in a semicircle. Presently, the
muvuki
emerged, still wearing his suit but with two ceremonial cloths crossed over his chest and tied behind his back. He wore a leopard-skin cap and a necklace of small bones and glass beads. He carried a clay pot.

Is that the pot where he keeps his son’s spirit? thought Nhamo with a stab of pure terror. But the
muvuki
unrolled a reed mat on the ground and removed four
hakata
, or divining sticks, from the pot. Nhamo shivered with relief.

Following the doctor came a younger man who knelt beside him and waited. “I request my
gogodzero
, the opening fee,” said the
muvuki.
Uncle Kufa quickly took three trussedup chickens from the other villagers and laid them before the doctor.

“I will keep them for you,
baba
,” said the younger man. He removed the chickens to the shade of a tree nearby. So that’s one of the
muvuki
’s sons, thought Nhamo. I wonder what he thought when his brother was sacrificed.

Now the doctor took up two of the
hakata
sticks in one hand and two in the other. “These people have come to me, a son of an
nganga
, and want to be told who killed their
relatives. Was it a
mudzimu
, a family spirit?” he asked. His hands opened, and the sticks fell to the mat. He quickly scooped them up, but Nhamo saw that two were faceup and two were down. She knew each stick had a patterned and a smooth side. Three of the designs were abstract. The fourth was the outline of a crocodile. She didn’t know what the symbols meant.

“Is this diagnosis true?” asked the doctor, and he let the
hakata
fall again. This time three were up and one down. “
Zaru
,” he said. “The sticks disagree. These deaths were not caused by a family spirit.”

He proceeded to ask whether the trouble was caused by a
shave
, a wandering spirit. He threw the
hakata
twice to see if they agreed. Again the answer was no. “Was an
ngozi
*
responsible?” the doctor said. The sticks fell with three down and the fourth up, showing the crocodile. “
Ngwena.
Bad luck. Is this a true diagnosis?” Again the
hakata
fell three down with the crocodile up. “They agree! An
ngozi
has done this.”

“Hhhuuu,” everyone sighed. Now no one would be pointed out as a witch.

“A man has been murdered,” the
muvuki
went on. “His spirit wanders. He has become an
ngozi
without a resting place, without heirs. He seeks revenge.
He
is the one who slew your relatives—and that one’s father is responsible!” He pointed straight at Nhamo. She flinched back so abruptly, she fell against Masvita.

“His spirit is crying out, ‘Why did you kill me? Why is my family calling for vengeance?’”

“We paid compensation,”
Ambuya
objected.

“Hush, hush,” everyone murmured. Masvita helped Nhamo sit up. They clung to each other.

“Who is this who questions the
hakata
?” demanded the
muvuki.
“Is she a spirit medium? I do not recognize her.”

“Ten years ago I paid compensation. I wasn’t even a relative of the man who committed the murder, but I paid. Goré
Mtoko’s father demanded ten cattle, one for each of the fingers on his son’s hands. Such a price for a
tsotsi
whose only skill was to prop open a door!”

“Please don’t say any more,” whimpered Aunt Chipo.
Ambuya
impatiently waved her daughter away.

“And did you pay ten cattle?” inquired the
muvuki
in a quiet voice.

Grandmother became uneasy. “Well, how could I? I didn’t have that kind of wealth. Besides, nothing would have happened if Goré hadn’t knocked Proud into the coals. They were both at fault, really.”

“And what
did
you pay?” The
muvuki
’s voice was smooth as the passage of a snake through reeds.

“Two cows,” admitted
Ambuya.

“Two cows for a man’s life? Two cows for depriving someone of becoming an ancestor? Is it any wonder his spirit has returned
in the form of a leopard
?”

Everyone gasped.

“Oh, yes.” The
muvuki
smiled. “You think to hide it from me, but I know.
I have seen it, Va-Nyamasatsi.
Your daughter Runako was killed by a leopard, is it not so?”

“Yes,” whispered Grandmother.

“It walked into the village. It did not kill a goat or a chicken. It walked past a small child and took her mother, is it not so?”

Grandmother was unable to speak.

“Then, when this girl approached the age of womanhood, the leopard came again. It appeared to her by the water—to her alone—and it spoke to her in the banana grove by night. Its footprints were seen in the dust of graves. You all know that the totem of Goré Mtoko’s family is the leopard. The solution to this problem is very clear.”

“Aaugh!” screamed Aunt Chipo, falling to the ground. “Eh! Eh! Why did you kill me? What had I done to you? Aaugh!” She tossed from side to side, her eyes rolled back in her head. Everyone jumped up at once. Masvita dragged Nhamo away from Aunt Chipo’s writhing body.

Nhamo almost fainted from shock. Goré’s spirit had possessed her aunt! He was right there, demanding vengeance!

“I had no cloth to cover my body, no goat for the people who dug my grave! I had no food for the people who mourned me! These things I demand now!” screamed Aunt Chipo. Uncle Kufa knelt beside her and tried to wipe her face with a cloth, but she threw him back with surprising strength.

“I have no son to offer sacrifices for me! I demand vengeance! I demand the daughter of my murderer! Eeeee!” Aunt Chipo gave a heart-stopping shriek and fainted. Her body became perfectly limp as the spirit of Goré left her. Several women hurried to rub her arms and legs. Uncle Kufa asked the
muvuki
for a calabash of water. The doctor sent his son to the house.

Masvita was crying and trembling, but Nhamo barely noticed. She felt turned to stone. Only Grandmother maintained her self-control. She faced the
muvuki
squarely. “I agree that two cows was too small a payment, but after all, the murderer’s family should have handled the situation. They’re in Zimbabwe. I sent them a message telling them about the problem, but they never answered.”

The doctor’s son arrived with water, and Uncle Kufa splashed it over Aunt Chipo’s body to cool her down. She moaned and opened her eyes.

“
One
member of the murderer’s family is not in Zimbabwe, ” the
muvuki
said.

“I will send cloth and food to Goré’s family, and a cow to take the place of this girl. That, surely, will please the Mtokos.”

“We aren’t speaking of what will please the Mtokos,” the
muvuki
said in his smooth voice. “It’s the
ngozi
who has to be satisfied. Life must be given for life.”

Nhamo was jolted from her state of shock. Was the
muvuki
talking of sacrificing her? Surely not!

“The girl must be given to the brother of Goré Mtoko as a junior wife. As you know, she will really be the bride of the
ngozi
, and her first son will bear his name.”

“No!
Ngozis
can no longer demand human beings as
payment! That custom is illegal—and it’s stupid—and cruel! I will not agree!”

“Please,
Va-Ambuya.
Don’t make things worse,” pleaded Uncle Kufa.

“They could hardly be any worse. Let me tell you,
Muvuki.
The brother of Goré Mtoko is a beast. He’s riddled with disease, and so are his miserable wives. As if I would give the child of my Runako to that animal! I would sooner die—and
then
you would see an avenging spirit. Not one of you would get a good night’s sleep! Let go of me!”

Several of the women present tried to hold on to Grandmother. They murmured anxious words as though they were calming an angry infant. “She isn’t well,
Muvuki.
Please forgive her,” one of them said.

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” Grandmother shouted. “We live in modern times, and girls don’t have to be given away as slaves. What kind of doctor are you, anyway? Someone who killed his own son to gain power? Ha! Only witches do that!”

“Mother!” shrieked Aunt Chipo.

“She’s sick,” Uncle Kufa cried. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

Nhamo was dizzy with fear. The worst, the very worst thing you could call anyone was a witch.
Especially
when it might be true. The
muvuki
’s face was expressionless, but his clenched fists showed the rage that bubbled inside him. Even Grandmother seemed appalled by what she had just said.

“If there’s a witch present, she arrived this morning,” the
muvuki
snarled. “And if someone tries to cast a spell on
me
, the force of my ancestral spirits will cast it right back.” He thrust his walking stick, carved in the shape of a serpent, at
Ambuya.

Nhamo screamed. She thought the heavy cane was going to smash Grandmother’s face, but it stopped a finger’s breadth away. The effect was as though the blow had actually landed, however.
Ambuya
’s head snapped back and she bared her teeth in a terrible parody of a smile. Then she collapsed into the arms of the women around her.

“Grandmother,” wailed Masvita.

“Get back. Let her breathe,” Uncle Kufa ordered.

The women laid Grandmother on the ground, and Aunt Chipo began rubbing her hands and feet. The
muvuki
’s son grabbed the calabash and ran for more water.

To Nhamo, the rest of the world seemed to disappear: All she could see was Grandmother’s face with one side crumpled and one eye open and unblinking. Nhamo closed the eye gently. She massaged
Ambuya
’s face and felt the teeth clenched beneath the wrinkled skin.