A Girl Named Disaster (8 page)

“Can you help her, honored doctor?” said Uncle Kufa.

“Why should I aid someone who called me a witch?” said the
muvuki.

“She is the oldest person in our village. She suffers from a misguided fondness for her granddaughter, but otherwise her life has been blameless. I will pay you, of course.”

The
muvuki
considered. “It is a good thing to care for one’s elders. I see you are a considerate and honorable son-in-law. Very well, I will make a poultice to draw out the illness, but you will have to find someone else to carry on the treatment after you return home. This kind of sickness takes a long time to heal.”

“How long?”

“Weeks. Perhaps months.”

The
muvuki
returned to his house to prepare the medicine, and Uncle Kufa removed more gifts from the packs carried by the villagers. He took out two brand-new hoes, a knife with the hilt wrapped in copper wire, a length of dress-cloth, and a small amount of real money. Grandmother’s breathing was ragged, almost like snoring.

“Go on to the Portuguese trader’s house, Nhamo,” said Uncle Kufa. “Ask him to send us something to help move
Ambuya.
”

Nhamo hurried farther along the trail. The trader didn’t open his store until noon, so he was still sitting on his porch enjoying the cool morning breeze. He sent his assistant off at once with a stretcher. “Bring her here,” he told the man. “No leave alone with witch doctor. Maybe he cut her into
steaks for dinner.” Nhamo looked so alarmed, he added, “I make joke, little Disaster. Your
ambuya
too tough for him anyhow.”

After a while the villagers arrived with Grandmother. The side of her face and body was plastered with a brown-gray mud. Everyone’s forehead was marked with chalk to show that the
muvuki
had been satisfied with his payment and that everyone had been satisfied with his diagnosis. The trader told them to put Grandmother on a bed on the covered porch.

“She’s not used to sleeping off the ground. She might fall,” whispered Nhamo.

“You watch her, then,” the trader ordered. “Me, I no sleep on the ground. Centipedes crawl up my nose and make nest.” In spite of her misery, the idea was so silly Nhamo gave him a watery smile. “That better, little Disaster. You stay by your
ambuya
and hit the centipedes with a stick when they show up.”

Uncle Kufa was amazed that the trader wanted no payment for keeping Grandmother, but he was quick to take him up on the offer. He assigned several women to take turns watching her.

All day they sat, keeping Grandmother’s body warm and flexing her hands and feet. By afternoon, the old woman was able to move one side of her body, but the other side remained paralyzed. She was unable to speak. There was no question of moving her until she recovered more of her strength or—Nhamo swallowed back the tears—died. At night, the women returned to the camp by the stream. Only Nhamo remained, patiently changing the cloths beneath
Ambuya
’s hips and dribbling water into her mouth. Finally, in the middle of the night, she was too exhausted to go on. She stretched out on a mat by the bed and, worn out by fear and misery, sank into a dreamless sleep.

T
he next day, Uncle Kufa sent Masvita, Aunt Chipo, and Aunt Shuvai’s baby to stay in
Vatete
’s village.
Vatete
’s husband and one other man went along to protect them. The rest of the villagers remained to carry Grandmother home when she was able to travel. Nhamo hugged her cousin. They both cried, and the baby, who was tied to Masvita’s back, picked up their mood and began to howl.

“He looks strong,” said Nhamo, wiping tears from her face. “Good lungs, anyway.”

“He’s beautiful,” Masvita said. “If I—if I never have babies, I’ll at least have had him.” Then she cried some more until Aunt Chipo called her away. Nhamo watched them disappear down the trail with mixed feelings. On one hand, she hated to see them go. On the other, no one else would expect her to discuss that terrible, terrible meeting with the
muvuki.
Uncle Kufa would make only brief visits to see how
Ambuya
was doing.

The other women didn’t speak to her at all, and Nhamo had plenty of time to think about her situation. Her father was a murderer. The
ngozi
had demanded that she marry a diseased man with several wives. Goré’s brother wouldn’t pay
roora
for her, so she wouldn’t have any status in her new household. The other wives would beat her. Perhaps her husband would beat her, too, to get revenge for his brother’s death. She
wouldn’t see Masvita anymore, or Ruva or Grandmother—if Grandmother even lived.

The future was so bleak, Nhamo refused to think about it. She pretended that she lived on the trader’s porch instead. It was what she did in the deserted village back home. She knew, of course, that Mother didn’t really drink tea with her on top of the hill there. She knew she sat with a scrap of paper held down by pebbles—but the pictures in her mind were so real, she thought they must somehow exist. They might live in the underground country where the thrown-away animals and people went. And someday, if she could find the way, she might join them.

Nhamo applied herself to caring for
Ambuya.
When an unpleasant thought occurred, she shook her head to clear it out. Nothing existed for her but the trader’s house, the porch with Grandmother’s bed, and an endless present.

Three or four times a day she made up a poultice. The
muvuki
had provided powdered bark from a tree that had been struck by lightning. This was the correct treatment, he said, for someone who suffered from
chikandiwa
, or a stroke. Nhamo boiled the powder with water, soaked it in a cloth, and applied it to Grandmother’s paralyzed side. Between times, she rubbed
Ambuya
’s arms and legs, and told her stories. She couldn’t tell whether the old woman understood her.

The other women helped during the day, but they talked to one another and ignored Nhamo.

During the afternoon, when the trader was at work, his wife sat on the porch. She was a plump, cheerful woman called Rosa. “I used to have a Shona name, but Joao changed it when we got married,” she explained. Joao was the trader.

“Is that their custom? To change a wife’s name?”

“If she joins the church,” said Rosa. “I became a Catholic to marry Joao. You’re an excellent storyteller.”

“Thank you.
Ambuya
taught me.” Nhamo was pleased to have company and even more delighted with the snacks Rosa produced. Never had she encountered such food! Some of it came out of cans—delicious, oily fish, and peas already
shelled and cooked. Rosa had paper packages of cookies and glass bottles full of honey. What a wonderful thing it was to be married to a storekeeper! Nhamo would have joined the church, too, to have such riches.

Other things about Catholics made her uneasy, though. Across from Rosa and Joao’s bed was a huge cross with a man nailed to it. His head was crowned with thorns. Rosa said he was called Jesus. She said bad people had murdered him, but he came back to life after three days.

“Did he get revenge on his enemies then?” inquired Nhamo.

“Oh, no! He
forgave
them. That’s the Christian way.”

Nhamo didn’t want to be rude, but she thought it was creepy to have a dead man on the wall of your bedroom. Also, if compensation hadn’t been paid, Jesus would have turned into an
ngozi
and made his enemies suffer anyway. Nhamo shook her head violently to keep from thinking about
ngozis.

Slowly, Grandmother improved. She could move both sides of her body, although she was too weak to stand and she still couldn’t talk. Her eyes had expression in them now. They followed Nhamo and sometimes they welled over with tears.

“Does it hurt,
Ambuya
?” whispered Nhamo as she wiped the tears away. Grandmother couldn’t answer; the tears continued to flow.

One afternoon, Uncle Kufa decided the old woman was well enough to travel. “The basket maker has made a traveling chair for you,
Va-Ambuya
,” he said. “It hangs on long poles, which we can carry on our shoulders. You should be very comfortable.” He instructed Nhamo to have everything ready to leave the next morning.

Nhamo felt stunned as her uncle strode off. All at once, the thoughts she had pushed away came back in a rush. She wasn’t going to live on this porch forever. No one would speak to her kindly anymore or worry about her welfare. She would go to a strange house where the women would hate
her and her husband would beat her. Even her own people couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

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 soldiers 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.