The Headhunter's Daughter (11 page)

Ah yes, Father
, she related to him silently,
we do indeed each have our own plates. And cups! Even the female persons. And we have miniature spears, and small paddles with which to scoop up another mush—this one not cooked until it is stiff, as it should be. It is called
ohta-meela
.

Over this
ohta-meela
one is to sprinkle something very sweet—something sweeter than the juice of the cane. Also, over this thinner mush, one pours milk—but it is not goat’s milk, nor is it the milk from any known animal. Father, this concoction tastes as awful as you can imagine, but when they set a bowl in front of me they smack their lips like apes and go “mmm, mmm.” I must try hard not to laugh, because it reminds me so much of little Kahinga when she strains to have a bowel movement and it will not come.

What was
that
? Ugly Eyes clapped twice with happiness when Father stepped suddenly from behind the trunk of a thick mango tree that shaded the outdoor eating table. Where were his bow and his monkey-hide quiver of arrows? Where was his machete? Never mind those things for now. For now he was holding a cone that was shaped from banana leaves. The smells that escaped from the cone made Ugly Eyes’ nose want to dance.

Father cautiously approached the group, then as befitting her status, he offered the delicacies first to the ancient crone. She peered into the leaves, but shook her head.

“
Nasha kakese
,” she said, which was a Tshiluba phrase meaning, “not even a little bit.” From this Ugly Eyes concluded that the crone was rude, and not wise.

Everyone else reacted similarly except for the young
Bula Matadi
, who carefully removed something from the leaves and put it on his plate. He even remembered to say
tuasakidila
.

Then, with much apparent pleasure, he ate it, and another one like it. He even persuaded the other Ugly Eyes, the young white woman from the day before, to take a bite. Everyone laughed at that, even the rude crone.

Father, then you spoiled it all by speaking.

Chapter Eleven

W
owee
,” the Headhunter said. That’s all. It was just a greeting. Like
bon jour
in French, or
muoyo webe
in Tshiluba.

Then that horrible Gorman girl had to spoil the morning by mocking the poor man. It was bad enough that he was about to have his daughter torn from his bosom, but to then have that creature taunting him, why that was simply beyond the pale. If Dorcas had her way, even the Protestant missionaries would take a vow of celibacy, because really, when you thought about it, the Belgian Congo was no place for children. Especially white children.

“
Wowee kazowee
,” the girl said. “It’s the funniest sounding language there is, isn’t it, Mama?”

“I suppose so, dear,” Mrs. Gorman said. “But remember what I said about being kind.”

“But Daddy,
you
think it sounds funny, don’t you? You said so just the other day!”

Mr. Gorman held a fat finger aloft as if recalling something of grave importance. “Funny,” he pronounced, “is a nun, a priest and a rabbi showing up at heaven’s gates and expecting admittance. Imagine the looks on their faces when Saint Peter tells them you have to be saved first, and that it is too late for them.”

Dorcas Middleton frowned at the gluttonous man. “Do tread carefully, Mr. Gorman. There are, after all, two RCs present at the table.”

“What is an RC?” asked the OP.

“Why, Monsieur OP,” Dorcas said, “all these years in the Congo, and you’ve never heard anyone mention RC?”

“It stands for Roman Catholic,” their young hostess, Amanda, said. “Actually, I think it’s rather a pejorative.”

“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” the OP said, “but what does
that
mean?”

Amanda tossed her lovely blond hair to the other side of her neck. “In a word: disrespectful. Dorcas,” she said, “would you mind terribly scooching your chair over so that we can fit another one in? I think that the girl’s father would like to join us.”

“Yes, I do mind terribly,” Dorcas said. “I suppose that ‘scooching’ is one of the new slang words you brought with you from America—oh never mind that—but you can’t seriously expect us to acquiesce to the presence of an unwashed native. Besides, he isn’t her real father.”

“But he
is
. My friend Beth back in Rock Hill, South Carolina, is adopted, and her dad is as much her real father as that man who got her mother”—she paused and looked at Peaches—“well, you know.”

“He’s not even wearing a shirt,” Mrs. Gorman said. “I think I’m about to get sick. As if these horrible birds this Belgian has been eating haven’t been enough.”

“
Excusez moi, madame
,” Pierre said, not without sarcasm. “These horrible little birds are what you missionaries refer to as quail, although they are really francolin. In Tshiluba they are called
nkuadi
. They are to be seen all the time on the roads, especially in the early morning and late afternoon.”

“Yes, yes,
nkuadi
,” said Mr. Gorman. “Dear, I’ve shot hundreds of those; you cook them all the time.”

Mrs. Gorman pursed her lips. “Oh. Well, they don’t look the same. What did he do? Roast them?”

“Yes,” Pierre said. “They were quite delicious.”

“It’s against the law for him to fraternize with us anyway,” the OP said.

“Is that true?” the pretty American asked of Pierre.

He nodded. “
Oui
, Amanda. We do, in fact, insist on separation of the races—so that they don’t get the wrong ideas, you understand. But I suppose we could make an exception just this once. Although frankly, I don’t think that he would be comfortable sitting with us.”

Even though she was from South Carolina, Amanda Brown was just too young and naïve to accept the fact that in the Congo, customs were different. That didn’t make them right; it was merely a fact, rather like rendering unto Caesar what was Caesar’s. To force the Mushilele to join them at the table would, in fact, be an act of genteel cruelty.

“We should at least give him the opportunity to refuse us,” Amanda Brown said. She then displayed her naiveté by giving up her own chair. “Sit,” she said and began to gesticulate like a traffic cop. “
Asseyez vous.
”

It was as plain as the buttons on her dress that the poor man was terrified. His dark eyes darted from the rescued child to Pierce and back to the girl again.

“
Somba
,” she said in Tshiluba.

“Perhaps you speak yet another language,” Mrs. Gorman said.

“Do you know Spanish?” Mr. Gorman said.

“I would like to marry a Spaniard,” Peaches said.

“Over my dead body,” Mr. Gorman said. “Papists, every one of them, just like the Portuguese, and the Bel—well, you know.”

The OP cleared his throat loudly and looked Mr. Gorman straight in the eyes. “My deceased wife, Heilewid—may she rest in peace—was of the Jewish faith.”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Gorman said.

“Monsieur, she was my wife; I am quite sure.”

“What I meant to say was: a Jewish Belgian sounds like such an oddity. That’s like saying there’s such a thing as a Jewish Irishman, or a Protestant Frenchman.”

“Monsieur, I believe there are.”

“Hmm. Well, if you insist.”

“Which I do,” said the OP.

“Monsieur OP,” Dorcas Middleton said, “as fascinating as this conversation is, it is doing nothing to address this dilemma. Look, the poor man is becoming more agitated by the second.”

“It’s his daughter I’d worry about,” said Mrs. Gorman.

If Father had not spoken, then the silly girl could not have mocked him. As for the others, who knew if they were mocking him as well? That was less clear. One did not have to be able to understand the white man’s tongue, however, to understand that with one exception, the whites did not appreciate Father’s gift, and did not want him there.

The whites! Yes, Ugly Eyes would continue to think that she was not one of them. Even the crippled Muluba agreed.

“Your skin is the color of a manioc pancake,” she had said. “And your eyes are indeed ugly, but you are truly one of us.”
Kadi wewe udi muan’etu mene mene.

It was too much to bear. Surely these people (who comported themselves no better than baboons) could see that Father was a dignified man, one who commanded respect in his village. It was said that if one were to assign a long dry season to each finger and one to each toe, and then count these long dry seasons, one would still not reach Father’s age.

Did these monkey people know how to dig their own iron ore and smelt it into metal? Did they know how to grind that metal on a stone wheel until they had achieved arrowheads for every purpose: fish, small birds, large birds, rodents, small antelopes, monkeys, large antelopes that were to be chased until they bled out, and even insects? Did they know that there was even a special arrowhead for fools such as themselves?

Jabber, jabber in their strange tongue that seemed to have no clear beginning or end to the words that comprised the discordant phrases. Such a language would be impossible to learn unless one was born into it. Whatever the circumstances were that surrounded her birth, Ugly Eyes knew that she was not, and could never be, ever be a part of those people gathered around the table there that morning in the shade of the mango tree.

Although Amanda Brown was the official manager of the Missionary Rest House, and she was, for all intents and purposes, the hostess at this rather historic breakfast, she certainly did not feel in charge. If she had to blame any one person it would be the annoying teenage girl who had tried to imitate the Headhunter’s speech. Really, everything had gone pretty smoothly up until then.

But that girl! She was going to give her parents trouble big-time when she got back to the States! Just you wait and see. That loose talk about pregnancy, and then wanting to marry a Spaniard—Peaches was going to do anything she could to push the envelope, and Amanda doubted that the naïve Mrs. Gorman was going to be up to it. Things were undoubtedly a whole lot different in the States these days than the last time the teenager was there; that had to be one of the difficulties of raising a kid in the Congo bush. How do you get them to adjust once you get them back into civilization?

Amanda tapped her water glass with her bread knife. The clear sound elicited a muffled yelp from the “rescued girl,” the one who had yet to be given a proper name.

“You may be excused,” she said with a smile. “Dinner will be served at noon. I hope to see most of you then.”

“Good heavens, dear,” Dorcas said, laying a hand protectively on Amanda’s arm, “you may be seeing quite a few people before then.”

“What do you mean?”

Dorcas stood and pointed in the direction of the bridge that spanned the great falls. A caravan of cars was patiently wending its way through the walking traffic, which at any time of the day consisted of dozens of natives. Wow! There was no end to that line of cars. Literally. It went all the way up to Boulevard des Allies, and then branched out in both directions. Everyone in Belle Vue must be on their way to someplace important. But
where
? Were they fleeing from some danger?

“Pierre,” Amanda said, her voice quavering. “What is going on?”

“Damn it,” Pierre said. “
Pardonnez moi, mesdames
,” he said, bowing quickly to each woman in turn. “They’re coming here, I’m afraid. Quick, we must get the girl inside.”

“Here? But why?”

“I know,” Peaches said triumphantly. “They wanta get a good look at her, that’s why.”

“That is exactly the case, mademoiselle,” the OP said. “You are very perceptive for one who is such a—how do you say—?”

“Hey watch it, buddy,” Mr. Gorman said.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Peaches said.

The OP flushed. “I agree with the captain; we must get that girl inside.”

“How?” Amanda asked. She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Cripple! Cripple.
Eleh kahia!
” Put a fire under it!

Was it possible that the white Mushilele giggled? Amanda shook her head. Just four months ago, back in Rock Hill, she never would have believed such a scene was possible. Ah, and there was Cripple now, brandishing a stick, for heaven’s sake. A stick! As if she’d been summoned to herd chickens.

“Ya,” Cripple sang out, as she whipped the Mushilele girl lightly about the ankles, “go into the house quickly before you embarrass the new
mamu
with your unsightly presence.”

Much to Amanda’s relief the girl did seem to get the picture, but she walked slowly—practically dragging her feet—all the while muttering something in rapid-fire Bushilele.

“Cripple,” Amanda asked, “do you have any idea what she is saying?”

“
Mamu
, as I told you before, I do not speak the speech of monkeys.”

“Cripple! That was not a nice—”

“
Eyo
,
Mamu
, I should not have spoken with such frankness in front of the
bakalenge
—the lords.”

“Ooh!” Amanda said in frustration. “Hurry up. Just get her inside!”

“Come along then, monkey girl,” Cripple said to the Headhunter’s daughter. With a flick of her switch she actually managed to
eleh kaphia
under the feet of her young white charge.

Amanda watched in growing relief. It was plumb amazing. Either serendipity had stepped in, or Cripple had found her calling; that of playing the part of keeper to a kidnapper’s victim.

Or was that even the case? Pierre had been unwilling to commit to that theory. There wasn’t enough to go on, he said. In fact, there really wasn’t anything. A white child—a young woman really—of definite European heritage—is found tucked away in a remote village deep in the African bush. Virtually no one speaks the language. Officially what can be made of it? Which conclusions can be drawn? Nothing! None! The girl might just as well have come from the moon.

Amanda felt a hand at her elbow and turned. It was the OP.

“Mademoiselle,” he said gently, almost fatherly, “perhaps you should go inside now as well. Allow me please to deal with these inquisitive people.”

Amanda smiled and nodded.
Een-queez-ee-teev
. The OP could be charming—gallant even—when he wasn’t being stubborn, bordering on ruthless, in his quest to overturn the mission’s lease on their sixty hectares of prime real estate along the Kasai River. But that was another issue entirely, wasn’t it? Yes, that would have to wait.

*  *  *

Bulelela
. It was indeed true that Husband was only a mediocre witch doctor. How could he deny such accusations when there were other medicine men in the village that were far more powerful than he? Why should anyone pay for a curse that had only a small chance of affecting its intended victim? Of what use was a potion that brought no relief to a body wracked with pain?

There can be no denial that Husband’s father, and his father before him, were both witch doctors of great stature amongst the Baluba people. It was common knowledge that the special powers a witch doctor possessed were passed down through the generations. Of course, the witch doctor was also required to apprentice, during which time he would learn the many incantations required by his office, and also familiarize himself with a vast quantity of herbs and roots.