A Girl Named Disaster

7

Is that basket too heavy?” Masvita asked as Nhamo carefully took a few steps.

“I don’t think so. I’ll tell you if I need help,” Nhamo said. In fact, the basket was larger than anything she had ever attempted, but Nhamo was afraid to ask her cousin to take some of the load. Masvita was so thin! She had been over the cholera for weeks, but she was still skeletal. It wasn’t from lack of food. Every time she turned around, someone tried to feed her. Aunt Chipo killed one of her precious hens and forced her daughter to eat all of it. Ambuya toasted pumpkin seeds and sprinkled them with salt.

But Uncle Kufa had made the greatest sacrifice. Accompanied by Nhamo, he went into the forest and found a wild beehive. The bees had taken up residence in an old termite nest. First Uncle Kufa checked the opening. A blackish opening would show that the hive was new, and they would have to find another one. But the opening was the color of earth. That meant the bees had had time to store honey.

Uncle Kufa sealed the hole and dug another entrance close by with a hoe. He made a smoky fire of grass and leaves to make the bees drowsy. In spite of this, when he thrust his hands into the new opening, some of the insects were alert enough to sting.

Nhamo bit the inside of her cheek as she watched. She didn’t dare get close. The tears ran down Uncle Kufa’s face as he grimly scooped out honeycombs. He placed them in a pot of water to keep the bees from finding them again.

It was Nhamo’s job to carry the pot. Her uncle’s hands were so swollen, he couldn’t pick up his hoe, so Nhamo carried that as well. They hurried away before the bees woke up.

Aunt Chipo squeezed the honey out of the combs and boiled it with millet meal to make delicious cakes. Every time Masvita showed the slightest willingness, a cake was thrust into her mouth. Still she didn’t gain weight and, most upsetting of all, her menstruation didn’t occur at the expected time.

“She’s very young,” Ambuya told Aunt Chipo. “Girls are often irregular at that age.”

“She’s sterile,” moaned Aunt Chipo. “I’ll never have grandchildren.”

Ambuya pursed her lips in annoyance.

This was why Nhamo was unwilling to share her load with Masvita, even though she suspected the heavy basket would make her neck ache. Nothing worse could happen to a woman than sterility. She felt terribly sorry for her cousin.

She hoped they would find a cure for Masvita on this journey, although it was filled with potential danger for everyone. Someone—probably a witch—was responsible for the deaths and Masvita’s condition. They were about to find out who that person was.

Masvita tied Aunt Shuvai’s baby to her back and lifted a much smaller basket to her own head. The baby had been weaned far too early and was unhappy with a diet of watery porridge and weak, sweetened beer. He cried continuously, adding to Nhamo’s gloom.

Would she ever see the village again? Nhamo had been quite wrong about Uncle Kufa’s willingness to pay the muvuki. Masvita’s condition worried him too much. She had been wrong about the specialist coming to the village as well. Common ngangas could be coaxed into making house calls, but not the muvuki. He was far too important. People had to travel to him, and they might have to wait a long time to attract his attention.

Uncle Kufa, Aunt Chipo, Ambuya, Masvita, and Nhamo waited for the others to show up. At least half the families had lost someone. The rest of the villagers would remain behind to care for the children, although Aunt Shuvai’s baby was being taken along in hopes that they could buy milk at the trading post.

Eventually, a crowd of twenty gathered, and they started off down the trail. Nhamo’s neck began to hurt after a few minutes, but she gritted her teeth and endured it. They rested frequently because Ambuya and Masvita were unable to keep up the pace.

By early afternoon they arrived at the next village, where Vatete had lived. “What kept you so long?” complained Vatete’s husband. He would be joining them on their trip to the muvuki.

“Masvita,” Uncle Kufa replied in a low voice. Vatete’s husband glanced at the wasted girl as she tottered to a log and sat down.

“That’s her? I didn’t recognize her,” he whispered to Uncle Kufa.

Nhamo took the baby from her cousin and dribbled porridge into his mouth with her hand. His skin was loose and he seemed to have already given up the battle to live.

“I suppose I should see Vatete’s children,” Masvita said in a dull voice.

“We can do that on the way back,” said Nhamo. She didn’t want her cousin to start crying. “Tell me about the trading post. It sounds so exciting.”

So Masvita described the tractor and the bolts of cloth again. She said that the Portuguese trader had a yellow-and-blue parrot in a cage. It could talk, but only in Portuguese, and it bit anyone who stuck his fingers through the bars.

They spent the night at Vatete’s village, and early the next day they moved on. Nhamo noticed that quite a few people had zangos, or charms against witchcraft. Everyone, of course, already wore the bark cords of mourning, the men around their heads and the women around their necks. The men’s faces, too, were covered with stubble because they would not be allowed to shave until the period of mourning was over. What Nhamo saw now was the sudden appearance of small red-and-blue packages containing magic roots or feathers. Aunt Chipo and Uncle Kufa each had one tied around an arm, and even Aunt Shuvai’s baby wore one around his waist.

They must have visited the nganga last night, Nhamo thought. But who are they protecting themselves against? A thrill of terror ran through her. No one had given her a charm. The sunlight grew dark before her eyes. She stumbled along with the heavy basket on her head, but she couldn’t feel the ache in her neck anymore. She couldn’t feel anything. She was the one they were worried about! She was the one they thought rode hyenas in the middle of the night.

Nhamo was so distracted, she banged into a tree. The bark cut her forehead, but she didn’t react. She stood still, dazed by her thoughts.

“Please let me take some of that,” came Masvita’s gentle voice. “Mother is carrying the baby now. I can help out.”

Nhamo didn’t protest as her cousin took some of the heavy packets of mealie meal from the basket and transferred them to the sling on her back.

“If they keep loading you like that, you’re going to grow up crooked. Here, let me tie a zango on your arm. I have more than I need.”

Hypnotized, Nhamo watched Masvita fasten a blue charm around her arm. She wiped the cut on her head with some leaves and smiled in a glassy way at her cousin.

“I think the heat’s bothering you,” said Masvita, worried.

“No, no. I’m fine.” Nhamo forced herself to continue walking. It took a while for the shock to wear off, but presently she found an explanation for what had happened. Uncle Kufa had given the zangos to Masvita, expecting her to share them with the younger girls. It made perfect sense to protect everyone from sorcery. They were visiting the muvuki, who had killed his own son to gain power. Uncle Kufa wanted to be sure they didn’t go home with more witchcraft than they arrived with.

Late in the afternoon, they came to the trading post. In spite of the somber reason for the journey, everyone cheered up. The trading post was so lively! Dozens of little camps surrounded it. Dozens of campfires threaded blue smoke through the musasa trees. Large women in bright head scarves sat behind heaps of vegetables outside the Portuguese store. Their faces shone with butterfat.

Men wove baskets out of reeds. Fishermen laid out bags of dried fish. Food sellers roasted mealies and peanuts—the smell almost drove Nhamo mad. She turned this way and that, eager to see everything.

A farmer played a one-stringed harp like a hunter’s bow and sang to himself as he waited for someone to buy his chickens. The chickens lay in a mournful row with their legs tied together. A man sat on the steps of the trading post and tootled a lively tune on a pakila, or panpipes. He was joined by another man with a Portuguese guitar. Nhamo had never seen a guitar, and the music took her breath away. She stood perfectly still, hardly believing the beauty of the sound, until Aunt Chipo yelled at her to move on.

They made camp along a stream. Nhamo found stones for a cook-fire. She swept the ground to prepare sleeping areas, hauled water from the stream, and began the long process of preparing food. It made no difference that she was tired. The work still had to be done.

But when all was finished, she was too excited to rest. She ran back to the trading post. The guitarist was gone, but something equally interesting had appeared. The Portuguese trader had brought out his radio. It was loud, so loud! No mere human could have made so much noise. Nhamo discovered that if she leaned against it, her ribs quivered. She seemed to be made all of music. It was wonderful!

She stayed there until someone grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away. Nhamo stumbled off—the music still made her ears ring—and squatted in the shadows nearby.

“Go home, picanin!” shouted the Portuguese trader in bad Shona. “You no old enough for here!”

Gradually, she understood what the man was trying to tell her. Kerosene lamps—another amazing thing—hissed as they hung from hooks over the porch. Beneath sat a mob of men and women with buckets of beer. Each person had his or her own bucket, and it was clear the group had settled down for a night of serious drinking.

A vague sense of danger hung over the gathering, although Nhamo wasn’t sure why. Regretfully, she returned to her camp.

“The muvuki can’t see us for weeks! He wouldn’t even talk to me!” Uncle Kufa was shouting as she arrived. “How are we supposed to wait—with all of you eating like starving hyenas? I suppose he plans to push up the price, the dirty child murderer!”

“Please don’t shout. You don’t know who’s listening,” begged Aunt Chipo.

Uncle Kufa stopped abruptly and looked around at the dark trees. “You’re right. I wouldn’t put it past him to have spies,” he muttered.

“What kind of spies?” asked Nhamo as she stretched out next to Masvita later.

Masvita thought for a moment. “Owls?” she guessed.

Nhamo digested this idea as she stared up at the stars. She didn’t like sleeping outside, even with a crowd of people. “I thought only witches kept owls.”

“Don’t ask so many questions. Go to sleep,” said Masvita.

Nhamo thought about the muvuki. Grandmother said that perfectly good ngangas were sometimes tempted to use their power for evil. Once they did, she said, you didn’t go near them, any more than you would approach a dog that had gone rabid.

In the distance, she heard the radio and the loud voices of the drinkers. The music let her know she was in a truly exotic and exciting place. “I’m glad we have to wait,” she whispered to herself.