A Girl Named Disaster

10

The 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.

“How far is the army camp?” asked Nhamo.

“About an hour’s walk, on the other side of the trading post.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Joao won’t go alone. He’ll pick up his assistant.”

The conversation lapsed. Nhamo’s nerves were strung as tightly as a bowstring. She didn’t know what to hope for. She wanted to stay with Rosa—but she didn’t want her family hurt. What would happen when Frelimo showed up with their guns? And if she didn’t marry Goré Mtoko’s brother, wouldn’t the ngozi kill the rest of her family?

Nhamo sat on the floor next to Grandmother’s bed and held the old woman’s cold hand. “What should I do, Ambuya?” she pleaded. “If you want me to stay with Rosa and Joao, please move your fingers.” But Grandmother did nothing, either because she hadn’t understood or because she, too, couldn’t make up her mind.

In the distance, Nhamo heard voices and saw lights moving among the trees. They were coming from the direction of the trading post. “Rosa!” she cried.

“That can’t be the soldiers yet,” Rosa said. Very quickly a crowd poured into the trader’s garden, trampling the plants and forming a semicircle in front of the house. Nhamo was startled to glimpse Joao’s pale face. The crowd consisted of Uncle Kufa and the villagers, the muvuki, and his son and servants. They carried blazing torches.

“Ah!” cried Rosa as Joao and his assistant were thrown to the ground. Their hands were tied behind their backs.

“By what authority do you challenge me?” roared the muvuki. He drew a small gun from his belt and pointed it at the trader. Rosa screamed. “You can’t tell me what to do!” the muvuki went on. “You are not my father, and I am not your child. You will not be permitted to interfere.”

“I only go for check store,” Joao protested.

“You liar! You were on your way to the Frelimo camp. I heard you talking to your assistant,” Uncle Kufa shouted.

“If the Catholics want war, then war it shall be,” the muvuki screamed. “We’ll see who wins, your dead man on a stick or the living spirits of Africa!” He fired the gun into the air. Nhamo gasped with terror.

“I go for take brandy to soldiers,” said Joao, suddenly inspired. The muvuki stopped and considered his captive. The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Something about their expressions seemed odd to Nhamo. In spite of his threatening words, the muvuki didn’t look particularly angry, nor did the trader appear frightened.

“Frelimo is against alcohol,” the doctor pointed out.

“Big boys on top no like,” Joao said craftily. “Little guys on bottom drink, drink. Chase women, too.”

“That’s so,” agreed one of the villagers. “You can tell Frelimo women are trashy. They wear pants like men.”

“Is this true? You were taking brandy to the soldiers and not asking them to rescue the girl?” the doctor said.

“Delivering drinks in the middle of the night? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Uncle Kufa.

“If I go in daytime, the big boys shoot me.”

“It makes sense.” The muvuki put the gun away. Suddenly, Nhamo understood that an agreement had been reached between the doctor and the trader. They had to live together in this community. They might dislike each other, but they were both businessmen, with the same customers. As long as the muvuki maintained his supremacy, he was quite willing to let a Catholic trader operate in the same area. Joao, for his part, had to protect Rosa. Uncle Kufa was an outsider.

“Aren’t you going to punish him?” said Uncle Kufa.

The muvuki ignored him. He called for his son to bring him a seat. The young man went into the trader’s house as though he owned it and returned, lugging Joao’s easy chair. After the doctor had settled himself down, he told his servants to untie Joao and the assistant. Rosa ran to her husband, crying.

Uncle Kufa didn’t understand the delicate trading that had gone on under his nose. He looked both angry and bewildered, something Nhamo would have enjoyed if her own situation hadn’t been so desperate.

She knew the battle was over. She was doomed. She watched passively as Grandmother was bundled into a carrying chair. Rosa wept in Joao’s arms, and he looked past her into the dark forest. Nhamo turned away, resolutely following Ambuya’s chair as it swayed along the trail. Perhaps the trader and his wife saw her leave, perhaps not. It didn’t matter. The sooner she was gone, the safer they would be.