A Girl Named Disaster

11

Nhamo stared at the open door of the hut. The light outside was blinding; inside, it was cool and dark. She heard Grandmother’s steady breathing from the mat behind her.

Tomorrow was the first day of the handing-over ceremony. Beer had been brewed and the nganga from Vatete’s village had arrived. During the ceremony, he would be possessed by Goré’s spirit and would list the things it required to leave Nhamo’s family in peace. All the conditions had already been decided. The ceremony was only a formality.

The following day, Nhamo and her relatives would travel to Goré’s village for the second part of the marriage. She would wear a red cloth over her head until she sat beside the ceremonial pot shelf in her new home.

For the first time in her life she wasn’t burdened with chores from dawn to dusk. It was as though the village had already said good-bye to her. Masvita, Tazviona, and the others gathered wood and weeded the gardens. They spoke politely to Nhamo when she ventured from Grandmother’s hut, but there was already a wall between them and her. The only encouraging event was the reappearance of Masvita’s menstruation. It seemed the ngozi had forgotten some of his anger.

What would her new life be like? She knew that Goré’s brother, Zororo, had three wives already. They were all older than Aunt Chipo and so they would be jealous of her. She had seen Zororo. His hair was peppered with gray, and the whites of his eyes had turned a dull yellow. When Uncle Kufa’s hunting dog growled at him, Zororo gave the beast such a kick in the ribs that it ran yelping into the forest. Goré’s brother clearly didn’t tolerate opposition.

And what would she do about Mother? Only once, in the weeks since her return, had Nhamo gone to the ruined village. It was too disheartening! “Could I take you with me, Mai?” she asked. It might be better to leave the picture where it was. She could always imagine Mother waiting for her there.

“Little Pumpkin,” came a faint voice behind her.

Nhamo was so startled she almost screamed. She spun around and saw Grandmother watching her from the mat.

“D-did you speak, Va-Ambuya?” she quavered.

“Come here.” The old woman’s voice was low, but perfectly clear. “I don’t want anyone else to listen.”

Nhamo crouched next to the mat, trembling.

“I’ve been able to talk for several days. And to listen for much longer. I had to think about what to do.”

“D-do?” murmured Nhamo.

“I’m very, very weak,” Grandmother went on. “I doubt whether I can argue with Kufa about your marriage.”

“You know about it?”

“I remember everything, including the night we were taken from the trader’s house. I’ve had a long time to think about what Rosa said. Little Pumpkin, you might be a Catholic.”

“How can I tell?” Nhamo automatically dipped a cloth in a pot of water. She had been cooling Ambuya’s skin so often during the hot days, she hardly noticed what she was doing.

“I don’t know. But I do know the Catholics would protect you if they thought you belonged to them.”

Nhamo felt like crying. Why had Grandmother waited so long to give her this information? Any help Ambuya sent for now would come too late. She gently wiped the old woman’s face and arms with the wet cloth.

Grandmother was silent a few moments. Perhaps she had exhausted herself.

“Ambuya, would you like some food? Or should I call Aunt Chipo?”

“No!” Grandmother said with surprising strength. “The last thing I need is a fit of hysterics in this hut. My beloved child, what I have to say is for you alone.”

At the words beloved child Nhamo began to cry silently and hopelessly. Never in her life had anyone called her that.

“You must run away to the Catholics today.”

Nhamo sat up straight. Had she heard correctly? “You mean walk to the trading post by myself?”

“No. Kufa and that misbegotten brother of Goré would find you in no time. Besides, Joao and Rosa can’t protect you. They are only two against hundreds. You must go to Zimbabwe.”

“Zim-bab-we?” gasped Nhamo.

“I’ve been lying here thinking, thinking, thinking. How is it to be done? And at last the solution came to me. The stream flows down to the river—the Musengezi River. I followed it when I came from Zimbabwe. You can use it to go back.”

“I—don’t know.” Nhamo was aghast. The edge of the river was thickly forested. Not only was it difficult to walk through, but all the animals went there to drink. She would be someone’s dinner before the first day was out!

“You could take a trail, but you’d probably get lost. Besides, one girl alone wouldn’t last long.”

Exactly my idea, thought Nhamo.

“So you’ll have to take a boat. Crocodile Guts’s boat was pulled up on a sandbank when he died. I doubt whether anyone has disturbed it.”

“It’s still there,” Nhamo said.

“Good! You’re an observant girl. I’m sure you noticed how Crocodile Guts maneuvered his boat.”

Nhamo had, in fact, often watched the fisherman. Boating was one of the many things she had studied without having any clear reason to do so. He had a pole with a flat paddle that he used first on one side, then the other, to move himself along.

“When it gets dark, you pull the boat into the water and let yourself float downstream. After a while you’ll come to the Musengezi. Then you must use the paddle to force yourself against the flow. You have to go upstream, not down. When you need to rest, go toward shore and tie up to a tree. Crocodile Guts always kept a coil of rope in his boat. Be sure it’s still there. It’s perfect! You’ll be safe from animals all the way.”

Nhamo was stunned by the idea. It was so unbelievably daring! Could she really float—or row—all the way to freedom? “How will I know when I’ve gone far enough?”

“When you come to electric lights,” said Ambuya. “You’ve never seen them, but they’re bright—bright as a hundred fires! You must be very careful crossing the border, though. Don’t get out of the boat. The ground is full of land mines.” Grandmother explained about land mines, and Nhamo felt queasy.

All at once, they heard Aunt Chipo’s voice outside. Ambuya lay flat and closed her eyes. The woman brought in food and maheu. There was a special dish of treats for Nhamo. “Since it’s your last day,” Aunt Chipo explained. She lifted Grandmother’s hand, which was perfectly limp, and laid it back down with a sigh.

When they were alone again, Nhamo shared her treats with Ambuya. “I had to lie to her,” the old woman explained. “If Kufa knew I could give you advice, he might guess where you went after you escaped. I’m hoping he’ll think you went back to the trading post.” The two of them ate and talked more as if they were two girls rather than a revered elder and a child. It was like the afternoon they had listened to the guitar at the trading post.

But finally, Grandmother told her to close the door for privacy. “Move that chest at the end of my bed,” she ordered. When Nhamo had done so, Grandmother told her to dig a hole in the floor. A few inches down was a small pot. It was full of gold nuggets.

“I collected those from the stream. I used to trade them with Joao, but I’ll never do that again.”

“Don’t say that,” begged Nhamo.

“I’m only telling the truth. When I go to my ancestors, Chipo will hunt around until she finds it. She can dig up a pot of earthworms for all I care! I want you to have it.”

Nhamo poured the nuggets into her hand. They were colder and heavier than she’d expected.

“Put them into a cloth bag and tie them around your neck,” instructed Ambuya. “Don’t try to sell them without advice—ask the nuns for help.”

“At Nyanga?” said Nhamo, remembering the place her mother had gone to school.

“You won’t be able to walk that far, but there are nuns all over Zimbabwe. Just find the nearest ones and tell them you’re Catholic. They can send a letter to your father.”

Her father! Nhamo had forgotten about him. Suddenly, Grandmother’s daring plan took on reality. Nhamo had a family in Zimbabwe. She had a name: Nhamo Jongwe, member of the Jongwe clan, which might include friendly aunts and uncles and even grandparents.

“He’s as trustworthy as a rat in a grain bin, but he’s all you’ve got,” said Ambuya, spoiling Nhamo’s enthusiasm. Still, Grandmother didn’t really know Father that well. He might have a very nice family.

“Go for a walk now, Little Pumpkin. Take food from the storehouse. Get matches, a calabash, and whatever else you can manage without getting caught.”

“That’s stealing,” protested Nhamo.

“That’s survival. I, your elder, command you to do it. Now go. I’m exhausted with talking and need to sleep.” Grandmother closed her eyes and this time really dozed off. Nhamo tore a square of the red cloth she was to use for the wedding ceremony and tied the gold pieces inside.

My roora, she thought with a bitter smile. Then she set about following Ambuya’s directions.

All went with amazing smoothness. Crocodile Guts’s boat was still jammed into the reeds, and the mooring rope was still attached. Nhamo removed a sack of already ground and dried mealie meal from the storehouse. She visited Aunt Chipo’s hut and took a box of matches and a bag of beans. Here and there she went, removing odds and ends. It was wicked to steal—she knew that—but worse to disobey an elder. And so she entered into the adventure with a clear conscience. No one bothered her or even stopped to talk. She was a ghost in her own village, already seen as the bride of the ngozi.

Only Masvita gave her an uncomfortable moment. “I’ll miss you,” her cousin said tearfully as Nhamo bent over Aunt Shuvai’s baby. “I want you to know…if it doesn’t work out…if he’s cruel…come back. I couldn’t bear to see you suffer. I’ll argue with Father until he lets you stay. You’ll have to return anyway to have your first child.”

Nhamo knew that Masvita would never find the courage to argue with Uncle Kufa, but she appreciated the thought. She felt slightly guilty because she had just stolen a pot of the millet-and-honey cakes Aunt Chipo kept to fatten her daughter up.

Nhamo stored everything in the boat. In the late afternoon, she went to the ruined village and fetched Mother. “You’ll never guess what I’m going to do,” she whispered to the clay pot. “I know it seems wrong, but Grandmother commanded me to do it.”

As the shadows grew and the time for departure approached, however, Nhamo began to have second thoughts. It had been a wonderful plan when the sun was high. Ambuya had seemed full of confidence and even—if such a thing were possible with an elder—mischief.

Now the spaces between the trees filled up with blue-gray shadows as Nhamo halted by Crocodile Guts’s boat. Quelea birds flew to safety in the reeds. The moment, when day had not quite become night, held the forest enthralled. A kudu stood, one foot poised, near the water; a monkey gazed at Nhamo from his perch in a mobola plum tree. Nhamo hesitated, holding the clay pot with Mother’s picture inside.

Then the light shifted; the kudu snorted and backed away to find another path. The monkey fled. “Oh, Mother, I’m so frightened,” murmured Nhamo. She placed the pot in one end of the boat and packed grass around it for protection.