A Girl Named Disaster

12

As usual you’ve arrived too late to help,” grumbled Aunt Chipo as Nhamo entered Grandmother’s hut. “Don’t think you’ll get away with such laziness with your new husband. He’s a man who knows what’s what.” She leaned against the wall with a bowl of sadza and relish. Masvita was carefully spooning food into Ambuya’s mouth.

“She looks better, don’t you think?” said Masvita. “I almost think she understands what we say.”

“Poor Mother! If it wasn’t for Nhamo, she wouldn’t have angered the muvuki. Well, what are you looking at, girl? I’m not going to wait on you.”

Nhamo helped herself to the pot of relish and platter of sadza next to Grandmother’s pot shelf.

“You be ready bright and early—no running off to the forest,” Aunt Chipo said.

“Please come to the girls’ hut tonight,” begged Masvita. “I’ll ask Tazviona to watch Grandmother.”

Nhamo almost choked on her sadza. “I’ll see you again, lots of times. I don’t know when I’ll see Ambuya.”

“Then I’ll stay with you,” her cousin said warmly.

“Oh, no! You won’t get any sleep,” snapped Aunt Chipo. “You have to do this one’s chores, now that she’s running off to a new home.” She made it sound as though Nhamo were marrying Goré’s brother out of spite.

Masvita made a few gentle protests and dropped the argument. “Don’t worry. I’ll come and see you as often as possible after you’re married,” she whispered. Nhamo doubted this very much. Her cousin had a kind spirit, but she was no match for her mother.

And it didn’t matter. Masvita wasn’t going to visit her in her real new home.

Nhamo hurried to perform the final chores of the day after Aunt Chipo and Masvita had left. She helped Ambuya sit up to relieve herself. She tidied the hut and made sure a water jar was close to the bed. She discovered that Grandmother could hold a cup and drink without any help at all.

“You fooled everyone,” she said with admiration.

“In a day or two I’ll magically recover.” The old woman smiled serenely.

Nhamo glanced out the dark door. “Grandmother…if I run away, won’t the ngozi punish everyone?”

Ambuya paused before she answered. “I’ve been thinking about that a long time. Many people died of cholera, not just our family. I believe Rosa was right: Goré Mtoko couldn’t be responsible for a whole epidemic.”

“But the muvuki—”

“Was wrong. I know that’s a surprise,” said Grandmother when Nhamo’s eyes widened. “You see, spirit mediums are ordinary men and women when they’re not being possessed. A few of them fake messages when they can’t manage a real one.”

Nhamo was deeply shocked.

“I’ve lived a long time, Little Pumpkin. I honor and revere ngangas; I believe they can tell us what our ancestors want, but a few—a very few—are dishonest. Now and then one is downright wicked.”

“Like the muvuki.”

“What kind of decent person would kill his own son? Really big problems, like drought or swarms of locusts or epidemics, are dealt with by the mhondoro, the spirit of the land. The muvuki’s spirit is only a flyspeck compared to it.”

Grandmother’s words were disturbing. Nhamo had never heard anyone question the authority of an nganga—except the trader and his wife. They were Catholic, so their opinion didn’t count.

An idea suddenly occurred to Nhamo. “Aunt Chipo! She was possessed by Goré’s spirit.”

“Oh, yes. Chipo,” Grandmother said bitterly. “Listen, Little Pumpkin. What I’m about to say will be upsetting, but you need to understand. Your aunt has hated you from the moment you were born. She hated your mother, too. Runako was the one everyone said was pretty. She was the one who did well in school, and the very worst thing Runako did was have a beautiful child one month before Masvita was born. It took all the attention away from Chipo.”

Beautiful. They thought I was beautiful, Nhamo said to herself.

“She’s always wanted to get rid of you, and her chance came when we visited the muvuki.”

“You mean she was lying?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

Nhamo’s world turned upside down. First Ambuya had accused the doctor of making things up, and now she said Aunt Chipo had pretended to be possessed. What could anyone believe when things like that happened?

“You can’t wait any longer,” Grandmother said softly.

“Now? I don’t want to go!”

“You have to. If I could come along…” Ambuya sighed. “Well, I can’t, and that’s that. I know all about Zororo. Believe me, you wouldn’t last a year before he either beat you to death or one of his wives poisoned you. Your only hope of survival is to go. I gave Runako her chance long ago. Now I’m giving you yours. I only wish you were older.”

“I’m frightened,” sobbed Nhamo, clinging to Grandmother.

“I know.” Ambuya smoothed her hair, and Nhamo felt a tear drop onto her head. “The journey will be the hardest thing you’ll ever do, but it will be worth it. Just think of finding your father. I don’t expect the trip will take more than two days—we’re very close to the border. Remember to push yourself against the current when you reach the Musengezi. Close to the border the river divides in two, but it doesn’t matter which branch you take. They both go to Zimbabwe.”

“What lies in the other direction?” Nhamo asked.

“Lake Cabora Bassa. The Musengezi used to flow into the Zambezi River until the Portuguese dammed it up. Now the Zambezi’s become a huge lake. You can’t even see across it.” Nhamo nodded. She had heard many tales about Lake Cabora Bassa. Ambuya gently removed her granddaughter’s arms from her neck and pushed her toward the door.

“You might get sick in the night,” Nhamo protested.

“I’ll be fine. Remember, Little Pumpkin, your mother’s spirit is watching over you. She’ll warn you of any danger.”

“I’ll never see you again!”

“Sh. Sh. Someone might hear us. If I go to my ancestors before we meet again, my spirit will come to you in a dream. I promise it.”

Nhamo felt sick with grief as she crept out. She removed the small oil lamp that lit the interior of the hut and put the wooden door in place to keep out predators. She heard Grandmother sigh as the old woman lay back down.

All around stood the dark huts of the village. A quarter moon lay low in the west, not giving enough light to tempt anyone to stay up late. Nhamo took the lamp along to light the way. Far off, in the distance, a lion roared. He was not the dangerous one, the girl knew, but his mate who padded noiselessly through the trees.

Every trickle of noise made Nhamo freeze and her body break out in sweat. Every rustle of leaves made her want to flee back to Ambuya’s arms. But it was a false safety. Besides, she had been ordered to go by her elder. “Please protect me, Mai,” she prayed as she tiptoed along.

Eventually, she pushed aside the reeds and saw Crocodile Guts’s boat floating right where she had left it. She climbed in. Oho! It swayed like a tree branch. Nhamo had never been in a boat, and she didn’t like the sensation. She lay on her stomach with her arms over the stern, untying the rope. A puddle of water in the bottom soaked her dress-cloth.

Once free, she took the oar, as she had seen Crocodile Guts do many times, and pushed herself away from shore. The boat moved! At first it edged by inches, but it drifted more swiftly as it reached the middle of the stream. Nhamo held tightly to the sides. The quarter moon was almost down.

She could see the sky over the trees. Now and then she glimpsed a round boulder or a patch of sand. Of her village there was not a trace.

In spite of her fear, Nhamo felt a little thrill of excitement. She was really doing it! She was sailing away from Zororo and his jealous wives. In two days she would arrive in Zimbabwe and ask the first people she met to find her some nuns. And then—oh, then!—they would send a letter to her father at Mtoroshanga.

Thinking happily of the aunts and uncles she was soon to have, Nhamo watched the dark shore slide by as she floated on toward the Musengezi River.