A Girl Named Disaster

17

Nhamo slowly dragged the boat down to the water. She rested frequently, having no desire to reach her destination, but she couldn’t postpone the journey any longer. “It seems you insist on me visiting you, Va-njuzu,” she said bitterly as she wrestled the heavy boat over the rocks. It was early morning, when the water was generally calm. Nhamo floated the boat and walked it out of the shallows. On one side of the island was a field of dangerous rocks; on the other, as far as she could tell, was a deep, clear area.

Nhamo didn’t allow herself to think. She clambered into the boat, waited for it to stop rocking, and started out. She didn’t allow herself to look back at the island. A pinch of the precious salt and a few bean sprouts filled her with energy for a while, but it wore off.

For once, the waves remained small. Unfortunately, the still air brought a heat haze that covered the water and made it difficult to see very far. Midday came and passed. Nhamo rested and ate more beans. They rumbled inside her stomach. Long before sunset, Nhamo was too exhausted to row, so she brought the oar inside and stretched out with Aunt Chipo’s scarf over her head.

“Mother, how will my spirit return to the village if my body is at the bottom of the lake?” she asked.

Mother smiled at her over the white tablecloth, where she was spreading bread with margarine. “I got home, didn’t I? The paths of the body are long, but the paths of the spirit are short.”

“Don’t worry, little Disaster,” said Crocodile Guts, who was lounging in a chair. “You’ve got my boat. It’s made out of mukwa wood. Even the termites won’t touch it.” He scratched his head, and ghost lice crept over his fingers.

Two njuzu girls coiled up the table legs and bent gracefully over cups of tea that Mother had poured. They lapped at them with forked tongues.

Nhamo woke in the middle of the night. Mwari’s country spread out above her. It was a region of which she knew little. Nighttime was too full of danger to encourage anyone to relax and study stars. Mwari, of course, was everywhere, but his special place was the sky.

The air was still, and the boat drifted gently. Nhamo thought about the dream. She knew that her spirit wandered with the ancestors when she was asleep. It made perfect sense that Mother would speak to her, but the presence of Crocodile Guts was puzzling. He wasn’t a relative. Perhaps he was attracted by the boat.

As for the snake-girls, Nhamo would have preferred them to slither off to someone else’s dream.

Dawn came. She continued to rest. It seemed too much trouble to sit up and row. Where could she go, anyhow? The sunlight crept up behind Nhamo’s head and finally bathed her in uncomfortable heat. The air was motionless. She covered her eyes with Aunt Chipo’s scarf. Slowly, the sun rose until it shone directly on her face. She could see beads of brilliant light through the weave of the scarf.

She attempted to paddle in the afternoon, but the oar threatened to slip out of her fingers. Nhamo gave herself up to the inevitable. Now and then she drank water and nibbled the rest of the beans and salt. At night she fell into confused dreams. How long had she been out here? How many times had the sun passed overhead? It was just peeping over the rim of the boat now, although she had no memory of a dawn.

And then it came to her that the boat had been drifting in the same direction all that time. It was moving toward the rising sun, which meant the current was flowing east. All she had to do was paddle west, and eventually she would reach Zimbabwe.

Nhamo sat up. Lights flashed before her eyes and her head swam. Oh, yes! I’m going to row to Zimbabwe. I can barely move, she thought. It took a while for the fit of dizziness to pass, and then her eyes couldn’t focus. A dark smudge floated over the water.

Nhamo rubbed her eyes; the smudge didn’t go away. In fact, it became clearer as the boat floated toward it. A strip of sky separated it from the lake, but it was most definitely a patch of land with trees. A thrill of terror shot through Nhamo. Whoever heard of land floating? It had to be connected to the spirit world.

As the boat approached, the strip of sky wavered and melted away. Suddenly, Nhamo realized she was looking at an island. She grasped the oar and was swept with another fit of dizziness. No matter! She began paddling anyhow, trying to make out the island through the haze of light blurring her vision. The shoreline rose up steeply. Here was another problem! This island didn’t slope gradually into the water. She couldn’t see anywhere to tie up.

On she went, bumping now and then against rocks. Even if she did manage to tie up, she didn’t think she had the strength to climb any cliffs. Nhamo prayed to her ancestors and then, to be on the safe side, asked the njuzu for help, too. She hadn’t forgotten the strip of sky. This land might very well belong to supernatural creatures.

As she was almost past the island, she spied a giant fig tree with long roots snaking down to the water. Nhamo made for it and secured the boat. She lay down to rest.

The roots twisted and interlocked above her. They made a natural ladder and even provided places to sit and catch her breath. It was perfect. I can build a fire, Nhamo thought. I can eat. Thank you, Mother and Grandfather. Thank you, Great-grandparents. And of course you, too, Va-njuzu. And Va-Crocodile Guts. I couldn’t have done it without your boat.

Nhamo thought about what she should do to express her gratitude. Beer was what one generally offered the ancestors, but she hadn’t learned how to make it yet. She did know how to make maheu, though. She could use some of the cooked mealie meal and have it ready tomorrow.

What would the njuzu like? Here, Nhamo was completely stymied. They seemed to have plenty of food and drink in her dream. They had houses and livestock, too. Really, it was difficult to know what such powerful spirits lacked. Then she had it: They liked jewelry. The snake-girls had been covered with beads.

Nhamo hunted in her stores until she found the beads from Aunt Shuvai’s bracelet. She looked at them sadly, remembering when she had gathered them up long ago after her aunt had thrown them away. They were one of her few remaining links to the village. But she must not be cowardly. The njuzu had brought her to this island, and it would be extremely ungrateful not to repay them.

Nhamo closed her eyes and flung the beads into the lake. She heard a light patter as they struck the water. “I hope you like them,” she whispered. “They were very beautiful.”

Nhamo made ready to climb the fig-tree roots to the top of the island. She packed a cooking pot, mealie meal, and matches into the fish trap. This she tied to her back. Then she filled the calabash with water and began her journey.

Step by step, with many rests, she worked her way to the top. The most difficult job was keeping the water in the calabash. She would have to work out a better method for transporting it. Nhamo fought against dizziness, but the promise of cooked food kept her going. She finally hauled herself over the top of the cliff and stopped.

And stared, open-mouthed.

The island was covered with greenery as far as she could see—not with ordinary forest plants, but with tomatoes, mealies, and bananas. Nhamo’s eyes grew wider and wider as she took in the unbelievable scene.

“Oh! Oh! Thank you!” she cried. She fell to her knees by a banana tree and began cramming the ripe fruit into her mouth. Then she forced herself to eat more slowly. Ambuya said it was dangerous to eat too much after starving. Nhamo nibbled and waited and nibbled again. She ate some tomatoes next. They were little and egg-shaped, not like the tomatoes they grew in the village, but she had seen ones like them in the Portuguese trader’s garden.

After a while Nhamo curled up in the shade of a tree and went to sleep. She knew this was foolish—after all, she hadn’t explored the island—but she was so weak she couldn’t help herself. And besides, she thought as she snuggled into the grass, this place must belong to supernatural beings who wouldn’t allow wicked things to stay. Hadn’t it floated over the water?

She awoke shortly before sunset, found a rocky area to build a fire on, and prepared dinner. She added tomatoes for flavor. Before it got dark, she boiled water and added it to the leftover mealie meal. “I am preparing maheu for you, O vadzimu. Please understand that I am very, very grateful for your help,” she said.

Nhamo climbed down the fig roots and spent the night in the boat. The wind came up and tossed it around, but she barely noticed.

Most of the island’s trees were fairly small; the fig was the main exception. They were scattered here and there among untidy stands of mealies, rioting pumpkin vines, and sweet potatoes. Nhamo found papayas, okra, chilies, onions, and peanuts as well. They were at all stages of development. The mealies grew in clumps as though they had sprouted from entire ears dropped from unharvested plants. In some places, though, she could see evidence of systematic farming. In the center of the island was a ruined house, behind which stood a lemon tree.

Nhamo walked around the structure. It was a square, Portuguese house, not as grand as Joao and Rosa’s, but not small either. The windows were boarded up, and the remnants of iron grillwork hung from the frames. A door stood slightly open, showing a dark and forbidding interior. Nhamo wasn’t tempted to go inside. She fetched the maheu pot and sat under the lemon tree to think.

Grandmother said this area had once been dry land, except for the Zambezi. The Portuguese dammed up the river and flooded the whole valley. Only the high hills poked out above the water now.

The villagers who had lived in the Zambezi Valley dug up the bones of their ancestors and carried them to new places beyond the edge of the lake. It would have been unthinkable to leave the bones behind. The ancestors were as much a part of the family as the children, and to abandon them would have been wicked beyond belief.

The mud huts of the villagers would perish after several rainy seasons, but a Portuguese house was made of stronger materials and would survive. As this one had.

The island was part of an abandoned village, much like the place where Nhamo used to have tea with Mother. There were no baboons or porcupines or wild pigs to ravage it, as there had been at the other place. As far as Nhamo knew, it contained no animals larger than mice, and the shore was too steep for hippos to invade. That was why food still abounded.

The place was part of the real world, then, and not a supernatural realm. Nhamo was relieved to find a logical explanation. It didn’t mean her ancestors weren’t responsible for finding it, though. She had no doubt that spirit hands had directed the boat when she was too weak to row.

The maheu smelled delicious, but she wasn’t even slightly tempted to drink it. This food was for the ancestors. She knelt under the lemon tree and clapped her hands respectfully. “I have prepared this for you, O vadzimu. When I get to Zimbabwe, I’ll go to an nganga and ask him to make a better offering with real beer and snuff. I hope you don’t mind waiting. Please understand how very grateful I am for your help.”

As Nhamo spoke these words, she slowly poured the maheu onto the earth. It soaked in quickly. When she was finished, she sat back and smiled at the beautiful green island. The lonely-sickness seemed far away at that moment. It was as though the place was filled with the presence of her ancestors. The paths of the body were long, but the paths of the spirit were short, and the vadzimu had gathered to witness her gift, and to protect their wandering child.