A Girl Named Disaster

29

Once upon a time a farmer lived in the middle of a forest full of baboons,” began Nhamo. It was late at night. Her nerves wouldn’t let her sleep, so she decided to tell Mother a story. Nhamo hugged the grassfilled grain bag, and she had Mother’s jar nestled next to her face. She knew the leopard wouldn’t be a problem until he finished eating the kudu, but he was still out there.

“The farmer could never relax,” she went on. “Day after day the baboons looked hungrily at his mealies. But every time they tried to get them, the farmer would pelt them with rocks from his sling.

“Finally, the chief baboon said, ‘My brothers, we are never going to get those mealies. That man is much too watchful. He can make mistakes, though. He never guards the goat pen because he doesn’t know we can eat meat.’

“‘Hoo! Hoo!’ cried all the other animals. ‘Let’s go raid the goat pen!’

“They killed a goat and roasted its meat. ‘Do you know what would be really funny?’ suggested the chief baboon. ‘Let’s sew our droppings into the skin and prop it up outside the farmer’s hut.’

“‘Hoo! Wow! What a great idea!’ cried the other animals. They filled the skin with baboon droppings, sewed it up, and propped it against the farmer’s door. Then they hid in the bushes to watch.

“Soon the farmer came out. ‘Good morning, my fine nanny goat. What are you doing out of your pen?’

“The goat didn’t answer.

“‘Well, don’t stand there blocking the door. Get out of the way,’ said the farmer, but the goat didn’t answer. The man shouted at the animal and then, when it still didn’t answer, he lost his temper and kicked it.

“Maiwee! The stitches flew apart. The goatskin exploded and sent baboon droppings all over the hut. The farmer was furious. ‘Wah! Wah!’ cried the baboons, falling all over themselves with laughter.

“‘I’ll get them back for that,’ the man said as he swept and washed out his hut. He dug a deep pit in front of his garden and covered it with branches. Then he lay down on the trail to the forest and pretended to be dead.

“The baboons discovered him. They pushed and prodded him. He didn’t move. They sang:

‘The farmer is dead, hii!

What has killed him, hii!

He died of grief for his goat, hii!

With what can we repay him, hii!’

“‘We’ll have to bury him,’ said the chief baboon, so they carried the farmer into the forest and dug a grave. It was hard work, and soon the animals got bored.

“‘Who cares if the hyenas scatter his bones,’ said the chief baboon, wiping his face. ‘The good thing is, he’s no longer around to throw rocks at us. Let’s go raid the mealies.’

“The baboons left the farmer and hurried back down the trail. They raced to the garden, fell into the pit, and were all killed. The farmer lived happily ever after and never had to worry about his plants again.”

Nhamo hugged the grain bag and listened to sounds in the night. She heard the usual mutter of the baboons. They couldn’t be too worried or they wouldn’t talk.

It’s going to be more difficult to finish the boat now, Mother said.

“I shouldn’t have put it off,” moaned Nhamo.

There’s always something dangerous in the forest. You’ll just have to be more careful.

“I can’t work with that creature around!”

You don’t have a choice, Mother pointed out.

The waves are as big as elephants during the rainy season, said Crocodile Guts from his soft bed in the njuzu village.

Nhamo got up and sat on the edge of her platform. She watched the starlit cliff with its murmuring baboons until dawn.

As she had hoped, the meat dried steadily during the night. It hadn’t spoiled. As soon as the baboons were gone, Nhamo built up the curing-fire. Clouds of smoke billowed up through gaps in the platform, adding flavor as well as preserving the meat. Now and then she turned the strips to expose both sides.

“I can’t possibly work on the boat until this is finished,” she explained to Mother. Then, to keep from feeling guilty, Nhamo devised a method to protect her stores. She took two of the now-useless fish traps, plugged the small ends, and hung them by long ropes from the highest branch of the lucky-bean trees. The branch extended out over the grassland. She could pull the fish traps back by means of a string.

“I can store the meat inside, Mai. The birds can’t reach it, and the baboons can’t jump that high.” To be on the safe side, Nhamo built a low fire on the ground below. If Rumpy tried anything, he was going to get a hot foot.

In the middle of the day, Nhamo made a quick trip for water. The stream was dry now, and she had to depend on the lake. She put the panga in the sling with the calabashes and kept the spear handy. She half intended to raid the kudu carcass again, but when she got to the shore, the antelope was gone.

All of it.

The leopard must have dragged it into a tree, she thought. The rock looked perfectly clean, though, without a trace of blood. Or perhaps there was blood. Nhamo was too unnerved to check closely.

In the afternoon she packed the fish traps with dried meat and suspended them from the overhanging branch. Well satisfied, she went to the stream to gather a few blackjack leaves for relish. The stream was dry, but a cool dampness still clung to the soil.

Oo-AA-hoo! The sound brought her instantly alert. The baboons were back early—and they had come almost silently. Suddenly, they were all around her in a milling crowd. It wasn’t the chaotic, screeching mob she was used to. The animals slipped through the grassland like the vervet monkeys near the leopard cave. Even Tag was impressed with the seriousness of it. He rode on Donkeyberry’s back without a single murmur.

Nhamo shivered. The males were unusually irritable. They snapped at one another and threatened the females. Now that the troop was close to the sleeping cliff, the animals spread out and applied themselves to digging in the soil. That in itself was unusual. At the end of the day the baboons preferred social activities: grooming, entertaining infants, lounging in friendly groups. They were clearly ravenous. Something had kept them from feeding.

Rumpy sniffed around the smoking-platform, barking as a coal singed his nose. He spotted Nhamo and trotted up, fur bristling, to demand the meager bunch of blackjack leaves. “Go away!” shouted Nhamo. Rumpy slapped the ground. She snatched up a stone and hurled it accurately at his head.

Rumpy danced back and forth with fury. He didn’t cower as he usually did when she hit him. She suddenly realized he was dangerous. She grabbed the spear, which was lying against the thorn barrier, and quickly unhooked the ladder. As it flopped down, she thrust the spear at the angry creature to drive him back. Rumpy sprang forward instead.

He sent Nhamo crashing to the ground as he rushed to grab the ladder. His foot smashed her face into the dirt. By the time she recovered, he was already on the platform, raging through her possessions. His big teeth crunched into calabashes to get at the food inside. But what he really wanted—and could obviously smell—was the meat.

He hopped from branch to branch. He caved in the delicate smaller platforms. He found the fish traps hanging from the rope, but he couldn’t reach them. The branch was too slender, and he didn’t have the sense to pull them in with the string. Rumpy bounced up and down in the tree in a perfect fit of rage.

Meanwhile, Nhamo had grabbed a burning branch from the fire. She was terrified, but her survival depended on protecting her stores. She swung up the ladder and shoved the flames into Rumpy’s face. He flinched back. She clambered around him, trying to drive him out of the tree.

Rumpy was beginning to lose his nerve. Nhamo approached him like a small and utterly reckless honey badger. She screamed insults. She cursed his ancestors. She felt like she wouldn’t mind sinking her teeth into his throat.

Wah! shouted Rumpy. He dodged past her. His twisted foot stumbled against Mother’s jar, and he fell with a shriek over the edge of the platform. Mother’s jar rolled after him before Nhamo could reach it. It smashed open, and the picture, caught in the afternoon breeze from the lake, fluttered off and landed in the cook-fire.

Nhamo almost fell out of the tree in her haste. She ignored the fallen animal as she raced for the picture. The same puff of wind that had blown it away stirred the coals in the fire. They flared up briefly, caught the paper, and burned it to ashes before Nhamo even got close.

She knocked the coals aside with her bare hands, ignoring the searing pain in her fingers. But it was already too late. The picture blew away like the ashes that had been beaten in the mortar so long ago in the village, the day Vatete died.

Ambuya…, they whispered. Sister Chipo…Masvita…beloved Nhamo. Please do not be frightened. I must go now. I know you will follow when you can. The ashes floated off on the wind, carrying the message.