A Girl Named Disaster

39

Dr. van Heerden drove. Then he and Mother went off for a cool drink while Sister Gladys alone accompanied Nhamo. Since the Jongwe family was suspicious of white people, they probably wouldn’t welcome a Matabele woman either. Nhamo wore her special dress with the bra underneath. It was hot and uncomfortable. She wore freshly cleaned sandals. Sister Gladys had styled her hair and given her clear polish for her fingernails.

She said Nhamo was beautiful, but Nhamo was afraid to look into the mirror.

Mtoroshanga was covered with dust from mining operations. Some of the houses were attractive; most were merely hovels. Sister Gladys said that many Jongwes lived in the part of town they were passing through. They all worked for the Big Chief Chrome Company, whose manager was Industry Jongwe, Nhamo’s uncle.

Nhamo grew increasingly nervous as they walked. The Jongwes might not like her at all. They might think she was an ignorant Wild Child of dubious parentage. She realized that her mother and father might not have been married at all.

They came at last to a magnificent house with a large lawn and a drive that curved up to the front door. Sister Gladys opened the front gate and went in. Nhamo looked around in wonder. Flowering trees cast shade on emerald grass. They weren’t even fruit trees. How could anyone afford to have trees that didn’t produce food? And where did they get so much water when the rest of the town was dry?

The windows were covered with iron grilles and the roof was of red tile, like a Portuguese house. The front steps were the same color. They gleamed from a recent application of wax.

“Your father’s younger brother Industry lives here,” Sister Gladys said.

Nhamo was frozen with fear as the nurse rang the doorbell (a doorbell!). Soon a servant (a servant!) in a white apron answered it. She invited them to sit in the parlor while she called her mistress.

“They won’t like me,” whispered Nhamo as she gripped Sister Gladys’s hand.

“They have to. You’re family,” the woman said placidly.

The servant brought them tea, which Nhamo was too distraught to drink. Then a tall, elegant lady in a flowered dress entered and introduced herself as Mrs. Edina Jongwe. Several children peeped out of a back room until the servant shooed them away.

“Dr. van Heerden phoned you about Nhamo,” began Sister Gladys.

“Oh, yes. The whiteman,” said Mrs. Jongwe distantly. “This is the alleged relative.”

“Proud Jongwe’s daughter,” the nurse said.

“She’s pretty,” remarked Mrs. Jongwe. Her cold manner took the pleasure out of the compliment. “How old are you, child?”

“I—I don’t know,” stammered Nhamo.

“When she came to us, she didn’t look over eleven, but actually I think she was around fourteen.”

“Totally uneducated, I suppose.”

“She grew up in a remote village,” said Sister Gladys with a trace of irritation. “Since she’s been at Efifi, she’s learned rapidly. She can read like an adult, and Dr. Masuku is going to teach her typing. She’s wonderful at arithmetic. I think she’s a very intelligent child.”

“How interesting. Well, my husband will be home around five. Perhaps you can come back then and discuss things.” Mrs. Jongwe stood up. Sister Gladys pulled Nhamo to her feet.

They were shown to the door. Very soon Nhamo and the nurse found themselves at the foot of the gleaming red steps.

“I told you they wouldn’t like me,” said Nhamo.

“That witch,” hissed Sister Gladys under her breath. “Did you see her fingernails?”

“They were very long,” Nhamo said.

“That’s to show everyone she doesn’t have to work with her hands. I’d like to stick them into a nice hot tub of laundry.”

Sister Gladys fumed until they found Mother and Dr. van Heerden at a grocery store. “Come back at five! I’m surprised she didn’t tell us to use the servants’ entrance!”

“It’ll be too late to drive back to Efifi afterward, but we can stay at a hotel,” Dr. van Heerden said, trying to calm the nurse down.

“If only we could find Proud. We could forget about the others,” said Mother.

“Don’t worry, Wild Child,” boomed the doctor. “I’ll corner your daddy. I’ll tell Bliksem to track him.”

Nhamo wished he wouldn’t call her Wild Child.

The news of her arrival must have traveled, because at five a small crowd of Jongwes had gathered outside the gate to observe her. Nhamo, feeling extremely self-conscious, made her way past several dozen pairs of eyes. She didn’t know how to react. Did you wave at strange relatives? Would they think she was rude if she didn’t?

Mother and Dr. van Heerden had decided to accompany Sister Gladys on this visit. “I don’t think it makes any difference who shows up,” Mother said. “They’re simply unfriendly.”

“Or are hiding something,” observed Dr. van Heerden.

They were ushered into the parlor and again served tea. This time Mrs. Jongwe was joined by her husband and his parents. Nhamo studied them covertly. Industry was dressed in a gray suit and shiny black shoes. His face was carefully bland. The grandparents were surprisingly youthful, or perhaps they had had easier lives than poor Ambuya.

What would Ambuya have made of these people? “Dressed-up donkeys,” she would have judged them. “What good are claws on a woman?” she would have said about Mrs. Jongwe. “Is she going to hunt dassies for lunch?” Nhamo smiled with her head politely bowed.

“Let’s have a look at the child,” commanded Industry Jongwe, and so Nhamo was made to stand and turn before the assembly.

“She’s pretty,” remarked her grandmother.

“Yes, I noticed that,” Mrs. Jongwe said.

“But she doesn’t look like Proud.”

No, the Jongwes agreed. She didn’t look like Proud.

“She resembles my mother,” said her grandfather. The others glared at him.

“Would it be possible to speak to Proud?” Dr. van Heerden asked.

No, that would not be possible, the others murmured.

“Why ever not?” exclaimed Mother.

The children clustering at the inner door scattered. From beyond, Nhamo heard the tap-tap-tap of a cane. The elder Jongwes turned, suddenly tense.

“Why can’t we talk to this child’s father?” Mother cried.

An old, old man came through the door. He was dressed in European clothes, but around his neck hung many charms and around his hips was tied a leopard skin. He was unquestionably an nganga, and, from the reaction of the others, a powerful and important one.

“Because Proud Jongwe is dead,” the nganga said.

Nhamo stood perfectly still as the old man approached her. He lifted her face with a skeletal hand and turned her head from side to side. “She looks like my first wife,” he announced.

A stir went through the room.

The old nganga sat in a chair hastily provided for him and motioned for Nhamo to sit beside him. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

She didn’t think to hold anything back. She was convinced he would detect a lie. She told him about the village and her mother’s death. She told him about the ngozi and how she had fled from an imposed marriage. She even talked about the leopard that had appeared to her by the water so long ago—if it was a leopard and not a trick of the light.

Now and then the nganga waved for a cup of tea or tray of snacks. He allowed Nhamo to rest between stories. Night fell outside. The smaller children were hauled off to bed, but no one else attempted to leave.

When Nhamo explained how the njuzu had led her to the garden island, the old man bent toward her with great attention. “I gave them Aunt Shuvai’s beads,” Nhamo said. “I didn’t have anything else.”

“You did the right thing,” the nganga assured her.

Nervously, she told him about the dead Portuguese and the panga she thought he had given her, about the puff adder that had come from the ancestors, and about Long Teats. “But Baba Joseph sent Long Teats away,” she said hastily. “He turned her from a hyena to a cane rat and then to a blackjack bush. I threw it into the fire.”

“Good,” said the old man.

By the time the story was done, the smells of good food had been coming from the kitchen for a long time. Nhamo realized it was very late. She gulped a mouthful of tea. It was only then that she looked up at the faces of the Jongwes. They were full of awe, and even fear.

“If this child hadn’t resembled my first wife, I would still have accepted her,” announced the old nganga. “She has obviously inherited my ability to communicate with the spirit world. She has been trained by the njuzu. I am pleased to welcome her into our family.”