A Girl Named Disaster

40

Dr. van Heerden, Mother, Sister Gladys, and Nhamo were sitting in the dining room of the Mtoroshanga Hotel. They had arrived just before the kitchen closed and were busily applying themselves to curry and rice. Nhamo sat between the two women. She needed them close to her, and she dreaded the morning, when they would leave her.

“You’ve landed with your bum in butter, and no mistake,” said the Afrikaner, wiping his vast chops with a napkin.

“She’s frightened, Hendrik,” said Mother.

“Ach, that old man hasn’t eaten anyone for blerry years, Wild Child. His teeth have gone soft.”

Nhamo turned her eyes, which threatened to spill over with tears, toward him.

“Don’t look at me like that! You must have learned how to make me feel guilty from Baba Joseph,” rumbled Dr. van Heerden. “Listen, any kid in this dust bowl would give her right elbow to live in that mansion. The Jongwes are rich. They’ll send you to the best school, buy you fancy clothes. You can’t afford to pass up the chance.”

“I know,” Nhamo said tearfully.

“The witch almost bit off her long fingernails when the old nganga recognized Nhamo,” remarked Sister Gladys.

“Please don’t make her more nervous,” Mother said. She put her arm around Nhamo, and Nhamo had to swallow hard to keep from crying. It was very clear that all was not harmony in the Jongwe household. Nhamo didn’t know what was wrong, but she knew the addition of a Wild Child from Mozambique wasn’t going to improve matters.

“Remember,” Mother said softly, “if things don’t go well, you can come back to us. We expect you during school vacations anyhow.”

School! That was another thing Nhamo found worrying.

“I’ve got something of yours in my safe, remember,” added Dr. van Heerden.

Nhamo looked up in surprise.

“Your roora, Wild Child. Your granny’s gold nuggets.”

“I thought—I mean, I expected—”

“—the old whiteman to pocket them,” finished the Afrikaner.

Nhamo’s face burned with shame. He had taken her in, saved her life, and asked for nothing in return. She had repaid him by slashing Bliksem and stabbing his arm.

“You more than earned your keep with work, Nhamo,” the Afrikaner said, “even if you did disable half the farm crew.”

She was too overcome to speak.

“This calls for ice cream all around,” shouted Dr. van Heerden. The sleepy waiters moved toward the kitchen with resigned expressions on their faces.

The first thing Mrs. Edina Jongwe did was hand Nhamo over to the servants and instruct them to keep the girl out of her sight. Nhamo was glad to obey. She discovered this wasn’t personal. Mrs. Jongwe didn’t tolerate her own children either. They were shunted off to a nanny, who chased them around like naughty mice and fed them beer when she wanted peace. Nhamo was shocked.

Industry Jongwe had a second wife in another, smaller house. Her solitary child, a little boy named Clever, came over and tried to play with Edina’s flock. The other children tormented him, but he was so desperate for company that he put up with it. “You can beat him if you like,” Mrs. Jongwe said lazily, on one of the few occasions she deigned to notice Nhamo.

That means I’m not quite at the bottom, thought Nhamo. I can always thrash Clever if I feel out of sorts.

Instead, she went out of her way to be kind to the miserable child, with the result that he attached himself firmly to her. He was a whining, unattractive creature. In spite of his name he wasn’t bright, and he had yet to master toilet training, although he was old enough to attend school.

Nhamo’s grandparents slept all day and fought all night. Jongwe Senior had developed a taste for whiskey. The smell of his breath made Nhamo’s head swim, and his loud, bullying voice filled her with alarm. He was her grandfather, so she owed him respect—but that didn’t mean she had to stay near him. He was sometimes possessed of strange rages and would strike out with his walking stick and even smash the furniture.

Her grandmother treated him to what were referred to as “curtain lectures.” She didn’t dare humiliate the old man in front of the family, but she could—and did—scream at him behind closed doors.

Nhamo looked forward to school because it got her out of the house. Every morning she and five of Industry’s children set out with book bags over their shoulders. The boys wore khaki uniforms, and the girls had blue-and-white plaid dresses. They all had heavy brown shoes.

Nhamo liked the uniforms. No one could tell she had never been in a school before, or had grown up in a primitive village. Primitive was one of the first new words she learned from Mrs. Jongwe. Nhamo was no different from any of the other girls until someone asked her a question. Then her extreme ignorance became obvious.

And yet, gradually, her ability to read and do math surpassed that of all but the oldest students. Only writing continued to defeat her. She held the pencil like a butter knife and her penmanship was as bad as Clever’s. I hope Mother remembers to teach me typing, thought Nhamo. She looked forward to summer vacation.

She was sitting in the lush garden one Saturday morning with Clever clamped to her like a leech. “I wish there was school today,” she sighed.

“I don’t. I hate school,” Clever informed her.

The nanny was trying to round up the other girls to dress them for a party. Nhamo wasn’t invited. The girls ran around, taunting the poor woman. Suddenly, the nanny squatted and urinated on the lawn, just like a wild animal. At once she was up again, chasing the excited children. Nhamo closed her eyes. She had behaved in exactly the same way, before Sister Gladys introduced her to underpants.

“Tell me a story,” demanded Clever.

He was the only person who cared to listen to her anymore, although he was a bad audience. His attention wandered. Nhamo remembered a Matabele tale she had heard from Mother. She decided to alter it slightly, to make it more interesting.

“Once upon a time the elephant had two wives,” she began. “The senior wife was a hyena with many children, and the junior was a skinny jackal with only one little boy.”

Clever listened with his thumb in his mouth.

“They hated each other, but they had to pretend to be friendly. One day the two wives were trotting down a path when they saw a band of hunters ahead with meat rolled up in grass mats. As the hunters walked along, blood dripped onto the ground. The smell almost drove the animals wild.

“‘I’m soooo hungry,’ howled the hyena, baring her teeth.

“‘Meeee toooo,’ wailed the jackal.

“They followed the hunters to a village and watched them store the meat in a granary. The granary was up on poles. In the wall was a single round window.

“As soon as the hunters were out of sight, the jackal leaped up to the window and wriggled her skinny body inside. ‘Come on,’ she called to the hyena. ‘This place is loaded with food.’

“‘I’ll never fit through such a tiny hole,’ the hyena protested.

“‘I’ll help you.’ The jackal jumped out again. She let the hyena climb onto her back and she helped her struggle through the window. Then both of them began to eat for all they were worth.

“‘We’d better go now,’ said the hyena after a while.

“‘You may never get a feast like this again,’ the jackal pointed out. The hyena continued to stuff herself until her stomach was ready to burst. ‘Just one more piece,’ urged the jackal, holding up a chunk of meat. The hyena couldn’t resist.

“The jackal leaped through the window again. The hyena tried to follow, but she became stuck. ‘Help me, O junior wife! I’m trapped here!’ she cried.

“But the jackal ran through the village barking at the top of her voice. This brought out all the hunting dogs. They spied the hyena stuck in the window and set up such a clamor that the hunters came to see what was happening. ‘Look at that ugly beast!’ they cried. ‘She’s eaten all our meat!’ They ran into the granary and killed her at once. The jackal and her one son lived happily ever after with the elephant.”

Clever had fallen asleep after—Nhamo wrinkled her nose—relieving himself on her skirt. She eased him to the grass. A chuckle drifted out of the grape arbor behind her.

“You have a wicked mind, little Nhamo,” said the dry, old voice. “I wonder who the hyena and jackal are?”

Nhamo whirled around. It was the nganga, seated in the deep shade. She hadn’t spoken to him since that first day.

“Go change your dress, great-granddaughter. We’re going to visit your father,” he commanded her.