He saw Jacob’s face and said, “Look, what can I do with him, he has to come with me until we get back to the coast. Then I will put him with one of my women and she can be his mother while he grows.”
Chirango had not taken the children as Bombay had taken Nasibu. He had taken them for himself. And he had had the luck of an uncaught thief, at first, for Bwana Daudi had been ill again then, and did not see what was up. As soon as he recovered his health and discovered what Chirango had done, his anger was something terrible.
He was in a proper rage, the Bwana was, especially when Chirango made things worse by saying Bwana Daudi had a slave of his own, and pointed to Majwara.
“I pay the boy,” the Bwana said, “I pay him for his services, but what you wish to do is to enslave children.” Chirango tried to argue that the children would be paid in food because they would have starved, but Bwana Daudi stopped the caravan for five days so that Gardner and Chowpereh could take the children back to their village in Nyamwezi.
He only has his eye on what benefits him, Chirango does. So when I saw him coming to me, I was immediately on my guard. He was licking his lips as usual. I have never in my life seen a more restless, twitchy person. His lips twitch, his fingers twitch, even his one eye twitches, darting here and there.
He is one of those disgusting chewers of that foul miraa leaf that some of the pagazi also call quat. There are more than a few chewers among the pagazi. I can count them with three hands, but he is the worst among them. It is a filthy habit, this chewing and chewing, because it means they must always be spitting out what they chew. It is spit, spit, spit all day long.
There is no miraa to be bought this far inland, and for that I thank the Prophet, upon His names be blessings, and so Chirango licks and licks his lips like a hungry man salivating over a feast. And when his lips are not twitching for miraa, his fingers are constantly moving, as though he is plucking at that instrument of his, even when he is not holding it.
A njari he calls it. I saw many instruments at the Liwali’s house, but I never saw anything the likes of what Chirango plays. It is a big round calabash, painted with black and white patterns on the outside. On the inside is the instrument itself, a small bit of wood with long metal fingers attached to one end, sticking out like Bwana Daudi’s poor teeth. It is these metal teeth that he plays, and they make the most melancholy sounds when he plucks at them. The sounds make the heart ache and make one think of long-ago, far-off things.
And to add to the licking of the lips and twitching of the fingers, Chirango’s one eye flickers here and there and everywhere, as though it wants to see all that the other eye cannot see.
Since what happened with his eye, I have found it hard to look him squarely in the face. Whenever I have had to talk to him, which is not often, and for that I count my mercies, I look at a place just over his shoulder. He too seems to find it hard to look at me, and speaks as though to someone behind me. A right pair of legless crabs we must look.
“Chirango hears that they will bury the Bwana here,” he said.
“Then you hear more than I do,” I said, over his shoulder.
“Chirango is sure there will be a reward for his body,” he said, over mine.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“If we carry him back to the coast, there will be a reward. He was an important man in his kingdom. Look at how all the men of his kingdom wrote to another kingdom to have Bwana Stanley sent to look for him. He was a big man, a very big man, where he was from. Chirango is sure that there will be a fat purse for those who bring him back to the coast.”
“Is that so,” I said.
I glanced at him. He did not meet my eye but licked his lips.
“Indeed,” he said. “Though Chirango does not have all his rights, he has communed with the men with white skin and knows that they would think greatly of all those who aid the Bwana on his way home.”
That is how he always talked, as though he were another person entirely, as though he were someone as grand as a vizir or maybe even the Liwali himself, and not the lip-licking Chirango before me, the bandit thief.
And I had almost forgotten about his claims.
Since he chose to stay behind when Bwana Stanley returned to the coast, Chirango has told anyone who will listen that he is the Sultan of a land down in the south, of a land between two large rivers. His true name is the Chirango Kirango Mutapa Something-or-Other, only he cannot claim his rights fully because some people from a kingdom close to that of the Bwana, a race of people called the Portuguese, the same people who they say lived in Zanzibar before the Shirazi, drove his family out of their land near the Zambezi, near Shupanga, where Susi is from.
The same thing that happened to the Mwinyi Mkuu, the great lord of the Swahili in Zanzibar, he said, had happened to his family. They had been driven out of their own land. Their Sultan, this Mutapa, had been shrunk into a small chief, smaller even than the Mwinyi Mkuu, who was the great lord of the Swahili, and had been left with no land at all to govern.
Well, I know the Mwinyi Mkuu, of course I do, all of Zanzibar does. My mother cooked for him, didn’t she, a laughing man with pot-black skin who sometimes had business with the Liwali. On that much, Chirango is right. He is supposed to be the real Sultan in Zanzibar, they say, but first the Shirazi, then these Portuguese people, then the Omanis came and his sultanate got smaller and smaller, or so they say. Well, his sultanate may be small but his appetite is as big as any I have seen, I will tell you that for nothing. Demolished a whole chicken by himself, he did, the night my mother cooked for him when he dined with the Liwali. Had room for my mother’s best lamb too, which she cooked in its own juices ever so slowly and served with limes, raisins, and cardamom, and washed it all down with gallons and gallons of tamarind juice.
Susi and Amoda laughed when Chirango told them about his claims. Susi said to me later that there was indeed talk in his homeland that there had been such a kingdom as Chirango described, it was called the Mwenemutapa or some such, and its people had built a great city that was now in ruins, though no one in his homeland had ever seen it, but he did not believe that anyone as wretched as Chirango could be part of it.
When Chirango had heard that the Bwana’s wife had been buried on the river called Zambezi, he had muttered that she had no right to be buried on his land without his permission. From that moment, the others called him Mwinyi Mdogo, or the Pagazi Prince.
“And how many loads will the Mwinyi Mdogo carry today?”
“Could the Pagazi Prince pass the firewood?”
“Make way for Mwinyi Mdogo.”
“If the Pagazi Prince would be so kind as to make way for us lesser mortals.”
As Chirango stood before me, I said nothing further, and he likewise remained silent before moving off. As soon as Amoda broke off from the others, I rushed to find out what had been decided.
“We are going to ask for permission from Chitambo,” he said, “so that we can bury him today. Susi and I and those of our faith all agree that it is fitting in the eyes of Allah that we should bury him before the sunset, in the normal way.”
“What?” I said. “And you will bury him with his head toward Mecca too, will you?”
“What do you know about these things?” Amoda said.
“He was no Mohammedan, which you know as well as I, Amoda,” I said. “Why must he be buried according to a faith that was not his? I may be a slave but I know as well as you that the Bwana was no Mohammedan. You know as well as I that he was a Kristuman.”
“And what do you know about Kristumen?”
“Nothing at all, but I know that they have a different god, just as those lazy sepoys who used to march with the Bwana have their Hindu gods. Bombay told me all about it. The gods all have lots of legs and arms everywhere and heads like those of elephants and monkeys, and it is not right to bury a man in the manner of a faith that is not his. You may as well be done with it and burn him until he is all ash, like a Hinduman.”
Amoda clenched his fists. “You heard this from Bombay, did you? I knew it. All this time I knew it. I will Bombay you if you are not careful. I will Bombay you until you have no mouth left to talk about Hindu gods and Hindumen. Did you lie with him? Did you lie with him like you want to do with Susi? Or have you already lain with him? Bombay indeed.”
“Like I would lie with Bombay,” I said. “All those teeth. All I say is, how do you bury a man out of his own land and out of his faith? And why would Chitambo agree to the burial of a man who is a stranger to him, not just a stranger, but a white stranger too, a muzungu who will bring who knows what sorts of spirits from across the waters?”
“This is where he died,” said Amoda.
I could tell from the stubborn set of his mouth that he did not wish to discuss it anymore. And sure enough, he added, “You are just a bondswoman, anyway, what do you know of burials? This is not a mjakazi matter. This free men’s business.”
When Amoda says to me that I am only a woman and a slave, it is a sure sign that he is on ground that is shaky. I can be stubborn myself if I put my mind to it, oh yes, I can. Amoda is just lucky that I am a gentle, placid type, and not at all the quarrelsome sort who likes to talk and talk until your head aches, because I could make his life hard if I put my mind to it, that I could.
“His soul will not rest easy, I can tell you that,” I said.
Amoda turned to walk away.
“And then there is the money,” I said.
That stopped him.
“What money?” he said.
I had him. If there is any man who loves money more than Amoda, he is yet to be born. I repeated what Chirango had said. “If he can be brought to the coast, there is sure to be a large purse waiting for the whole party. Only the other day, I said to Misozi, perhaps he has been wandering around because he burned his home and could not go back, but no, he is a great man in his own land after all, he is a mganga more skilled than most doctors. Just look at Bwana Stanley, coming all this way from another land with his bathtub and champagne and strange food and whatnot to fetch him. And all those letters he brought, from the important men of his own land. If he can be brought to the coast, with all his papers, there will be a large reward.
“And this beginning of the river that he wants to find, this Nile beginning, there will surely be others who want to find it too. Munyasere has talked of other men of his land who also seek the same place. They will want to know what knowledge he wrote down in his papers.”
I was about to mention Bwana Stanley, and the other Bwana that Bombay had worked for, not the bad-tempered one whose name I cannot recall, but the Bwana Speke that Bombay talked about all the time. “Before I die,” he said more than once, “I want to go to England to see Bwana Speke’s grave.”
But I knew that further mention of Bombay would only enrage Amoda, so I only said, “As you say, I am only a slave and what do I know of these things. This is the business of free men.”
I looked down and pretended not to see Amoda looking closely at me before he moved off without a word. I went to find Ntaoéka, Misozi, Laede, and the other women, who were gathering firewood. On the way, I met Losi, who ran into my arms. I threw her up to the air and bounced her. Her shrieks and giggles accompanied me until I reached the women.
10
* * *
When Ntaoéka chose to follow us rather than go to the coast, I did not like to have a fine-looking woman among us unattached, and proposed that she should marry one of my three worthies . . . but she smiled at the idea. Chuma was evidently too lazy ever to get a wife; the other two were contemptible in appearance, and she has a good presence and is buxom . . . Circumstances led to the other women wishing Ntaoéka married, and on my speaking to her again she consented. I have noticed her ever since working hard from morning to night: the first up in the cold mornings, making fire and hot water, pounding, carrying water, wood, sweeping, cooking.
David Livingstone, The Last Journals of David Livingstone
By the time I reached the women, the news that the Bwana was to be buried that day had spread throughout the camp. As I joined them, Ntaoéka and Misozi were already discussing the news with the others.
“Is it not strange that they want him buried here?” Ntaoéka said. “And his children never to see his grave?”
“He will not rest easy,” Misozi said, and launched into one of her monstrous tales of shetani ghosts. “Those who are buried away from home walk abroad,” she said. “They know no rest and shriek and whisper their discontent from trees and bushes, they cry out from the soil itself. They plague travelers and beg them to take them home.
“That is why Zanzibar is full of shetani spirits,” she added. “All those dead slaves, buried away from home. And when they die at sea they become vembwigo and chunusi, sea ghosts that haunt sailors and sail in ghostly dhows.”
Once Misozi gets on the subject of ghosts and spirits there is no stopping her. When we gathered at night to tell stories it was this kind of story she mostly enjoyed. I had to cut her off before she got too carried away.
“I have already talked to Amoda,” I said, “I have told him they cannot bury him here. And you, Misozi, you must talk to Susi. You tackle Mabruki, Ntaoéka, and Laede will talk to Munyasere. Khadijah and Binti Sumari will talk to their men too. If we get the caravan leaders to agree, then the other men will follow.”
Misozi, as always, was slow to catch on, but Ntaoéka, Laede, and I looked at each other in perfect understanding. This is how we normally managed things when we wanted something. We talked it over among ourselves first, then with our men separately, until they believed that our thinking was their own.
I had lain with three men before Amoda, yes, I had, and all but him were my masters, for though the Bwana bought me, he did not buy me for himself. What I can tell you is that a man’s mind is most open in those moments when his seed is spent. It does not always work, but when it does, they find themselves saying, I have decided that things are to be this way or that way, and though it was us who made them decide that way, we know better than to let on.
I was about to say that I had already talked to Amoda, but there was no time for the usual subtleties to work with him, when we were interrupted by the sound of Majwara’s drum.
We looked at each other in surprise. Majwara normally sounded the drum to summon the men together to talk of what needed to be done for each day’s excursion. Since we had arrived at Chitambo, there had been no meetings because the Bwana had been too ill to give instructions. Instead, the caravan leaders had simply approached the men they needed for a given task.
As soon as he finished beating his drum, Majwara said, “We are all to gather under the mpundu tree.”
Without further talk, I moved with the other women to the clearing he had indicated, under the tree some of the men called the mpundu and others the mvula, depending on the tongues they spoke. The men were already arranging themselves in their usual groups. Nearest to the tree, protecting themselves under its shade, Susi, Chuma, and Amoda sat with Chowpereh and Munyasere, the other caravan leaders. Mabruki sat close to them.
Next to them were the Nassickers. Farther away, keeping a space between them and the Nassickers, the lesser pagazi made the largest group. There were more than fifty men in all, sitting in the sun out of the shade of the tree. I could see Chirango right at the back. The women and I joined the men and took our place near the pagazi. I drew Losi next to me and, as I listened, concentrated on braiding her hair.
Amoda stood and said, “You know what befell us this morning. We are to decide what to do with his body.”
“But we have already decided,” said Susi. “What is there to decide again? He must be buried as quickly as possible, and for that reason, we must not delay in sending word to Chitambo, that we may bury him on this ground.”
“We must be careful how we approach Chitambo,” said Chuma. “He could be vengeful because we have brought death to his land.”
I
n the murmuring that followed, I moved my hands from Losi’s head, rose to indicate that I wished to speak, and said, “What Chuma says is wise. Chitambo will not thank you for bringing a dead stranger to his land. What spirits will he bring here, he will ask. The only thing to do is to carry Bwana Daudi to the coast so that he can be put on a dhow that will carry him to his own land.”
The murmur that started at my words grew into a rumbling as the men talked among each other. Amoda gave me a look but as he made no move to restrain me, I took this as a sign to go on. I turned to the group of Nassickers and spoke directly to them. “He must be buried in the way of his faith,” I said. “You will none of you sleep easy at night, I can tell you, if you do not bury him in the ways of his people.”
“That is enough, Halima,” Amoda said.
And indeed, I could see I had said enough.
I sat back down.
The Nassickers were now murmuring among themselves. Jacob Wainwright was looking more and more thoughtful. Chowpereh was speaking in a low voice to Susi, while, amid the inferior pagazi, Ali and Wadi Saféné were speaking furiously and making agitated gestures. Chirango, I noticed, was the only person who appeared calm. He had a curious little smile on his face and was looking into the distance, as though the matter was of no concern to him.
Amoda called on Wadi Saféné, who said he must be buried at once. “Jacob Wainwright speaks his tongue, he knows his religion. Why not bury him in accordance with his faith, right here in Chitambo’s village?”
“I am no cleric,” Jacob said. “But I long for the glorious day when I am called into His reverend service. Certainly, I hope to wear the collar one day, but for now it is not fit. As my brothers in Christ can confirm to all of you who are not of the faith, and as the Doctor himself could have explained, to be buried is what is called a sacrament, and one that I cannot deliver, for I am not yet ordained. And, moreover, it will not be a proper burial, for he will not be buried on ground that is consecrated.”
Out of Darkness, Shining Light Page 6
