“Not that I am aware of,” he replied slowly, treading around me softly as he would an injured animal.
I nodded, taking that information in.
“Do you think it is because of Sechele’s baptism that it does not rain?” I asked candidly.
He shook his head.
“I have never claimed to be religious, but what I do know of God, he would not punish someone for wanting to be better. The drought has to be a coincidence. And such a powerful coincidence,” I added. “How can the people stay with him if they believe God is punishing him?”
He thought for a moment before giving his opinion.
“I believe the Bakwena are an excellent example of trying to do the right thing, even when faced with unfair circumstances.”
That was an apt description of these people. Despite the anger they felt with their chief and with us, they never attempted to hurt me or run me off. Neither did they attempt to replace Sechele as King. Sechele’s father had not been so fortunate.
“And how is it that you know so much of the Bakwena?” I asked him at last. The question came out more harshly than I had intended.
A corner of his mouth lifted slightly in slight amusement.
“I found myself in the interior of Africa, much like you. The Bakwena became my hosts for several months.”
“You came alone?” I questioned.
“No, I traveled with the Livingstones,” he clarified. “Although they had no children back then.”
“So our adventures have been similar,” I remarked, with an almost bitter tone.
“Quite,” he answered simply.
“Where is the Madras? Is she docked in Durban?”
“She is docked in Durban. The crew will stay with her until I return. First Mate Anderson has everything well under control without me.”
“Anderson,” I breathed in relief. “He is alive, then.”
“Yes, alive and as strong as ever. Infection did not set into the sloppy surgery we administered.”
“I’m glad,” I said.
He gave me a tender smile. Unfortunately, it did not help his case. Resentments from the other day and my conclusions crept up on me.
“Why are you here?” I demanded to know. “Why did you come so far into the interior?”
He gave me the most peculiar expression. I could not place the composition of his features. Was he irritated?
“I don’t know,” he finally replied.
I grunted in a way not suited to a lady.
Four weeks after I awoke, I was allowed to stand on my own. My shoulder, face, and hands were still so battered that my companions struggled to allow me any movement at all. David, however, came to my rescue in saying I would do good with some fresh air, and I was permitted to take short walks around the village. My arm was so tightly strapped to my chest and my shoulder so covered in fresh bandages I felt a regular spectacle.
I was not permitted to take these walks alone, however. The captain trailed either slightly behind or directly to my side at all times. His presence chaffed my good mood. I realized that what I was experiencing was rejection, past rejection, that felt fresh now that I’d allowed myself to feel it. I also realized I was not handling it well. However naive I felt, I still could not forget the fact that he had walked right past me into the arms of Marianne, and that fact nettled me into a constant feeling of hostility.
Walking through the village was a different experience now. Since I had given up my arm for their children, I could not walk ten paces without being stopped and thanked for my sacrifice. The captain would step in to translate when I didn’t respond immediately to their rushed Sechuana. I should have been thankful, but I resented that he knew the language better than me when I had been here more recently. After his second attempt to translate I stared at him frankly, my mouth a hard, straight line. He evaluated my expression, rolled his eyes, then did not interrupt my disjointed conversations anymore.
In preparation for imminent battle, the walls of the city had been reinforced with new layers of mud and sand, the holes in the walls made smaller to allow less space for incoming fire. Sechele’s home had become a veritable fortress. Rifles and pistols hung from window pots that, when last seen, had held flowers. Sturdy boards had been nailed to windows and the front door, fortified from both sides. Although it was widely known that Sechele would be at the front line of battle with his people, his home was being reinforced to hold women and children. At least the mimosa flowers were back to remind me of more pleasant things.
Outside of the chief’s home, the kotla floor was being covered in threadbare blankets. It seemed they were preparing for a gathering. Sechele chose this moment to step out of his home.
“Ah! Miss Anna!” he hollered and threw out his arms to me. “You walk!”
“Yes I do, Chief,” I confirmed. “It has been a delight to see the village once again.”
“Not just the village anymore, Miss Anna.” He shook his finger at me. “It is now your village.”
I looked to the ground and grinned.
“And you have company!” He turned his attention to the captain. “Accompanied by an arms dealer. That is exceptional.”
They began a long discussion on the specifics of a certain gun, which I had no interest in. Seeing that my interest wavered, they reverted into quick Sechuana. David was opposed to carrying a firearm himself, but the captain and Sechele had no such qualms and were armed every moment of every day. The men of the tribe who stood guard over the house were also equipped with guns, the size of which sometimes shocked me to see in their thin arms.
As I wandered away, I soon noticed Selemeng was one of the villagers laying thin blankets on the floor of our meeting place. I came to her side and she surprised me by wrapping her thick arms around my shoulders. The embrace tortured my injuries, but I dared not say anything against this rare affection.
“How are you today?” she asked as she held me close.
“I am well enough,” I lied against her warm arm.
“Good,” she released me suddenly and gave me a meek smile. A lion bite seemed worth all of this acceptance and love I was receiving.
“Are we having a meeting?” I asked her as I gestured to the coverings.
“Telling stories,” she said. “Sechele will tell, and then we will dance!”
“Stories and dancing,” I said, trying to imagine the scene. “Sounds fun!”
“We give cheer,” she smiled at me sincerely. I could get used to this side of her. She humbly continued laying out blankets, and I helped where I could with one hand.
Mary walked past with a large basket of things to give away to the side of the village we had visited so many times. What did she have to give away? I beckoned her over and told her the plans of stories and dance.
“Oh wonderful,” was her response. “I do enjoy Sechele’s stories.”
“So you’ve heard them before,” I said unsurprised. “What of the dancing?”
She chuckled as she patted her ever-growing belly.
“The good chief begins with a foreign cultural dance and then they revert to their own traditional dances.”
“Oh,” I began, confused. “What is the foreign cultural dance?”
“The waltz,” she said, smiling. “And if I were to have my guess, I would say he has two experienced dancers in his midst that he will somehow coerce into performing for the rest of the tribe.” Her eyes were full of suggestion.
“No,” I moaned in dread, understanding her implications perfectly. I looked around for an exit. If Sechele asked me, I knew I would be hard pressed to reject his enthusiasm. Without stepping on Selemeng’s work I had very few options of escape. I took the path that would take me directly opposite of Sechele’s front door. I walked as quickly as I could without breaking into a jog. The thought occurred to me to sprint, but I quickly dismissed it as painful and possibly unnecessary. The heat was beginning to make me sweat as I came closer to a small cluster of trees. I could go behind th
em and then change my course in case Mary sent them after me. Only two steps away now.
“Miss Anna!” called a deep African accent.
His voice startled me and I stopped in my tracks. I was disheartened at my lack of proper expletives. Ever so slowly I turned on my heel to face the chief. He was as cheerful and jovial as ever—completely oblivious to my attempted escape. I could see the others behind him. Mary had her basket on her hip, thoroughly enjoying the fact that she was not the subject of his excited pursuit. Selemeng seemed to be aware of something amiss but she could not understand what. Seeing me looking upon her, she broke out into a smile instantly. And finally, there was the captain, his back to us, his expression hidden from me.
“I have the best idea,” he began. I need not repeat his designs. I could not deny this man his delight or my submission.
Suffice it to say, the conversation was swift. I would be dancing with the captain later that night.
I began my slow trod back home. David had been far and wide on this continent and he assured me there was no other like our chief. How was it possible that I had become a citizen of the one village in all of Africa with a chief who was fascinated by a culture that now repulsed me? I had been glad to be accepted so easily by him, but was now regretting the connection. Because, to please my dear leader, there could only be one dance partner for me. The captain. We had both been raised in the social, dancing circles of London, and Sechele could not resist the pleasure of seeing the spectacle exactly as it should be performed.
I sighed.
The truth was, I had wanted to dance with the captain back when I knew him as Mr. Ashmore. I had looked upon him as a naïve youth and longed for him to cross the crowded ballroom to beg my companionship. In my daydreams, I would deny him, of course, but he would insist and then I would graciously accept at long last.
And it was for this very reason that I so disliked him now. He had never crossed the room for me. In fact, I had seen him cross the room for Marianne once, and then again after they were married to scold her in front of me. She had not filled his expectations exactly and was therefore a disappointment. When you marry the perfect woman and find her disagreeable, the reasonable thing to do was to discard her and find another to mold into a suitable companion.
The thought physically hurt my chest.
But then the optimist in the back of my mind spoke up. He may not have crossed a ballroom for me, but he had crossed an ocean. He had left me in Africa, but then returned to where he knew I would be. He stayed with me without complaining. There was sure to be more adventurous and interesting things to be doing for an independent man in the interior of Africa. And yet, he had stayed.
But why? He could have asked me to stay on the dock in Durban when we first landed. He could have told me how he felt then, if he did truly care for me. Why now? What had changed?
I looked behind me. Of course he was there. Protecting me.
Irritating me.
Chapter 22
I have several memories of climbing small trees with Robert and Agnes in the evenings, prior to the lion attack. As we played, the sun would drearily sink, taking its time to descend as we finished a hard day with simple joy. And now, on the night I had to face the captain in an intimate dance, that same sun betrayed me by plummeting faster than a boulder down a dark pit.
Because I dreaded its descent, it fell faster still.
The entire village was converging on the kotla, eager for some sort of celebration in the face of imminent battle. Sechele was right. We needed this. But I dreaded it.
I had come behind the Livingstones. Several of my dear students came and wrapped themselves around my legs, nearly toppling me over. A few adults came to my rescue, extricating their children with grins on their dark faces. I beamed during and after the event. This simple experience had left a firm message on my heart.
I belonged here.
I thought of what Sechele had declared the night Abraham and his men had tried to arrest me. I remembered his words perfectly.
You would have to rip out my insides rather than us give her up. She is my blood.
And now I understood how he felt. These were my people. You would have to rip out my insides rather than me give them up. They were my blood.
Perhaps physical blood relations can never be changed. Perhaps there would always be a physical tie from my mother to myself. But I claimed the Bakwena as much as my blood as any relation in the history of man.
I halted my musings and sat quickly and quietly, for Sechele was urging those present to quiet their chatter and listen to his storytelling. Motsatsi planted himself next to me with all the grace a boy can muster on a dirty blanket. To my surprise, he had become even more protective of me. Every time someone came to close to me, his hand would slowly clasp his spear and his eyes would slide in their direction, suspicious. I sighed and shook my head. When he shrugged his shoulders at my angst, I smiled.
“I’m not made of lace, good sir,” I told him.
His droll little face looked up at me. “I am not interested in lace,” he answered.
I looked to Mary and we shared a silent laugh.
Mary translated Sechele’s story for me.
“There once was a warrior who was born in this very village,” Sechele said through translation. He turned to Selemeng and spoke under his breath, “Although, he was not as handsome as me.” Mary translated while rolling her eyes. Motsatsi nodded his agreement.
“This man was raised from the beginning to fight and to make war. He learned how to protect the people by fighting large animals. I saw once, as a boy, this man fight and kill an elephant all alone. He was ten years old.”
The crowd gasped.
“As the moon and sun changed position again and again, the man became more ferocious in nature. He ran faster, he hit harder, and at last he accomplished his goal to fight a lion, and he defeated it.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Much like our Miss Anna!” Sechele said to my surprise. Everyone looked to me and smiled and nodded. I felt a little annoyed. I hadn’t killed a lion. He had mangled me and then died on top of me. Motsatsi was holding his assegai tight.
“But the warrior was unhappy. He felt empty inside his heart. He only knew to fight. He knew nothing about friends or love. He decided to leave the village and go exploring. Along a river bank, he was gathering water and hoping to find some fish to eat, when he saw a little girl with black hair weeping. He could only stare at her. He did not know how to make her happy. The Great God spoke into the man’s ear. ‘Here is one who needs a friend also.’ The man would know better how to slay a dragon than talk to a little girl!”
Everyone chuckled.
“But still, he followed the voice of the Great Creator and sat next to the weeping little girl. ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked her. ‘Because I am saddened,’ the girl replied. ‘That is no reason to cry,’ he replied simply. ‘What shall I do instead of cry?’ the girl asked. ‘You shall run,’ the man said. For several weeks, the man got to know the little girl better. He met her parents and broke bread with them and started to become part of the family. He taught the girl to run as fast as a cheetah and to make herself useful in the world.”
I whispered to Mary, “You’ve said something like it to me.” I smiled. Mary smiled too, but she looked as if her mind was elsewhere.
“The man was sitting on the river bank with the girl one day when bad men came to that spot. They began to cross the river with their large knives and guns, wanting to hurt the little girl.”
Motsatsi stiffened.
“The warrior jumped in front of the men and started to combat them, but one man was able to move behind him and he grabbed the little girl by the arm and lifted her high into the air, shouting. The warrior stopped his fighting as his heart filled and swelled with his love for the small girl. She had tears of fear in her eyes, though he saw she was trying to hold them back. That fact made the warrior crazed with fury and he beat all th
e men, then the man that had the little girl, he attacked him so viciously, his arm was separate from the body.”
I cringed. Motsatsi nodded.
“From that time on, the man could not be separated from the girl. He became a permanent protector. He stayed with her and watched her grow as he grew old. He was with her when she got married. He was with her for the birth of both her children.”
A feeling came over me, as if I knew the end to this story.
“He became the protector of the entire family. Although he could not stay with all of them when they have to be separated, he stays with the family who needs protection the most. And so the protector learned about love from the Livingstone family. Our warrior is our friend, Mebalwe.”
Chills ran from the peak of my head down to the heels of my feet. I turned my head all around searching for Mebalwe and finally found him in the shade of a nearby tree, the smallest smile on his face. Had he been standing there the entire time? I then turned my attention to Mary who had a content smile on her face. Mebalwe was not their employee or even just a friend, he was their protector. I turned back to Mebalwe who did not smile, but when he caught the eye of Mary, he bowed his head and closed his eyes in reverence of the story.
“And now!” Sechele said, but I didn’t need a translator for the rest. The time had come. I was now expected to dance. And after the exhilaration of such a story!
It shames me to admit that I considered using my shoulder as an excuse to not participate. If I could get across to the people that my wounds were paining me, I felt sure there would be a band of protesters on Chief Sechele’s door. What was the Sechuana word for “mutiny”?
Before I could recall it, I was being pushed to the empty space in the center of the kotla. My one arm strapped to my chest, I fidgeted nervously with the other hand, picking at a stray string on a seam of my dress. The captain was nowhere to be seen. Eyes were darting every which way, trying to find the man, with no success. I looked to Sechele to know what to do. His consternation was comical. Searching through the throng of people, his features crumpled at the thought of not being given this one opportunity to see a proper English dance. His plans were being thwarted.
In Spite of Lions Page 24
