A Girl Named Disaster

by Nancy Farmer

  He then slowly and impressively listed all the people who had died. When each name was uttered, everyone cried, “Womba! Amazing!” He pointed at a grove of trees at the far end of the garden and abruptly entered the house.

  “What happens now?” whispered Nhamo.

  “That is his vukiro, his sacred grove,” Grandmother whispered back. “We must wait there until he is properly dressed.”

  Everyone sat in a semicircle. Presently, the muvuki emerged, still wearing his suit but with two ceremonial cloths crossed over his chest and tied behind his back. He wore a leopard-skin cap and a necklace of small bones and glass beads. He carried a clay pot.

  Is that the pot where he keeps his son’s spirit? thought Nhamo with a stab of pure terror. But the muvuki unrolled a reed mat on the ground and removed four hakata, or divining sticks, from the pot. Nhamo shivered with relief.

  Following the doctor came a younger man who knelt beside him and waited. “I request my gogodzero, the opening fee,” said the muvuki. Uncle Kufa quickly took three trussedup chickens from the other villagers and laid them before the doctor.

  “I will keep them for you, baba,” said the younger man. He removed the chickens to the shade of a tree nearby. So that’s one of the muvuki’s sons, thought Nhamo. I wonder what he thought when his brother was sacrificed.

  Now the doctor took up two of the hakata sticks in one hand and two in the other. “These people have come to me, a son of an nganga, and want to be told who killed their relatives. Was it a mudzimu, a family spirit?” he asked. His hands opened, and the sticks fell to the mat. He quickly scooped them up, but Nhamo saw that two were faceup and two were down. She knew each stick had a patterned and a smooth side. Three of the designs were abstract. The fourth was the outline of a crocodile. She didn’t know what the symbols meant.

  “Is this diagnosis true?” asked the doctor, and he let the hakata fall again. This time three were up and one down. “Zaru,” he said. “The sticks disagree. These deaths were not caused by a family spirit.”

  He proceeded to ask whether the trouble was caused by a shave, a wandering spirit. He threw the hakata twice to see if they agreed. Again the answer was no. “Was an ngozi* responsible?” the doctor said. The sticks fell with three down and the fourth up, showing the crocodile. “Ngwena. Bad luck. Is this a true diagnosis?” Again the hakata fell three down with the crocodile up. “They agree! An ngozi has done this.”

  “Hhhuuu,” everyone sighed. Now no one would be pointed out as a witch.

  “A man has been murdered,” the muvuki went on. “His spirit wanders. He has become an ngozi without a resting place, without heirs. He seeks revenge. He is the one who slew your relatives—and that one’s father is responsible!” He pointed straight at Nhamo. She flinched back so abruptly, she fell against Masvita.

  “His spirit is crying out, ‘Why did you kill me? Why is my family calling for vengeance?’”

  “We paid compensation,” Ambuya objected.

  “Hush, hush,” everyone murmured. Masvita helped Nhamo sit up. They clung to each other.

  “Who is this who questions the hakata?” demanded the muvuki. “Is she a spirit medium? I do not recognize her.”

  “Ten years ago I paid compensation. I wasn’t even a relative of the man who committed the murder, but I paid. Goré Mtoko’s father demanded ten cattle, one for each of the fingers on his son’s hands. Such a price for a tsotsi whose only skill was to prop open a door!”

  “Please don’t say any more,” whimpered Aunt Chipo. Ambuya impatiently waved her daughter away.

  “And did you pay ten cattle?” inquired the muvuki in a quiet voice.

  Grandmother became uneasy. “Well, how could I? I didn’t have that kind of wealth. Besides, nothing would have happened if Goré hadn’t knocked Proud into the coals. They were both at fault, really.”

  “And what did you pay?” The muvuki’s voice was smooth as the passage of a snake through reeds.

  “Two cows,” admitted Ambuya.

  “Two cows for a man’s life? Two cows for depriving someone of becoming an ancestor? Is it any wonder his spirit has returned in the form of a leopard?”

  Everyone gasped.

  “Oh, yes.” The muvuki smiled. “You think to hide it from me, but I know. I have seen it, Va-Nyamasatsi. Your daughter Runako was killed by a leopard, is it not so?”

  “Yes,” whispered Grandmother.

  “It walked into the village. It did not kill a goat or a chicken. It walked past a small child and took her mother, is it not so?”

  Grandmother was unable to speak.

  “Then, when this girl approached the age of womanhood, the leopard came again. It appeared to her by the water—to her alone—and it spoke to her in the banana grove by night. Its footprints were seen in the dust of graves. You all know that the totem of Goré Mtoko’s family is the leopard. The solution to this problem is very clear.”

  “Aaugh!” screamed Aunt Chipo, falling to the ground. “Eh! Eh! Why did you kill me? What had I done to you? Aaugh!” She tossed from side to side, her eyes rolled back in her head. Everyone jumped up at once. Masvita dragged Nhamo away from Aunt Chipo’s writhing body.

  Nhamo almost fainted from shock. Goré’s spirit had possessed her aunt! He was right there, demanding vengeance!

  “I had no cloth to cover my body, no goat for the people who dug my grave! I had no food for the people who mourned me! These things I demand now!” screamed Aunt Chipo. Uncle Kufa knelt beside her and tried to wipe her face with a cloth, but she threw him back with surprising strength.

  “I have no son to offer sacrifices for me! I demand vengeance! I demand the daughter of my murderer! Eeeee!” Aunt Chipo gave a heart-stopping shriek and fainted. Her body became perfectly limp as the spirit of Goré left her. Several women hurried to rub her arms and legs. Uncle Kufa asked the muvuki for a calabash of water. The doctor sent his son to the house.

  Masvita was crying and trembling, but Nhamo barely noticed. She felt turned to stone. Only Grandmother maintained her self-control. She faced the muvuki squarely. “I agree that two cows was too small a payment, but after all, the murderer’s family should have handled the situation. They’re in Zimbabwe. I sent them a message telling them about the problem, but they never answered.”

  The doctor’s son arrived with water, and Uncle Kufa splashed it over Aunt Chipo’s body to cool her down. She moaned and opened her eyes.

  “One member of the murderer’s family is not in Zimbabwe, ” the muvuki said.

  “I will send cloth and food to Goré’s family, and a cow to take the place of this girl. That, surely, will please the Mtokos.”

  “We aren’t speaking of what will please the Mtokos,” the muvuki said in his smooth voice. “It’s the ngozi who has to be satisfied. Life must be given for life.”

  Nhamo was jolted from her state of shock. Was the muvuki talking of sacrificing her? Surely not!

  “The girl must be given to the brother of Goré Mtoko as a junior wife. As you know, she will really be the bride of the ngozi, and her first son will bear his name.”

  “No! Ngozis can no longer demand human beings as payment! That custom is illegal—and it’s stupid—and cruel! I will not agree!”

  “Please, Va-Ambuya. Don’t make things worse,” pleaded Uncle Kufa.

  “They could hardly be any worse. Let me tell you, Muvuki. The brother of Goré Mtoko is a beast. He’s riddled with disease, and so are his miserable wives. As if I would give the child of my Runako to that animal! I would sooner die—and then you would see an avenging spirit. Not one of you would get a good night’s sleep! Let go of me!”

  Several of the women present tried to hold on to Grandmother. They murmured anxious words as though they were calming an angry infant. “She isn’t well, Muvuki. Please forgive her,” one of them said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me!” Grandmother shouted. “We live in modern times, and girls don’t have to be given away as slaves. What kind of doct
or are you, anyway? Someone who killed his own son to gain power? Ha! Only witches do that!”

  “Mother!” shrieked Aunt Chipo.

  “She’s sick,” Uncle Kufa cried. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  Nhamo was dizzy with fear. The worst, the very worst thing you could call anyone was a witch. Especially when it might be true. The muvuki’s face was expressionless, but his clenched fists showed the rage that bubbled inside him. Even Grandmother seemed appalled by what she had just said.

  “If there’s a witch present, she arrived this morning,” the muvuki snarled. “And if someone tries to cast a spell on me, the force of my ancestral spirits will cast it right back.” He thrust his walking stick, carved in the shape of a serpent, at Ambuya.

  Nhamo screamed. She thought the heavy cane was going to smash Grandmother’s face, but it stopped a finger’s breadth away. The effect was as though the blow had actually landed, however. Ambuya’s head snapped back and she bared her teeth in a terrible parody of a smile. Then she collapsed into the arms of the women around her.

  “Grandmother,” wailed Masvita.

  “Get back. Let her breathe,” Uncle Kufa ordered.

  The women laid Grandmother on the ground, and Aunt Chipo began rubbing her hands and feet. The muvuki’s son grabbed the calabash and ran for more water.

  To Nhamo, the rest of the world seemed to disappear: All she could see was Grandmother’s face with one side crumpled and one eye open and unblinking. Nhamo closed the eye gently. She massaged Ambuya’s face and felt the teeth clenched beneath the wrinkled skin.

  “Can you help her, honored doctor?” said Uncle Kufa.

  “Why should I aid someone who called me a witch?” said the muvuki.

  “She is the oldest person in our village. She suffers from a misguided fondness for her granddaughter, but otherwise her life has been blameless. I will pay you, of course.”

  The muvuki considered. “It is a good thing to care for one’s elders. I see you are a considerate and honorable son-in-law. Very well, I will make a poultice to draw out the illness, but you will have to find someone else to carry on the treatment after you return home. This kind of sickness takes a long time to heal.”

  “How long?”

  “Weeks. Perhaps months.”

  The muvuki returned to his house to prepare the medicine, and Uncle Kufa removed more gifts from the packs carried by the villagers. He took out two brand-new hoes, a knife with the hilt wrapped in copper wire, a length of dress-cloth, and a small amount of real money. Grandmother’s breathing was ragged, almost like snoring.

  “Go on to the Portuguese trader’s house, Nhamo,” said Uncle Kufa. “Ask him to send us something to help move Ambuya.”

  Nhamo hurried farther along the trail. The trader didn’t open his store until noon, so he was still sitting on his porch enjoying the cool morning breeze. He sent his assistant off at once with a stretcher. “Bring her here,” he told the man. “No leave alone with witch doctor. Maybe he cut her into steaks for dinner.” Nhamo looked so alarmed, he added, “I make joke, little Disaster. Your ambuya too tough for him anyhow.”

  After a while the villagers arrived with Grandmother. The side of her face and body was plastered with a brown-gray mud. Everyone’s forehead was marked with chalk to show that the muvuki had been satisfied with his payment and that everyone had been satisfied with his diagnosis. The trader told them to put Grandmother on a bed on the covered porch.

  “She’s not used to sleeping off the ground. She might fall,” whispered Nhamo.

  “You watch her, then,” the trader ordered. “Me, I no sleep on the ground. Centipedes crawl up my nose and make nest.” In spite of her misery, the idea was so silly Nhamo gave him a watery smile. “That better, little Disaster. You stay by your ambuya and hit the centipedes with a stick when they show up.”

  Uncle Kufa was amazed that the trader wanted no payment for keeping Grandmother, but he was quick to take him up on the offer. He assigned several women to take turns watching her.

  All day they sat, keeping Grandmother’s body warm and flexing her hands and feet. By afternoon, the old woman was able to move one side of her body, but the other side remained paralyzed. She was unable to speak. There was no question of moving her until she recovered more of her strength or—Nhamo swallowed back the tears—died. At night, the women returned to the camp by the stream. Only Nhamo remained, patiently changing the cloths beneath Ambuya’s hips and dribbling water into her mouth. Finally, in the middle of the night, she was too exhausted to go on. She stretched out on a mat by the bed and, worn out by fear and misery, sank into a dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  *ngozi: An angry spirit bent on revenge.

  10

  The next day, Uncle Kufa sent Masvita, Aunt Chipo, and Aunt Shuvai’s baby to stay in Vatete’s village. Vatete’s husband and one other man went along to protect them. The rest of the villagers remained to carry Grandmother home when she was able to travel. Nhamo hugged her cousin. They both cried, and the baby, who was tied to Masvita’s back, picked up their mood and began to howl.

  “He looks strong,” said Nhamo, wiping tears from her face. “Good lungs, anyway.”

  “He’s beautiful,” Masvita said. “If I—if I never have babies, I’ll at least have had him.” Then she cried some more until Aunt Chipo called her away. Nhamo watched them disappear down the trail with mixed feelings. On one hand, she hated to see them go. On the other, no one else would expect her to discuss that terrible, terrible meeting with the muvuki. Uncle Kufa would make only brief visits to see how Ambuya was doing.

  The other women didn’t speak to her at all, and Nhamo had plenty of time to think about her situation. Her father was a murderer. The ngozi had demanded that she marry a diseased man with several wives. Goré’s brother wouldn’t pay roora for her, so she wouldn’t have any status in her new household. The other wives would beat her. Perhaps her husband would beat her, too, to get revenge for his brother’s death. She wouldn’t see Masvita anymore, or Ruva or Grandmother—if Grandmother even lived.

  The future was so bleak, Nhamo refused to think about it. She pretended that she lived on the trader’s porch instead. It was what she did in the deserted village back home. She knew, of course, that Mother didn’t really drink tea with her on top of the hill there. She knew she sat with a scrap of paper held down by pebbles—but the pictures in her mind were so real, she thought they must somehow exist. They might live in the underground country where the thrown-away animals and people went. And someday, if she could find the way, she might join them.

  Nhamo applied herself to caring for Ambuya. When an unpleasant thought occurred, she shook her head to clear it out. Nothing existed for her but the trader’s house, the porch with Grandmother’s bed, and an endless present.

  Three or four times a day she made up a poultice. The muvuki had provided powdered bark from a tree that had been struck by lightning. This was the correct treatment, he said, for someone who suffered from chikandiwa, or a stroke. Nhamo boiled the powder with water, soaked it in a cloth, and applied it to Grandmother’s paralyzed side. Between times, she rubbed Ambuya’s arms and legs, and told her stories. She couldn’t tell whether the old woman understood her.

  The other women helped during the day, but they talked to one another and ignored Nhamo.

  During the afternoon, when the trader was at work, his wife sat on the porch. She was a plump, cheerful woman called Rosa. “I used to have a Shona name, but Joao changed it when we got married,” she explained. Joao was the trader.

  “Is that their custom? To change a wife’s name?”

  “If she joins the church,” said Rosa. “I became a Catholic to marry Joao. You’re an excellent storyteller.”

  “Thank you. Ambuya taught me.” Nhamo was pleased to have company and even more delighted with the snacks Rosa produced. Never had she encountered such food! Some of it came out of cans—delicious, oily fish, and peas already shelled and co
oked. Rosa had paper packages of cookies and glass bottles full of honey. What a wonderful thing it was to be married to a storekeeper! Nhamo would have joined the church, too, to have such riches.

  Other things about Catholics made her uneasy, though. Across from Rosa and Joao’s bed was a huge cross with a man nailed to it. His head was crowned with thorns. Rosa said he was called Jesus. She said bad people had murdered him, but he came back to life after three days.

  “Did he get revenge on his enemies then?” inquired Nhamo.

  “Oh, no! He forgave them. That’s the Christian way.”

  Nhamo didn’t want to be rude, but she thought it was creepy to have a dead man on the wall of your bedroom. Also, if compensation hadn’t been paid, Jesus would have turned into an ngozi and made his enemies suffer anyway. Nhamo shook her head violently to keep from thinking about ngozis.

  Slowly, Grandmother improved. She could move both sides of her body, although she was too weak to stand and she still couldn’t talk. Her eyes had expression in them now. They followed Nhamo and sometimes they welled over with tears.

  “Does it hurt, Ambuya?” whispered Nhamo as she wiped the tears away. Grandmother couldn’t answer; the tears continued to flow.

  One afternoon, Uncle Kufa decided the old woman was well enough to travel. “The basket maker has made a traveling chair for you, Va-Ambuya,” he said. “It hangs on long poles, which we can carry on our shoulders. You should be very comfortable.” He instructed Nhamo to have everything ready to leave the next morning.

  Nhamo felt stunned as her uncle strode off. All at once, the thoughts she had pushed away came back in a rush. She wasn’t going to live on this porch forever. No one would speak to her kindly anymore or worry about her welfare. She would go to a strange house where the women would hate her and her husband would beat her. Even her own people couldn’t wait to get rid of her.