by Nancy Farmer
The only person who never chased her away was Baba Joseph. He was stern, as an elder should be, but always welcoming. The fate of the old man’s guinea pigs upset her, though. Dr. van Heerden painted them with poison and put them under little wire baskets. The baskets fitted so tightly the animals could hardly wiggle as cages of tsetse flies were placed over them. They yelped and cried as they were bitten. The tsetses swelled up with blood until they looked ready to burst. It made Nhamo sick.
“It’s cruel,” agreed Baba Joseph, “but one day the things we learn will keep our cattle from dying.” He stuck his own arm into a tsetse cage. Nhamo covered her mouth to keep from crying out. The flies settled all over the old man’s skin and began swelling up. “I do this to learn what the guinea pigs are suffering,” he explained. “It’s wicked to cause pain, but if I share it, God may forgive me.”
Baba Joseph talked a lot about God. He and a number of the other villagers dressed all in white on Saturdays. The men shaved their heads and carried long wooden poles with a crook at the top. The women wore white head scarves. They met in the forest on Saturday afternoons to sing and pray. Baba Joseph was their leader.
“Excuse me, Baba. Are you Catholic?” Nhamo asked him.
“Catholic! Whatever gave you that idea?” The old man was affronted, and Nhamo was too overcome with embarrassment to say anything more.
“There’s more than one kind of Christian,” Sister Gladys explained. “Baba Joseph is a Vapostori. Those people don’t believe in medicine—if they get sick, they’d rather die than take a pill. I think they’re idiots.”
Whatever their opinion of Vapostoris, everyone deferred to Baba Joseph, even Dr. van Heerden: “The old man looks at you with those luminous eyes,” the Afrikaner told Mother, “and you find yourself saying, Yes, Baba. You want me to stand on my head with a flower up my schnozz? You got it, Baba.”
In the evening, the doctor sat outside his hut and drank beer. It wasn’t the stuff the villagers brewed. It came in brown bottles, like the beer Joao had given Grandmother long ago. Dr. van Heerden drank seven or eight, and the sweat poured off him like a river. At such times he let Nhamo lurk in the bushes while he talked to visitors.
It was a lot like the men’s dare, although Mother and Sister Gladys sometimes attended, and Nhamo learned a great deal from the conversations. Unlike her own village, Efifi was a mixture of Shona, Tonga, and Matabele, with one Afrikaner thrown in. The language was generally Shona, but smatterings of other tongues cropped up when people became excited.
Dr. Masuku was Matabele. At first this bothered Nhamo. She had been taught that the Matabele, traditional enemies of her people, were as cruel as hyenas. But she couldn’t imagine Mother doing anything bad. She knew it didn’t make sense that she, a Shona child, had a Matabele mother.
Mother wasn’t married, either, and never intended to be. “It’s just another name for slavery,” she declared. Nhamo thought this was astounding. How could you become an ancestor if you didn’t have children? How could you become anything without a husband? But Mother insisted that marriage was the worst thing that could happen to an intelligent woman.
She and Dr. van Heerden argued about it frequently. “What you need is a nest of little babies, Everjoice,” the Afrikaner would announce after his fourth beer. “I can see them cheeping, ‘Mama! Mama!’ You’ll go all soft like a pat of butter. You’ve got motherhood written all over you.”
“I’d rather swim through a pool of starving crocodiles,” Mother said.
“Even the Wild Child knows.” Dr. van Heerden held a bottle of beer against his face to cool off. “She follows you like a little shadow.”
“The Wild Child has imprinted on me. I was the first thing she saw after her ordeal in the forest.”
Nhamo didn’t know what imprinting was and she didn’t bother her head about it. Her spirit told her Mother’s true identity. That was all that mattered.
Her life drifted on in an aimless fashion. She knew she ought to ask about nuns. She knew it was important to locate Father, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave Mother. Sometimes, when she was washing sheets at the hospital or gathering vegetables for the guinea pigs, a great craving came over her. She carefully put down her work and trotted off to the laboratories.
Ah! There was Mother with her eye pressed to a metal tube called a microscope. Nhamo would watch for a while, suffused with happiness. Dr. Masuku would eventually look up and say, “Stop sneaking up on me! You made me break a slide!”
Little by little Nhamo took over Baba Joseph’s chores. He was grateful to let her handle things that had become difficult for his old body. He watched her carefully and instructed her in new duties when he thought she was ready. She worked willingly, even feeding the warthog, which snorted alarmingly when she approached. The only animal she could not bring herself to care for was the crocodile. It was given an occasional fish and the bodies of the guinea pigs when they died.
She was particularly helpful on Saturdays. Saturdays were sacred to the Vapostori. They weren’t allowed to work all day. Baba Joseph always worried that he had not left enough food and water for his animals, but now he could relax. Nhamo looked after everything—except the crocodile. It can dry up like an old cow patty for all I care, she thought privately.
When she was finished, she helped Sister Gladys, and then she hurried to the forest to spy on the Vapostori.
They spent the afternoon in a clearing. The men sat on one side and the women on the other with an aisle in between. One or another of the worshippers would stand and begin the singing:
“Kwese, kwese,
Tinovona vanhu hamuzivi Kristu…
Everywhere, everywhere,
We see people who do not know Christ…”
This was, Nhamo learned, a call for the angels to come down from Mwari’s country and hover over the gathering. She had asked Baba Joseph if angels were the same as ancestral spirits, and he had been vague about it.
Next, the Vapostori knelt in the direction of the rising sun and extended their arms with the palms upward.
“Mwari komberera Africa, alleluia!
Chisua yemina matu yedu.
Mwari, Baba, Jesu utukomborera…
Mwari save Africa, alleluia!
Hear our prayers.
Mwari, Father, Jesus bless us…”
Nhamo understood why one would pray to Mwari and one’s father, but Jesus was an ngozi. She didn’t think it was at all wise to attract his attention.
Sometimes Baba Joseph would pace the aisle between the men and women and tell them stories or scold them if they hadn’t been good. He warned them about drinking or taking other men’s wives. “Doing these things is like making a telephone call to Satan,” he cried. The others would echo his words or make their voices sound like drums or musical instruments backing up his sermon—although the Vapostori used no actual instruments in their ceremonies.
The whole thing was extremely pleasant to listen to.
After a while Nhamo left to check up on the animals. She lifted the tortoise from its pen and let it lumber across the animal house for exercise. “You mustn’t drink alcohol or take one another’s wives,” she commanded the guinea pigs, who watched her hopefully for vegetables. “I won’t warn you about making phone calls to Satan,” she told the crocodile. “I’m sure you’ve done it many times.”
Nhamo sat with her back against the duiker stall and surveyed her kingdom. She hadn’t told a story for a long time—not since Mother’s picture burned up. She had been too absorbed with watching Dr. van Heerden’s beard fluff out like Fat Cheeks’s mane or with the warthog trailing around after Baba Joseph. Besides, if Nhamo wanted to talk, Mother was easy to find—although often unwilling to listen.
Now Nhamo’s spirit moved with the desire to speak. She paced between the cages as Baba Joseph did between the men and women of the Vapostori.
“Once upon a time there were three kings who went to Mwari and asked for the ceremonial stone that brings
rain when needed,” Nhamo said. “They lived in Mwari’s country, so I think they were probably angels. Anyhow,” she said, stroking the duiker, which confidently thrust its nose at her, “Mwari refused them, saying, ‘I cannot give this stone to you because only your people would prosper. Rain is for everyone.’
“The kings became angry and said, ‘We thought you were God, but it seems you were only fooling us. We don’t believe you have any power. We won’t obey you any longer.’
“Mwari said, ‘I will give you each a sign so that you may know I am God.’ He told the first king, ‘You will die because your fingers will drop off. I give you the disease called leprosy.’ To the second king he said, ‘You will die because you will fall into the fire. I give you epilepsy.’ And to the third king he said, ‘You will die because your flesh will be consumed. I give you tuberculosis.’ Then Mwari cast them out of his country.
“The first king washed himself in a river and sacrificed a goat. His disease, leprosy, transferred itself to the goat, which was devoured by a crocodile. Since that time crocodiles have been able to give leprosy to humans.
“The second king put his spittle on the wings of a Namaqualand dove. Ever since then, the dove has been able to give epilepsy to humans.
“The third king breathed on a basket of wheat. His disease blew away with the chaff. This is why wheat chaff is able to give people tuberculosis.”
Nhamo retrieved the tortoise, which had wedged itself between two guinea-pig pens. She pointed it in the opposite direction and gave it a trail of lettuce leaves to follow.
“I hope Baba Joseph has never touched that ugly crocodile, ” she said as she dangled a sprig of lucerne over the guinea pigs to see if she could make them stand on their hind legs. “I’m sure it’s loaded with leprosy.” In the far distance she heard the voices of the Vapostori. They were really getting into it. Sometimes they got so carried away they didn’t even use words. They yodeled any strange thing as loud as they could, and the next day everyone came to work with sore throats.
35
I’m off to Harare tomorrow,” Dr. van Heerden told Mother as the sun settled behind the gray-green trees of the forest and a soft dusk stole out of the east. The doctors and about ten villagers, all men, were seated companionably outside Dr. van Heerden’s hut. There was no room for such a crowd inside and besides, it was too hot. Nhamo was hidden by the leaves of a bougainvillea vine the Afrikaner had grown over a frame at the side. It cast a welcome shade against the hut in the afternoon and formed a convenient nook for someone who did not wish to be noticed.
Dr. van Heerden had given Nhamo a bottle of orange soda from the refrigerator earlier, but by now had forgotten about her existence. She spun out the pleasure of the cold drink as long as possible. She pressed it against her face and let the juice slide down her throat to make her cool from inside. Now all she had left was a few sugary drops. She applied them to her tongue, one by one.
“I’m taking Petrus”—the doctor named one of the villagers. “He needs to spend time with his family. I hear the wife has a new baby.”
“And Petrus hasn’t been home for a year,” added one of the other men. Petrus casually knocked the man’s stool over.
He wasn’t angry, so Nhamo knew it wasn’t a real argument. She sometimes had trouble understanding jokes at Efifi. No one in her village would have made such an accusation lightly.
“Bring us magazines,” said Mother. The rainy season had kept the road too marshy to use for many weeks. All the old magazines had fallen apart.
Whenever Dr. van Heerden went to town, everyone made out a list of requests. His Land Rover returned as loaded as the tractor that visited the trading post.
“I’m making two quick trips if the weather stays good. I’m taking in bottles of cow smell to be analyzed.”
Nhamo had watched the doctor try to collect the exact substance that attracted the tsetses. Nothing was overlooked: the breath, the sweat, the droppings. The last item was most interesting. It had to be collected absolutely fresh before it hit the ground. Dr. van Heerden crept up on a likely cow, bottle in hand. Sometimes he got what he wanted, and sometimes he got a surprise. Once a cow coughed as he was peering up its backside, with entertaining results.
“I think I’ll bring Bliksem back for a few days. We can hunt jackals together.”
Who is Bliksem? thought Nhamo. She hadn’t heard of him.
“This place is bad for his health,” Mother pointed out.
“Ach, a few days won’t hurt. The old fellow needs a vacation.”
Bliksem must be an elder relative, Nhamo decided. Perhaps he was Dr. van Heerden’s uncle.
“Someday we have to send the Wild Child off, you know,” Mother remarked. “It isn’t fair to keep her without an education.”
Nhamo’s throat suddenly closed up. Mother said that? Mother wanted to get rid of her?
“She’s learning plenty,” said Dr. van Heerden. “Works harder than five of these buggers.” He was into his fifth or sixth beer. The men rolled their eyes.
“You know what I mean. She can’t read or add. She’s totally unsuited for modern life—and she’s bright enough to take advantage of good schooling. In fact, she’s brilliant.”
Nhamo’s heart burned within her. Mother’s praise meant nothing. She wanted to get rid of her.
“Baba Joseph can teach her.” Dr. van Heerden tipped the bottle up over his red, sweaty face.
“Baba Joseph!” Mother sounded exasperated. “He’d teach her to speak in tongues. Besides, he doesn’t have time—and neither does Sister Gladys, and neither do I, so don’t ask.”
“You’d make such a wonderful mother,” Dr. van Heerden said sentimentally.
“Nhamo needs a proper school and a real family. She says she has a father at Mtoroshanga.”
“The Old Man is very attached to her.” Petrus offered an opinion for the first time. Everyone knew that the Old Man was Baba Joseph. “She called him Grandfather when she was sick. He lost a granddaughter years ago, and Nhamo reminds him of her.”
“Oh, brother! Just what I need. Another one of Baba Joseph’s pets!” groaned Dr. van Heerden.
Pets! So that’s what they thought of her! Nhamo’s skin was hot with shame. She was just another warthog trailing around after the Old Man!
“All right, I’ll think about it.” The doctor came to a decision. “I’ll go through Mtoroshanga on my way to Harare. If I can scare up the Wild Child’s daddy, I’ll take her back with me and Bliksem. If not—well, there’s always boarding school. The government makes grants for orphans.”
The men and Dr. Masuku (not Mother, Nhamo thought angrily) went on to other topics.
That night she ground her teeth as she lay on the cot at the hospital. Sister Gladys had pronounced her the night watchman and given her the duty of calling for help if anyone became especially ill. But she was not a night watchman, only an ugly warthog allowed to sleep in a human bed as a joke.
In the morning, she hid when Dr. van Heerden and Petrus drove off. She didn’t look for Mother—not once!—and she obeyed Sister Gladys in such stony silence that the nurse asked if she felt sick.
But Nhamo couldn’t be angry at Baba Joseph. She reminded him of his dead granddaughter. That meant he thought she was human.
“I’ll never smoke cigarettes or eat pork or birds with webbed feet,” she murmured as she swabbed out the guinea-pig cages. She had paid close attention to the things Baba Joseph considered sinful. “And I’ll never make phone calls to Satan.” Satan, the old man had explained, was like an ngozi and witch rolled into one. He waited around for people to get careless. The minute they let their guard down—boom!—he possessed them.
“I’ll be good, and Baba Joseph will tell everyone to leave me alone.” Nhamo wiped the tears from her eyes as the guinea pigs gathered around her with earsplitting squeals.
She avoided Dr. Masuku so completely during the next few days that the Matabele woman (she was that now, not Mother) tracked her down
in the hospital. “I never thought I’d miss your beady eyes on the back of my neck. What’s the matter with you, Nhamo? Why don’t you spy on me anymore?”
Because you want to send me away, thought Nhamo, but she replied, “I’ve been busy.”
“Of course you have! Sister Gladys says she doesn’t know what she’d do without you.”
Borrow the warthog from Baba Joseph, I expect, thought Nhamo, but she said, “I’m glad Sister Gladys is pleased with my work.”
“You’re acting so—oh, I don’t know! You seem angry. Has anyone upset you? I know it’s difficult trying to fit in to a strange village without any children. If I can do anything…” Dr. Masuku trailed off uncertainly.
Nhamo stared straight ahead, not insultingly but not in a friendly way either. Dr. Masuku looked to Sister Gladys for help.
“It’s probably her period coming on,” Sister Gladys offered.
“That makes young girls nervous,” Dr. Masuku said gratefully. “It took me forever to settle down. I think the whole process of menstruation is a joke played by God on women.”
But nothing she said could coax a smile out of Nhamo. Dr. Masuku eventually went back to her duties, and Sister Gladys gave Nhamo an herbal drink that she said “would make the pains better.”
The only one who could lift her bad spirits was Baba Joseph. He went about his chores in the same tranquil way, with a kind word for each of his pets and apologies to the guinea pigs when they had to be strapped under the wire cages.
He and she always had lunch by the livestock pens. As long as Dr. van Heerden was away, the cows didn’t have to spend the day in the underground chamber. The windows of their building were securely screened, though. Even one tsetsefly bite could prove fatal. As it was, the poor animals had to be given injections to treat animal sleeping sickness every few weeks.
“It always rests my eyes to see a fine herd of cattle,” Baba Joseph said. Nhamo nodded. She loved their sleek brown hides and lucerne-sweet breath. The old man told her about how Jesus ngozi had slept in a cow’s feeding trough when he was a baby. Nhamo, in her turn, related one of Ambuya’s stories.
