by Nancy Farmer
Nhamo wished he wouldn’t call her Wild Child.
The news of her arrival must have traveled, because at five a small crowd of Jongwes had gathered outside the gate to observe her. Nhamo, feeling extremely self-conscious, made her way past several dozen pairs of eyes. She didn’t know how to react. Did you wave at strange relatives? Would they think she was rude if she didn’t?
Mother and Dr. van Heerden had decided to accompany Sister Gladys on this visit. “I don’t think it makes any difference who shows up,” Mother said. “They’re simply unfriendly.”
“Or are hiding something,” observed Dr. van Heerden.
They were ushered into the parlor and again served tea. This time Mrs. Jongwe was joined by her husband and his parents. Nhamo studied them covertly. Industry was dressed in a gray suit and shiny black shoes. His face was carefully bland. The grandparents were surprisingly youthful, or perhaps they had had easier lives than poor Ambuya.
What would Ambuya have made of these people? “Dressed-up donkeys,” she would have judged them. “What good are claws on a woman?” she would have said about Mrs. Jongwe. “Is she going to hunt dassies for lunch?” Nhamo smiled with her head politely bowed.
“Let’s have a look at the child,” commanded Industry Jongwe, and so Nhamo was made to stand and turn before the assembly.
“She’s pretty,” remarked her grandmother.
“Yes, I noticed that,” Mrs. Jongwe said.
“But she doesn’t look like Proud.”
No, the Jongwes agreed. She didn’t look like Proud.
“She resembles my mother,” said her grandfather. The others glared at him.
“Would it be possible to speak to Proud?” Dr. van Heerden asked.
No, that would not be possible, the others murmured.
“Why ever not?” exclaimed Mother.
The children clustering at the inner door scattered. From beyond, Nhamo heard the tap-tap-tap of a cane. The elder Jongwes turned, suddenly tense.
“Why can’t we talk to this child’s father?” Mother cried.
An old, old man came through the door. He was dressed in European clothes, but around his neck hung many charms and around his hips was tied a leopard skin. He was unquestionably an nganga, and, from the reaction of the others, a powerful and important one.
“Because Proud Jongwe is dead,” the nganga said.
Nhamo stood perfectly still as the old man approached her. He lifted her face with a skeletal hand and turned her head from side to side. “She looks like my first wife,” he announced.
A stir went through the room.
The old nganga sat in a chair hastily provided for him and motioned for Nhamo to sit beside him. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.
She didn’t think to hold anything back. She was convinced he would detect a lie. She told him about the village and her mother’s death. She told him about the ngozi and how she had fled from an imposed marriage. She even talked about the leopard that had appeared to her by the water so long ago—if it was a leopard and not a trick of the light.
Now and then the nganga waved for a cup of tea or tray of snacks. He allowed Nhamo to rest between stories. Night fell outside. The smaller children were hauled off to bed, but no one else attempted to leave.
When Nhamo explained how the njuzu had led her to the garden island, the old man bent toward her with great attention. “I gave them Aunt Shuvai’s beads,” Nhamo said. “I didn’t have anything else.”
“You did the right thing,” the nganga assured her.
Nervously, she told him about the dead Portuguese and the panga she thought he had given her, about the puff adder that had come from the ancestors, and about Long Teats. “But Baba Joseph sent Long Teats away,” she said hastily. “He turned her from a hyena to a cane rat and then to a blackjack bush. I threw it into the fire.”
“Good,” said the old man.
By the time the story was done, the smells of good food had been coming from the kitchen for a long time. Nhamo realized it was very late. She gulped a mouthful of tea. It was only then that she looked up at the faces of the Jongwes. They were full of awe, and even fear.
“If this child hadn’t resembled my first wife, I would still have accepted her,” announced the old nganga. “She has obviously inherited my ability to communicate with the spirit world. She has been trained by the njuzu. I am pleased to welcome her into our family.”
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.
41
She wore her best dress, the one Mother had bought her, and the bra. She was going to do things exactly right for this occasion. Nhamo thought the old man would take her to the local graveyard, but he led her to his house. It was a small place tucked away at the edge of the vast Jongwe estate. People were always waiting outside for advice. They came from all over the country, and they sometimes had to wait a long time for the nganga’s attention.
Nhamo spied a pot hidden in the thatch and halted. Horror nailed her to the spot. What did ngangas store inside such things? It couldn’t be—she didn’t want to know—
“I’m not the muvuki,” he said in a whispery voice that made her jump. “I don’t keep my oldest son’s heart in a bottle.”
Nhamo bit her lip. That was exactly what she had imagined. She looked cautiously at the dried animals hanging on the walls, the heaps of withered herbs.
“I’ve been too weak to undertake this journey until now,” explained the old man. He waved to a young man at the back of the house. “Garikayi is my assistant. He will help us.”
Garikayi loaded a car with bottles of water and food. He helped the nganga into the front seat and opened the back door for Nhamo. They set off on a steep road going up into the Umvukwe Mountains. It was here, Nhamo had learned, that the chrome mines lay. It was the only place on earth where that rare metal was found.
The car struggled up higher and higher. It curved around until the outside world had completely vanished. Nhamo’s eyes opened wide. She had no idea this beautiful green country existed so close to the dusty streets of Mtoroshanga. Yellow weaver birds darted across the road. A stream overhung with palms wound beside them with a loud, heartening sound. She pressed her face eagerly to the window.
Eventually, they came to a meadow. The road deteriorated into a path scarred by deep ruts from the rainy season. They stopped. “Oh,” sighed Nhamo, stepping out onto springy grass.
“We’ll eat first,” said her great-grandfather. Garikayi spread out a cloth and heaped it with food. He helped the old man sit down with his back against a tree. No one spoke, and Nhamo was just as happy to stay quiet. She was in awe of the nganga and hardly knew how to address him.
They had lemonade, peanut butter sandwiches, and a kind of pound cake with red jam. Nhamo was now knowledgeable about the food she had seen in magazines so long ago. She could never have imagined then that she would be eating them in a forest glade with her great-grandfather.
When they were finished, Garikayi packed up the food. They set off along the rutted path. The nganga had to be carried across the larger gaps. They came to a grassy hill dotted with gentians and pink ground orchids, and began to climb.
It was a long, slow process with many stops to allow the old man to rest. “Would you like to return, honored Tateguru?”* asked Nhamo.
“If I stop now, I may never have the strength to return. Your father appeared to me in a dream and asked me to bring you here,” he replied.
All around were the green hills with the stream chattering below in the valley. Puffy white clouds floated overhead in a blue sky. Nhamo took a deep breath.
“I’m an embarrassment to the family. So are you,” said the nganga. “We represent the past, which they are busy trying to forget.” He patted the ground beside him, and Nhamo sat down. “They’re Methodists when it suits them. That’s a kind of Christian.”
Nhamo sighed. Another kind of Christian. Why did they have to be so complicated?
“Industry went to church until he decided to take a second wife. Then he suddenly discovered his African roots. The Methodists don’t approve of second wives. Even so, the others occasionally attend church and talk about bringing Zimbabwe into the twentieth century. They aren’t pleased to have a traditional healer in the backyard, but I’m too powerful for them to ignore.”
The old man signaled to Garikayi, who quickly produced cups and a thermos of sweet milky tea.
“My son—your grandfather—made his fortune in the mines.”
Nhamo nodded. He was talking about Jongwe Senior.
“He dug his own tunnel into these hills and made a lucky strike. A lot of men work independently along the Umvukwe range. The place is like a giant anthill. As soon as he got money, he began to imitate the white people, and he changed his Shona name, Murenga, to Lloyd. He wanted to flatter the owner of the Big Chief Chrome Company, who was also called Lloyd. Unfortunately, the owner was killed by a land mine. Then the whites began to lose the war, and it became unfashionable to have a white name.
“As you know, the word murenga means ‘revolution.’ What wonderful luck! Lloyd-the-lackey turned into Murenga-the-revolutionary overnight. Oh, he was first in line for the victory parades, as soon as the guns were put away. At the same time I was promoted from being a senile old peasant to being a revered elder.
