by Tamar Myers
“From there,” he said, pointing to the elephant grass at the edge of the Mushihi Station. “From the tshisuku. Those are some of your girls on their way to chapel. The rest should be following shortly.”
“I don’t understand,” Julia said. “Those are little children.”
“Surely you knew that. I mean, the child bride thing was explained to you—right?”
“Yes, yes, of course. It’s just that they seem so young when one actually sees them.”
“They’re between the ages of nine and fourteen—give or take. No one in the Congo knows their exact age. Chronological age is a white man’s obsession. Would you like to meet the girls?”
Julia’s heart was pounding with anxiety, but she wasn’t about to let Henry know. “Sure,” she said.
“Nuenu, bika ne lua!” Henry said, clapping his hands.
The girls immediately jumped up and began marching toward them. They held long arms ramrod straight down their sides, and their backs and necks they carried straight as well. They were no longer laughing, but stone-faced. They had bitten the hand that was supposed to shelter and feed them for at least the next several months until independence. If the new mamu so desired, they knew, each girl could be sent back to her village, and the husband to whom she had been sold.
And when you thought about it, why should these poor little Bashilele girls believe that these strange, white-skinned missionaries would act any differently than their own parents whom they had grown up loving? For was not the Old Testament, which the missionaries made them read in school, full of stories of betrayal and revenge?
Well, Julia certainly couldn’t blame these girls if they were as anxious as she was. She had grown up in a good Christian home, and she still couldn’t see how Abraham got away with forcing his concubine Hagar and her son Ishmael out into the desert to die of thirst!
Julia would make these exquisite children trust her. And oh, yes, they were exquisite—there was no other word to describe them. It certainly wasn’t their clothes, that was for sure; their clothes were on the hideous side. They wore identical dresses of simple design. The flimsy frocks had been sewn from the same bolt of cloth, featuring a geometrical “African” print in red, orange, hot pink, melon, and yellow—hot colors for a hot climate.
On the plus side, to a girl, they had high prominent cheekbones, large almond-shaped eyes that were thickly lashed, and on closer inspection, necks as graceful as those of gazelles. To see so much beauty, so concentrated in one place, was truly humbling. In any case, what Julia had heard about the Bashilele being a handsome people was certainly true, if one was to judge by these girls, for in a world where fairness counted, every single one of them could have gone on to be a model.
“Would you like them to give you a Tshiluba name?” Henry whispered.
“I already have one,” Julia whispered in return.
The girls arrived, but much to Julia’s relief they remained about as far from her as one might expect an American girl to stand. The only difference is that these girls were without guile, which is to say that they stared quite openly. One would say something in Bushilele, and then the rest would crane their long beautiful necks, in order to get a better view of whichever part of Julia was being discussed. Julia wondered if this was how a chimpanzee or other great ape might feel in a zoo setting.
“Do you understand anything that they are saying?” she said aloud to Henry.
“A little,” he said. “Something about you having ugly eyes and hair. They think that your hair looks like dried grass.”
“Because it’s blond?”
“You asked.”
Julia grabbed a hank of her hair and stepped toward the girls. “Do you think that this hair is ugly?” she asked in Tshiluba, the local trade language, which was the language she’d learned in America, and the language in which the girls did their lessons.
“Yes, Mamu,” two girls chimed in at once.
“It is very ugly,” a third girl said. “It looks like dead tshisuku, at the end of the long dry season. Does it burn easily?”
“Ka!” said Julia. “What kind of question is that?”
“May I touch it?” asked yet another. Then without waiting for an answer she stepped into Julia’s personal space and began to finger her hair. “Very bad, very bad,” she pronounced.
Soon virtually all the girls were tugging at Julia’s hair. “Tshianana beh,” they said over and over again. They said it about her eyes. They even said it about her skin color, which they claimed reminded them of poisonous mushroom stems. Julia had been warned that this would happen, so she wasn’t traumatized. But when one girl grabbed the neckline of her blouse and tried to peer down at her breasts, she’d had enough.
“Stop it!” she said angrily, and even though it hurt like the dickens, she yanked her head loose from the hands of those who claimed to loathe her hair—a claim she still couldn’t quite believe!
Henry, of course, was no help at all. “She was just trying to see if you were white all over. You know, like a poisonous mushroom stem.” He roared with laughter.
Julia couldn’t stand it when folks laughed at their own jokes, especially if she was the butt of their humor. She glared at Henry, who didn’t even seem to notice.
“When I was growing up,” he said, “my native friends were always trying to sneak peeks. Clementine’s friends still do. It’s a hard concept for these kids to swallow, that our entire bodies should be so hideous.”
Julia couldn’t help herself. “But that’s just stupid. Have they ever seen a native who was black with white privates? Whoever put such a crazy notion in their heads?”
“We did,” Henry said.
“We who?”
“We, the white man,” Henry said. “We insist on keeping our erogenous zones covered. Ergo, the natives have come to the conclusion—and quite logically, I might add—that there is something there that we are trying to hide.”
“Well, you are darn tootin’,” Julia said, “but it isn’t because we’re ashamed. It’s because we are no longer heathens.”
“Oh, is that it?” Henry said. “Adam and Eve weren’t heathens either, and they walked around the Garden of Eden without a stitch of clothing on.”
“Let me remind you, Reverend, that the nudity in the Garden of Eden garden predated Adam and Eve tasting the forbidden fruit. Once they ate that fruit and their eyes were opened, they became just as evil as the rest of us.”
“My, how you do like to carry on,” Henry said. “It looks to me like you’re about to lose your audience as you stand here arguing with me. Do you want me to ask them about a Tshiluba name, or are you afraid that they might name you something mean, like Grass Head, or Toadstool?”
“I already said,” Julia hissed, “that I have a Tshiluba name. Cripple gave it to me back at Bell Vue.”
Henry smiled. “What is it?”
Julia turned to the girls, who were indeed beginning to drift away. In passably accented Tshiluba, she called out to them. “My name is Mamu Mukashiana.”
The girls stared at her. Henry did as well. After a few very long agonizing seconds, Henry said, “Julia, please, tell us the end of your joke. This is beginning to feel uncomfortable.”
“You feel uncomfortable?” Julia said. “What about me?”
Henry waved the girls away, telling them that he would be at chapel momentarily, and that they should behave for Reverend Doyer—or else! He punctuated his words by pounding his fist into the palm of his hand.
The girls fled, but as they did so they also pushed at each other and laughed. Julia got the impression that the girls weren’t really scared of Henry, but they were more than a little amused by her African name. It was then that it dawned on her that she didn’t quite understand the translation of her new name: Mukashiana.
The first half of this name meant woman, but the ending was unfamiliar to Julia. Still—“iana” was such a pleasant suffix, how bad could that be? Julia had a Tshiluba dictionary, but she had
been saving the “discovery” of the meaning as a special treat. Anyway, until that moment, she really had not had time to do anything but live in the present. Well, now was the time to find out.
“Henry, what does my name mean?”
He’d resumed walking, and at a brisk rate, but he stopped and turned. “You honestly don’t know?”
“Obviously, I don’t,” Julia said. She was close to tears. It was a beautiful day, and she was just beginning what promised to be an exciting adventure, but how could she navigate this course without all the cues? It was frustration that drove her to this point, not fear, mind you. Julia never cried when she was afraid, and she never, ever cried from physical pain. It was only anger and frustration that ever filled her baby blues with salt water. Henry could ask her mother if he didn’t believe that.
“Hey, kid, take it easy,” he said, then bit his lip. “Oh, shoot. I didn’t mean it—that ‘kid’ part. That’s not how I see you. That just sort of slipped out because I’m so used to talking to Clementine. Honest. You’re just like any other missionary; why, you’re exactly like Nurse Verna!”
Julia smiled, despite herself. “With a mouth as slippery as yours, you should have no trouble extracting your foot. Therefore, I shan’t concern myself about the possible need for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”
Henry’s tanned face darkened considerably. “Now that was an inappropriate remark. Nurse Verna would never have said that.”
“You are absolutely right on that account,” Julia said. “However, she might have thought such a thing. Face it, undoubtedly there are some people who think that you are a very handsome man, and who knows, she could be one of them. As the old saying goes, ‘still waters run deep.’ Anyway, my reference to the aforementioned procedure was strictly clinical, I assure you. I was a lifeguard at camp, and I’ve had considerable training on dummies. Oops—and I didn’t mean to call you a dummy, either!”
Henry turned again, and continued his brisk pace, but not before calling one last remark over his shoulder. “Your name means: She Whose Name One Can’t Be Bothered to Remember. However, Julia, I am certain that I will never forget yours.”
THIRTEEN
If there were no true emergencies—deep lacerations to sew up, uteruses to push back inside—Nurse Verna would try her level best to attend morning chapel. She would pull down the rolling metal window through which drugs were dispensed and slip the Yale lock through the heavy-duty hasp on the reinforced wooden door. Of course she always took Many Boils with her to the brief service. It was, after all, primarily for the sake of Many Boils’s salvation that she kept so many patients waiting in the broiling sun.
The schoolchildren sat up front with their teachers, boys on the right, girls on the left. In the Tshiluba language the word for “right hand” was “boy’s hand,” and the word for “left hand” was “girl’s hand.” This was as it should be, Nurse Verna though, since boys were usually stronger and more dominant. Nurse Verna was very fond of the Tshiluba language; it made a lot more sense than English, which was a tongue that had been cobbled together from French, German, Latin, Danish, Greek—you name it.
Besides the students, at chapel there were always a few of what Nurse Verna privately referred to as “petitioners.” These were mainly the elderly or very sick people who had come to church to beg God for healing or to be put out of their misery. Occasionally, one saw a “fat cat.” These were always men—some were literally fat—who were there to pray for wealth or give thanks for favors received in hopes of receiving more wealth.
“Ask and ye shall receive” was the most popular prayer among the fat-cat set. Nurse Verna abhorred the fat cats with righteous indignation pulled straight from the holy scriptures. Of course the fat cats sat on the right side of the church—on the male side. But unbeknownst to them, Nurse Verna prayed that her God, the God who loved justice, would shrivel the testes of the fat cats, rendering them sterile.
The people with whom she had no problem—but they were sure to upset that Marilyn Monroe look-alike, that dilettante missionary fresh from the States—were the beggars, lepers, and nursing mothers who sat on the women’s side directly in front of Nurse Verna. Actually, there weren’t beggars in the group, as the Bashilele were too proud for that, but there was a leper, and a woman with a goiter the size of a grapefruit, and tons of nursing mothers. Blouses weren’t required in the back of the church, and it was common to see children as old as three standing while nursing. Most often the children’s eyes would be fixed on Nurse Verna while they stretched their poor mothers’ breasts out flat, like hot water bottles filled with milk.
On this particular day, Nurse Verna was a trifle late taking her seat on the bench reserved for the buttocks of white people, which was located at the far rear of the church. She arrived just as the children from the girls’ school marched into the building. As usual, they processed behind their native headmaster. Miss Julia Newton brought up the rear, looking grim, stiff, and totally out of place. However, few people managed to get under Nurse Verna’s thick, sun-mottled skin as did the native headmaster.
Ever since the unfortunate death of Mrs. Hayes, the mother of the Great Distraction, the girls’ school had had to resort to having a native headmaster. This being the Belgian Congo, that native had to be a man. Virtually all the teachers in the Belgian Congo were male, and certainly all the principals. No student was going to take instructions from a black woman seriously—a white woman, yes, but not from a native woman.
This temporary headmaster was an impressive fellow, one who had a secondary-school education that he’d received at Djoka Punda. Plus, he was married, and since he and his wife were both middle-aged, they could serve as houseparents to the girls and live with them in their compound. The only negative quality that Born Without a Neck had was that he was a pompous fool.
Whereas even the missionary men wore their neckties only on Sunday mornings, Born Without a Neck wore one every day. It was one that had been discarded by a missionary when it became too frayed, but this didn’t seem to bother its new owner. Neither did the fact that, without the semblance of a proper neck (he had one, but his vertebrae were fused), the tie cupped his chin, rendering him ridiculous in the eyes of his white beholders.
However, this tie, and the fact that he was meticulous about laundering and ironing his two shirts, very much impressed the Bashilele. Not long after he took over the girls’ school, some of the older male students began referring to him as the “little white man.” Instead of finding this offensive, Born Without a Neck was actually flattered.
One might say that Nurse Verna’s simmering dislike of this pompous little twit reached the boiling point when she saw him strutting down the aisle with his protégées in tow, including that poor wounded Mushilele girl she’d sewn up the night before. That did it; that was the bamboo pole that broke the camel’s back! May the good Lord forgive Nurse Verna for the scene that she was about to make in his house.
Nurse Verna was on her feet just as fast as if she’d been bitten by driver ants. “Stop,” she cried, in a loud and what sounded to her like a terrifying, prophetic voice. “In the name of Yehowa Nzambi, I command thee to stop, Directeur Born Without a Neck!”
Now, a weekday congregation such as this was neatly drawn along two lines: those who were dedicated believers, but who were young and in need of a good laugh; and those who were old, and who were in attendance primarily to seek favors, and in need of a good laugh. The result was that everyone laughed hysterically—that is, everyone except for Directeur Born Without a Neck, and, of course, both Reverend Doyer and Nurse Verna. Even that irascible, motherless cub, the Great Distraction, howled with unbecoming glee.
That was to be expected. However, for that new girl, Miss Julia Newton, to show disrespect to a fellow missionary in front of all the natives—well, even Jesus might have tapped his sandal-shod toes a few times before forgiving that egregious sin. The natives were restless—on the verge of rioting, one might say—and the only
way for the white community to survive was to appear unified at all times.
Fortunately for everyone, Born Without a Neck did stop, causing his girls to pile into each other. “Mamu,” he said, “what is it that the Lord God Jehovah wants of me?”
“You fool,” Nurse Verna snapped. “He does not want you! He wants that girl—the one with the bandage on her leg.”
“Aiyee,” said Born Without a Neck. Strange as it might seem, he could shake his head vigorously from side to side, even through it sat directly atop his body. “God could not possibly want anything with a girl—and certainly not with a Mushilele girl.”
Nurse Doyer would be the first to admit that one’s husband should be the head of the house, just as God intended. And, when it came to preaching, a woman should sit back and do the listening. These things were all written down in the Bible and carved into stone by that bitter little man, the Apostle Paul. But when it came down to the sort of racist bigotry purported by the pigeon-chested little headmaster and his vocal disparagement of the female gender—well, Nurse Doyer’s dander had now been officially raised.
“Yala,” she said, “you are a wonder to behold!”
“I am?” said the clueless headmaster while beaming.
“Surely,” Nurse Doyer said. “Never before have I seen a small stone, such as your head, turn so easily upon a larger stone, such as your body, without there first being an application of thick grease. Tell us, if you will, Headmaster, how such a dense and heavy stone can swivel back and forth so easily? What grease did you first smear on that slab of rock beneath it? Please, if you will, bend forward as if to tie your shoes. We wish to see if the small stone slides off.”
Oh yes, the congregation enjoyed that very much, although Nurse Verna was quite sure that the Lord Jesus did not approve of her mean streak. But it did generate some much needed results. As soon as she’d finished her vicious and very unchristian-like attack on Born Without a Neck, the so-called Reverend Paul Henry Hayes, the father of the Great Distraction, was at her side.
