The Star of Simbako

by PJ Skinner

  ‘Those belong to her sister. She took the wrong bag. It’s a long story.’

  Fatimata harrumphed and moved in her chair so that her back faced him.

  ‘Fatou, please, the girl will die. She doesn't deserve to die just because you are jealous.’

  ‘I need a message from the spirits. They have not spoken. I will not go.’

  Fergus stood up and walked out to the veranda. He was livid, but he did not want her to see it. What would make her see sense?

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ said Ned. ‘Why don’t we rescue Sam from the bondo hut?’

  ‘We can’t. They will stop us and kill us too. We are dealing with deep cultural roots here.’

  ‘Fatimata is a hypocrite. She goes to church. She doesn’t even believe in all that voodoo nonsense.’

  ‘I’m working on it. Stay out of it. You can’t help.’

  Inside the house, Fatimata wolfed down a plate of shortbread. Dembo pulled himself up the curtains with his beak and claws and dropped onto the table. He walked to the plate and put his head to one side, pleading. Fatimata almost smiled, but she stayed where she was with the last biscuit between her fingers halfway to her enormous mouth. Dembo’s head followed the biscuit which she waved in front of him, just out of reach. He tried to grab the morsel with his beak, but she lifted it to her mouth again, provoking panic in the parrot who jumped up and down flapping his wings in distress. He squawked in frustration and then, as clear as a bell, said, ‘Sam’s the boss, Sam’s the boss.’

  Fergus, who had been smoking outside to compose himself, burst back into the room. ‘What did he say?’ he said, astonished.

  ‘Sam’s the boss, Sam’s the boss, Sam’s the boss,’ said Dembo, desperate for his biscuit.

  Fatimata’s eyes bulged out of her head in fright. She dropped the biscuit onto the plate and Dembo pounced on it. He bounced off the table and scampered away with it.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ she said. ‘I won’t do it. I won’t.’ She pushed her chair backwards and it creaked ominously. Fergus put out a hand to steady her, but she brushed it away.

  Suddenly, a splintering sound filled the room and before anyone could move, there was a loud crack. The ceiling fan crashed onto the table inches from her face, collapsing it onto the floor.

  Dembo screeched in terror and fell over himself trying to get away, ending up in a heap of dust and feathers at Fergus’ feet.

  In the moment of silence that followed, big lumps of plaster fell into Fatimata’s lap, but she did not move. She sat petrified like a pillar of salt in the face of the gods.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ said Ned, jumping out of the hammock.

  ‘Fatou’s spirits just gave her a sign,’ said Fergus.

  ***

  Sam woke with a start. She had been shivering in her sleep and tried to curl up, forgetting she was tied up. One of her hands jerked free and hit the wall giving her a fright. Hardly daring to look, she opened her eyes and peered at her hand. She couldn't see well, but the string had been cut and hung from her wrist. Relief flooded her body. Someone must have sneaked in to her room while she slept and freed her hand. Despite the majority deciding to leave her captive, one girl must have decided that she was a witch after all and was not willing to risk her wrath.

  She pulled at the string binding her other arm to the bed. Her fingers felt like bananas on the tight knot. She didn't have any nails to speak of and the string kept slipping through her sweaty digits. Finally, she got a good grip and pulled the knot apart.

  She fell back on the mattress, gasping with the effort. Come on, you must get out. They may be back at any minute. She forced herself to sit up. Some white paint had flaked off her body and she looked like a dappled pony. She leant forward and shuffling nearer her knees, she pulled at the knots around her ankles. The skin felt chaffed and sore. She winced as she pulled the string free of her legs, but it was a relief to move again.

  She swung her feet onto the floor and searched around for her clothes, spotting her trousers and T-shirt in the corner. The pockets had been opened and her penknife and the cigarette packet with the juju bag had gone. She pulled the trousers on, surprised at how loose they were. The T-shirt was stuck under the leg of the bed and she had to tug hard to free it. She turned it right side out and pushed her arms into the sleeves. Dizzy and shivery, she wanted to go back to sleep, but every moment she spent in the bondo hut increased the danger. She took a deep breath and opened the door to her room.

  Sam stepped outside the bondo and tried to remember how to get back to the river. Sweat ran down her back and her eyes wouldn’t focus.

  She saw two fish on the boards in front of her. Cautiously, she tested them with a toe. Flip-flops!

  She slipped them on. They were too small and her heels hung over the back, but they were better than nothing. Her clothes were catching the white paint on her skin and she resisted the urge to rub some of it off. She wiped the sweat off her face with her filthy T-shirt and peered into the trees. They were a funny shape, short and round. They had no leaves. Was it winter?

  Confused and disorientated, she wobbled her way down the short staircase and stood swaying at the bottom. One tree moved towards her with its branches out. She shrank backwards and tripped over a root. A violent shiver overcame her. She needed to leave, but her legs would not function. Had she been drugged? And then she remembered the mosquito bites. Malaria! If she didn’t escape, she would die. She almost wailed. Screwing her eyes up, she tried to spot the path she had used to get to the bondo. But the trees were blocking it. She wavered uncertainly. The trees seemed to surround her, their branches closing in as she whimpered. Her legs would not hold her and she crumpled to the ground.

  ***

  The light was fading when Ned and Fergus arrived at the entrance to the forest, bringing their reluctant passenger. Fatimata sat like a stone in the back seat, showing no inclination to get out. She had dressed herself all in white. Underneath the white turban that swathed her head, she had put streaks of white paste on her cheeks. They sat in silence, waiting her out. Long shadows reached out to their car as if trying to pull it in to the gloom. Fatimata sighed, filling the car with resentment. Finally, she pushed the door open and stepped out onto the hard-baked mud. Hesitating, she glanced at Fergus for reassurance.

  ‘The gods have spoken, Fatou. Go get our girl,’ he said.

  She pulled her robes about her, walked away from the car and entered the forest. Her rolling gait took her into the trees where she hovered for a while as a white blob and then disappeared. It looked as if the Michelin man had gone for a late evening stroll in the woods.

  'Will she arrive at the bondo in time?’ said Ned.

  ‘Of course. Sam will be fine, you’ll see.’

  ‘Bloody stupid superstitions.’

  ***

  Many hands were touching her like clumsy moths bumping into a light bulb. They painted her again. The cool liquid on her burning body gave her some relief, but when it dried, it tightened hot on the skin. They pulled her arms away from her body and tied her wrists with string to the struts of the table. She was too weak to struggle. She wasn’t even convinced this was really happening. Malaria had taken over her brain and her confusion was absolute.

  Suddenly, the women drew back from the table, leaving the head sowei standing at her feet. She had the box cutter in her hands. The other women stamped and clapped, shaking the bondo to its foundations. They chanted and sang. Sam shut her eyes, letting the sound rattle her bones. The woman with the box cutter held up her hand for silence. The other women came forward again and pressed her to the table. An awful memory pierced her blurred consciousness and she struggled. As her fear increased, she could hear a strange keening noise filling the room. Someone put their hand over her mouth and it stopped. The sowei approached the table. Her knees were forced apart and she bit the hand holding her mouth, screaming with fear and fury. The sowei took out her knife. The women
held Sam down.

  ***

  Fatimata had pushed her way through the forest, cutting corners on the path, increasing her pace as darkness fell. Her heart was thundering. Unused to exertion, she was desperate to rest. She slowed down, gasping for breath. A strange wailing noise floated through the trees. Was she too late?

  Picking up the pace again, she almost ran now, losing a shoe, but not stopping to pick it up. The lights of the bondo shone through the undergrowth. There was a chilling silence. She burst through the trees into the clearing and ran up the steps. She took a lungful of air.

  The door of the bondo burst open and slammed against the wall. A piece of bark fell to the floor. The group of sowei stood open-mouthed and they backed away from the entrance. The head sowei still had the blade in the air. She hardly had time to turn around before she was swept aside by Fatimata’s enormous arm. She hit the ground hard and the other women went to her assistance.

  ‘Untie her!’ said Fatimata.

  ‘How dare you come to the bondo? You’re unclean. Leave now!’ The head sowei, still being supported by her fellows, had recovered her poise.

  ‘I will not. Have you forgotten that I saved all of you when the rebels came?’ Fatimata glared at the other women who avoided her eyes. ‘Why am I unclean? I am a hero, not an outcast.'

  ‘The gods decide who is permitted in the bondo, not you. You’re defiling our culture.’

  ‘Ha! You call this culture? Murdering an ignorant stranger?’

  ‘She brought a death fetish into the bondo.’

  ‘No, she didn’t. Not on purpose.’ Fatimata sighed. ‘I planted it in her room. She doesn’t know what it is.’

  ‘If she’s ignorant, why were you trying to kill her?’

  ‘Because I’m ignorant too. I was jealous of her. I wanted her out of the way because I thought my boss fancied her and not me.’

  The head sowei tutted.

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘The only person Mr Fergus fancies is himself.’

  ‘This is all about your hurt feelings?’

  ‘Yes. I’m an idiot. I admit it. But you can’t blame Sam for that. You must let her go.’

  ‘What about the bondo? Where will we purify the young women?’

  ‘We can burn the bondo to the ground and that will purify it. We don’t have to kill the foreigner. The fetish has no power in here.’

  ‘Let us consider it.’

  The sowei grouped together in a corner of the hut and there was some heated muttering. Fatimata walked up to the end of the table, holding Sam’s head. She stretched out a hand to wipe the hair off her face. Jumping backwards, she faced the group again.

  ‘Holy Jesus!’ she shouted. ‘The girl is burning up. You will kill her anyway. Let me remove her, for God’s sake.’

  The head sowei turned to face Fatimata. She was shaking with anger and her face was a picture of conflicting emotions.

  ‘Take her.’

  ***

  Fergus leaned against the car, looking up at the sky. Scattered stars twinkled in the deepening blue. He lit a cigarette to give him something to do and blew the smoke into the clouds of mosquitoes that hung in the warm early evening air. Ned sat in the car his head lowered to the dashboard.

  ‘We’re too late,’ he said.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘She’s been missing for days. If she has malaria, it will kill her.’

  ‘Don’t say that. She’ll be alright, she’s strong.’

  Ned sighed. ‘Your glass is always half-full.’

  ‘Hope is what you have when there is nothing else left.’

  ‘You’re such a corny idiot.’

  They turned towards the forest. As if on cue, a large white shape loomed into view through the trees, staggering under the weight of its burden. Fergus ran towards it. Ned started the jeep and drove to the edge of the trees, overtaking Fergus who waved him on. Fatimata emerged from the gloom. She was carrying a limp body.

  Before Ned could leave the car, Fergus had caught up and rushed over to Fatimata.

  ‘Is she alive?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ muttered Sam, who would not speak again for days. ‘I’m alive, but why am I floating?’

  ***

  Someone had tried to darken the room by pulling flimsy curtains across the window, but rays of light shot across the room and illuminated the whitewash. The doctor finished his examination of Sam as she lay on her back with her lank hair spread over the pillow. She was porcelain white. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. A tube was attached to her arm which led back to a bottle of saline hanging on an ancient rusty holder.

  Ned and Fergus stood out on the veranda while the doctor examined Sam. Fatimata, who had hardly left Sam’s side, had taken the chance to go for a quick shower. Now she was clattering about in the kitchen ‘murdering the pots and pans,’ as Ned put it. Fergus blew a long row of cigarette rings into the still air.

  ‘My wife’s arriving tomorrow. I need to go to Njahili today,’ said Ned.

  ‘Okay. You must take the bus. I need the car in case we have to take Sam to the hospital there,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Why don’t I take her now?’

  ‘She’s too fragile. She won’t survive the journey.’

  The doctor came out of Sam’s room and joined them on the veranda.

  ‘He’s right. Moving her would be dangerous and she has everything she needs right here. Fatimata is an excellent nurse.’

  ‘Will she live?’ said Ned.

  ‘I can’t tell yet,’ said the doctor. ‘It looks as if she’s had full-blown malaria for a few days now. I’m not sure how she’s lasted this long. She has the constitution of an elephant.’

  ‘Are you saying she might die?’ said Fergus.

  ‘I’m afraid so. It’s in the lap of the gods. I’ll be back later to check on her. Keep changing the drip. I have left several full bags in the fridge.’

  ‘Thank you, doc.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you a better prognosis. See you then.’

  The doctor shook hands with them and got into his car. Fatimata, who hovered at the door, came outside.

  ‘She can’t die, Mr Fergus. I won’t let her. The witch doctor has made her a very strong fetish. She will live.’

  ‘Thank you, Fatou. Any chance of some lunch?’

  ‘It will be ready soon,’ she said and drifted back indoors.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Ned. ‘Hasn’t she done enough damage with her voodoo? Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘The fetish will have cost her a great deal. It is not only Sam who needs healing. Leave her alone. She’s doing her best.’

  ‘I don’t understand you. Sometimes I think you are native to Simbako and your freckles are your true colour poking out.’

  Fergus laughed. ‘You sound bitter, Neddy. You need to see your wife.’

  When Ned had left for the bus yard, Fergus went into Sam’s bedroom to find Fatimata swaying with fatigue on a chair beside the bed. She glanced up as Fergus came in. Her eyes had a defeated expression and there were tear tracks on her plump cheeks.

  ‘Oh, Mr Fergus. I’ve killed her. God will punish me.’

  Fergus gazed at Sam lying on the bed with her chest rising and falling, a veneer of sweat on her face.

  ‘No, you saved her. He’ll reward you.’

  She gave him a weak smile.

  ‘Get some rest right now. That’s an order. You mustn’t wear yourself out.’

  ‘What about Sam?’

  ‘I’m here now.’

  To his surprise, she nodded and stood up. The chair creaked in protest or relief. She glided out, her bottom hitting both sides of the doorframe on the way out, making the whole room shudder.

  Fergus was left standing beside Sam’s bed. Her pale face emphasised her small red lips and green eyes. She was there, but not there. The fire in her eyes had almost gone out. He felt dis
tressed and impotent.

  Now he was alone with her, hidden feelings overwhelmed him. He pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat facing her. An odd sensation passed through his chest and he swallowed hard. A tear ran down his cheek which he brushed violently away. He leaned in close to her and whispered in her ear.

  ‘Please don’t die, Sam. Please.’

  He wept uncontrollably, his head buried in the sheets. He stayed like that for a few minutes until the storm passed. His reaction had shocked him. From where had this surge of emotion come? It was real.

  Suddenly, he felt a touch on his fingers like a mouse had run across his hand. He was startled to see Sam with the slightest smile on her lips. She said something in a hoarse voice.

  ‘I didn’t hear you. Say it again,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Shorts,’ said Sam.

  Chapter XVI

  Sam did not die, but her recovery took a long time. She lay in her bed sweating, tossing and turning, while her body fought the malaria. Fergus and Fatimata took turns watching her and feeding her. Fatimata kept her clean and changed her linen once day. She treated Sam like a new born. Fatimata stripped and made the bed with the help of Fergus who lifted Sam in the air.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fergus. It’s much easier,’ said Fatimata.

  ‘She’s so thin,’ he said. ‘It’s shocking.’

  ‘That’s the fever. We’ll make her fat when she is better. Like a good Fona girl.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  They both left the room, carrying the dirty sheets and various items of cutlery and some glasses to the kitchen.

  The door was only ajar for a minute, but Sam had a visitor. Dembo the parrot sidled into the room and climbed up the bedframe above Sam’s head where he preened himself. When this produced no reaction from Sam who was dozing between her clean sheets, he jumped down onto the pillow and pulled her hair with his beak. She opened her eyes.

  ‘Sam’s the boss,’ squawked Dembo.

  Her eyes opened wide.

  ‘Sam, Sam, Sam.’

  She laughed, almost gurgling.

  Fergus, who had returned to pick up the rest of the used things, stood in the doorway, open-mouthed in amazement.