The Cinnamon Tree

by Aubrey Flegg

  They all talked like that, as if she had no leg, but she could feel it. Let them talk, secretly she knew that her leg was still there. If she believed that it was there hard enough, then it would be. But when the doctors came to work on her, she closed her eyes tight, she could not look, she would not look! Yet the questions came.

  ‘Which leg is it, Mother?’ she whispered for the twentieth time.

  ‘It’s your left, chook.’

  ‘It can’t be Mother, I can still feel it. It feels like it’s there.’ Her mother mopped her forehead.

  ‘The doctor says it will feel like that. He says you were lucky. Your body’s not hurt.’

  Yola noticed that Mother was crying quietly. She took her hand; it was rough with work. A surge of sympathy for that poor, worn hand tipped the balance – it was time for her to look at her leg. But how? There was a sort of basket over the foot of the bed, under the sheet. Probably to keep the weight of the sheet off her. It was no use looking to see how the sheet lay against her legs. She stared at the ceiling, grappling with the problem.

  The fly had recovered from its giddiness and began to work its way up the window to where a small flap was tilted open for ventilation. Yola watched its passage to freedom. She was a prisoner. Was she going to spend the rest of her life staring at the ceiling, too frightened ever to look down at what might not be there? The power came on again and the fan resumed its lazy turning. Someone turned on the lights; night was turning the windows of the lighted ward into mirrors against the dark. The small window at the top was tilted at an angle, the fly had got to it and was walking about on its mirror surface. Yola noticed, looking at the reflection in the glass, that she could see the foot of her bed.

  ‘Mother,’ she whispered, ‘the basket thing over my feet is uncomfortable. Could you take it off for a moment.’

  Eyes tight shut, Yola wondered if she would be able to open her eyes when the moment came. She listened to her mother’s movements as she stood and began to turn back the sheet. For a second, Yola hoped that perhaps Mother wouldn’t bother to move the basket, but no, the basket was off and she could feel the movement of air against her skin. It was now or never.

  She opened her eyes and stared up, gazing at the window, now a mirror above her. What she saw was confusing at first. She could make out her right leg, black against the sheet; she wriggled her foot. Then she looked to where her left leg should be. She thought she could see it, like a ghost, beside the other one. She blinked and the image was gone, leaving just white sheet. There was nothing, no leg at all – she couldn’t understand, surely there was something left!

  Gripping the side of the bed and summoning all her courage, she struggled to move what she still felt to be her left leg. Then at last she could see it! It was swathed in bandages, white against the white sheet, which was why she could not see it before. Bandages covered her thigh right down to where her knee should be. But there the bandages stopped. Like a great, soft, overpowering weight the full calamity of what had happened to her hit Yola.

  She had never been in a taxi before. It bounced and bucketed in and out of the potholes on the way from the hospital and she had to brace herself against the front seat with her crutches to avoid being thrown about. Mother sat in the back, leaning forward and shouting at the driver to be careful. For the last week, Yola had thought of nothing but coming home, imagining this moment, returning to her family, to normality at last. The taxi drew up outside the compound; the engine coughed to a halt and Yola could hear the blare of music coming from inside. There must be a party going on, that was Uncle Banda’s ghetto blaster.

  ‘Mother?’ she began, feeling panicky now, but Mother had bustled in ahead of her. She heard the music stop in mid-beat. That’s it – kill the music, she thought.

  Yola leaned forward on her crutches, but for some reason her leg wouldn’t follow. She tried again, but it just wouldn’t move! It seemed to be rooted to the beaten earth. Nobody come out … don’t look! she willed as she struggled against … what? Suddenly she realised that it was shame. She never felt shame! But this was different – it was shame of her body. In hospital everyone had been sick or injured, their injuries were often a source of pride and each new skill they learned a triumph. But now Yola felt naked. She had liked her body, it was a beautiful, strong body, but now it was spoiled and everyone would see that. She hadn’t even thought to ask Mother to lengthen her dress.

  She turned, she would go back to the hospital, back to where people without legs were normal. The taxi would take her. But where had it gone? It had slipped away and was already halfway down the hill, free-wheeling to save precious petrol.

  At that moment she heard a cough and turned back. Gabbin stood in the compound entrance, standing very straight, with a new herdsman’s spear at his side, a lethal-looking point glinting on the shaft. Someone had painted two white streaks on his cheeks – a boy’s mark. Of course! he was now ten years old, and obviously taking his new status very seriously.

  ‘Gabbin!’ she exclaimed, ‘I’m stuck!’

  She had not seen him since her accident and wanted to hug him, but clearly for him this was some sort of ceremonial occasion. She quenched her grin, lowered her head as she would to someone very senior and made to move towards him. Fortunately, this time her leg obeyed her. With a stiff nod of acknowledgement, Gabbin turned and walked solemnly ahead of her into the compound.

  They advanced slowly across the open space. Yola wondered what on earth was happening but, as is proper, kept the customary three paces behind her man. She glanced up briefly and out of the corners of her eyes saw that the compound was full of people. Why were they here, she wondered, but she focussed her eyes on where Gabbin was leading her.

  In the very centre of the compound, under the great tree that had figured in her dream, sat Father in his robes on his ceremonial chair, his chief’s fly-switch in his right hand. She had forgotten how frightening Father could look on formal occasions. The small noises about the compound died down. A baby cried, but that only added to the sense of quiet. Yola noted the knot of women – the gossips, as she called them – eyeing her closely. There were girls in the hospital who had been thrown out by their families. Perhaps this was how it happened.

  Yola sensed everybody watching her, but tried to concentrate on Father and the two people seated on either side of him. Sister Martha was there on his right; she was headmistress of Yola’s school. The little Irishwoman looked like an alert pink-and-grey parrot on a perch. Why was she here? On Father’s other side sat Senior Mother, hunched like a vulture, eyes darting left and right.

  Suddenly, from among the gossips, came a hoarse whisper, ‘Who’d give a bride-price for that!’

  Senior Mother whipped around with a hiss of disapproval. The comment had not been loud, but Gabbin had heard it. Yola nearly bumped into him – he had stopped rigid, drawing himself up to his full height. Then, as Father leaned forward to rise, Gabbin forestalled him. He took a step and lifted his spear. Senior Mother straightened sharply as Gabbin’s voice rang out through the compound.

  ‘Father,’ said Gabbin, ‘since Yola has lost her leg there are those who say no man will give you the money to make her his bride.’

  Yola heard him – everyone in the compound heard him – his voice was clear and very definite. A movement like a sudden wind swept through the gathering. Everyone had been taken by surprise, not least of all Father, who was caught still in the act of rising. They all knew that Yola’s life was ruined, that no one would give a price for a girl who could not dig, or work, or carry. They knew that her fate now was to grow old as a sort of perpetual aunt in the compound. But this wasn’t the moment to speak or even hint at such things. There was a confused movement; people were uncomfortable. Gabbin must be stopped, but how to do it? A delicious tingle ran down Yola’s back; something very special was happening. Father held up his hand, freezing the movements around the compound.

  ‘Go on, Gabbin.’ Father was now towering above him.
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  In a clear, challenging voice, Gabbin said, ‘Father, when I am old enough, I will marry Yola. She will be my Senior Wife and my other wives will look after her.’

  Yola nearly exploded. She wanted to stop him, and at the same time to hug him; he was breaking every taboo imaginable! Had nobody told him? No boy could marry his first cousin, even as one of many wives. Then there was Sister Martha: she’d be horrified by the suggestion. The Catholic Church took a very serious view of men, even chiefs like Father, who had more than one wife. They had a name for it but she could not remember it. The compound was filled with a stunned silence. Yola was about to move forward when Sister Martha got up and addressed Father.

  ‘Chief Abonda, you have here the perfect little Christian!’ She turned to Gabbin, ‘You wouldn’t see your cousin stuck, would you, little man? I call that noble.’

  Then, to Gabbin’s obvious horror, she swept the terrified boy, spear and all, into her arms. Yola could imagine Gabbin’s face. He’d hardly ever seen a white woman before, let alone been hugged by one. Eventually, Sister Martha released him; he looked shaken for a moment then recovered his dignity manfully. Please don’t anyone laugh, Yola willed. A child clapped, the thin sound of small hands, then someone else took it up, and from there the clapping spread like fire in dry grass. Soon the whole compound was full of it. Not silly clapping, but real grown-up clapping. Gathering his dignity about him, Gabbin did an abrupt about-turn. For a split second, Yola’s eyes met his and suddenly she understood: Gabbin knew that he could never marry her, but he had risked looking foolish in order to give them all a lesson in manners. He wasn’t going to have people muttering against Yola.

  The clapping faded, Yola turned and found that Father was standing in front of her. He looked into her eyes and for a second their minds seemed to touch – yes, she realised, he understood about Gabbin, too.

  ‘People–’ he began but halted. ‘People of our tribe …’

  Suddenly, Yola realised he was fighting against uncontrollable laughter.

  ‘People, look on our daughter, Yola, witness that we welcome her back into our family.’

  At that he could get no further. Like a volcano erupting, he burst into laughter, shaking and mopping his eyes.

  ‘Gabbin,’ he roared, ‘we’ll make a chief of you yet.’

  For a moment, Yola was engulfed in the folds of his robes. ‘Well,’ he chuckled in her ear, ‘not all girls have an offer of marriage at thirteen. You’ll make me rich yet.’

  As he held her, the clapping changed to the happy roar of a party in full swing and, through and above the bellow of the ghetto blaster, Yola heard the shouts and yips of her friends. Father released her. A great weight seemed to lift from her; she threw herself forward on to her crutches and lurched across the compound towards them.

  3

  Sindu Mother

  Being home was so wonderful after her stay at the hospital that Yola managed to bury deep any thoughts about the future. She lived from day to day and never noticed the black clouds of misery gathering until, one morning, she heard Shimima’s voice calling. Yola was standing, hesitant between her crutches, pulled first one way and then the other by the sounds of the morning. This was the time when the women left to work in the fields. But she could not work in the fields; instead she had been left with a mountain of maize to grind.

  ‘Ehhh, ehhh,’ came the call of the women’s voices. ‘Are you going to the fields, sisters?’

  ‘Yes, we are off to the fields so that our husbands can eat.’

  ‘Yes, sisters. But who will you meet in the fields? Will the man of your dreams be hiding in the corn?’

  ‘Quiet, sister! It is not just the corn that has ears.’

  Laughter rippled through the cool morning air. Yola used to scorn these shouted jokes and conversations, called out over long distances as the women’s paths crossed. The same each morning, meaningless ripples of sound and merriment, like pebbles thrown idly into a pool. But now they spoke to her of different things: of the freedom to walk the paths and work the fields and be part of the community of women: all pieces of a life that she, Yola, could no longer have.

  The girl who had been speaking came into sight, a huge earthenware pot balanced on her head. It would have taken two other women to lift that pot on to her head at the well.

  ‘Shimima,’ Yola called, ‘I see you.’ She watched with a pang of jealousy as the girl, with the controlled grace of a giraffe, adjusted her pace and turned towards Yola without a splash from the pot.

  ‘Ho, Yola, I see you. You are welcome back,’ she called. ‘Don’t get into mischief on your own in the compound now.’

  ‘Come and talk to me some day, Shimima,’ Yola called, and she meant it. She’d always liked Shimima, a strong girl, older than she, who’d given up school to get married.

  ‘I will when I haven’t got the town’s water supply on my head,’ the girl called, laughing, beginning her slow turn back to the path.

  ‘Your husband is lucky to have you.’

  ‘I’ll drown the layabout!’ laughed Shimima happily. ‘At least your husband won’t be able to make you carry water for him. Make the most of it. I am walking.’ At that she eased herself into a graceful walk again. Yola watched her go, the huge water pot seeming to float above her head.

  ‘You are walking,’ she called against a growing constriction in her throat. How could Shimima know that the one thing Yola wanted to do – and do right now – was to walk, like her, with a heavy pot of water on her head, away from the compound, away to someplace where there was a husband she could joke about, or to the North Pole, or to anywhere but here!

  A group of children from up the valley passed by on their way to school. Would she ever get to school again? Her hopes had run high when she had seen Sister Martha at her homecoming party, but she knew that she could never manage the two miles to school on her crutches. Would she be stuck inside here forever? She looked around, and her mind turned to troubles closer to home. Trouble with her mothers.

  She surveyed the compound. It was roughly circular, surrounded by a thick thorn hedge, broken on the downhill-side by the main entrance, which was a gap that could be closed at night with a thorn-reinforced gate. When you came into the compound, the first thing you saw was the great tree at its centre, with its welcome pool of shade. To the right of this was a square, mud-brick building with glass windows and an open porch – this was Father’s house, where Senior Mother reigned supreme. When the electricity supply worked, Father had electric light and a television, which he would place on a table in the doorway for football matches; everyone would crowd around the door to watch the game.

  During the day people came to discuss business with Father – he was the chief of the people who lived on the south side of Nopani, also he was a city councillor. Because she was a girl, Yola knew little about his business. She was keen on geography however, and knew all about her country. Nopani was the northernmost town in Kasemba, separated from Murabende, the country to the north, by the Ruri river. There was a bridge connecting Nopani to Murabende, but it was heavily guarded. Until recently, Murabende had supported the rebels, so their two countries had been close to war.

  Father had three wives, each of whom had a hut of her own. First in importance was, of course, Senior Mother. Next came Yola’s mother, who often acted as Father’s secretary as she could speak English and type letters. Then, in a hut that still had fresh new thatch, lived Father’s new wife, Sindu, a girl only a few years older than Yola. Yola grimaced, if Father had wanted a new wife why hadn’t he chosen a nicer one? They’d been fine before she came. Yola suspected that her father chose his new wife to help Sindu’s dad, who owed Father a lot of money. A generous bride-price from Father would cancel the debt. Perhaps Sindu would have preferred a younger husband? Even so, Yola’s idea of a junior wife comprised a friend for her and someone to help Mother and Senior Mother with their work. Instead, from the very first day, Sindu seemed to resent Yola, seeing her as
some sort of rival perhaps. At any rate, she seemed intent on making Yola into her slave while she lorded it around the compound.

  Yola remembered her latest brush with Sindu; she hadn’t really meant to insult her. It was the day of the party and Yola had been doing the rounds, talking and hugging and laughing with her friends; then she came on the ‘Mothers’. These were all the older women and their friends, talking like hens, scratching and clucking over the town gossip as if someone had kicked open an ants’ nest for them. There in the circle was Sindu, licking her dry little lips, trying to look twice her age and picking and scratching with the best. Yola knew she ought to say something polite. Later she told herself that it had been one of Gabbin’s little demons that had got into her. She greeted Senior Mother without mishap.

  ‘Senior Mother, I have returned. Ladies, I see you.’ She bowed and smiled.

  ‘We see you Yola, and are glad to see you back,’ they chanted.

  But it was the way Sindu chanted with them like an old crone that got into Yola and let loose the demon. Damn it! the girl was only a few years older than her. All Yola had said was, ‘Hi, Sindu. How’s the babies?’

  She meant it – really meant it, as she told herself afterwards – as just a little jibe at the way Sindu always chose to mind the babies when there was hard work to be done. But that wasn’t what the demon had in mind. Sindu had no children of her own, no babies, not even a bulge, and this was a cause of great shame to her. The circle of ladies froze, sitting in mid-peck as if mesmerised by a snake that had suddenly slid into their midst. Yola froze too, unable either to speak or move; she had gone too far. Senior Mother, who had been sitting aloof, stirred ominously. If Yola had been younger or had not lost her leg, she was sure she’d have been beaten; but Senior Mother chose reconciliation.

  ‘Do not greet your Mother Sindu with “Hi”, Yola. But I believe you mean well.’ The old woman’s eyes flashed up at Yola; she knew a demon when she saw one. ‘Sindu will be glad of your help with the children now that you are back.’