The Headhunter's Daughter

by Tamar Myers

  One of Pierre’s first official duties had been to arrest the woman on the charge of manslaughter. Public opinion, however—at least amongst the whites—was almost totally on her side. The ant invasion constituted an act of God; how dare he arrest the poor distraught mother? Even the magistrate took pity on her and threw the case out of court.

  “Pierre,” Amanda said, bringing him back to the present, “That was very rude of me to laugh. I do so apologize. Believe me; your English is a thousand times better than my French.”

  He feigned surprise. “Who knew that such a beautiful woman as you could tell a lie?” But it was true; the American spoke passable Tshiluba, but her French accent grated on his ears. The problem was that she simply refused to turn control of her mouth over to the learning process.

  Over the years Pierre had observed many whites attempt to master a variety of languages upon their arrival in the Congo. The only ones who succeeded in mastering an accent were those who gave in to the notion that making a fool of themselves was all part of the fun. It was only by surrendering their entire mouth to the process that they were able to capture the native sound they so desired.

  At any rate, it was thanks to Pierre’s sharp hearing that he managed to locate the column of driver ants before he and Amanda got so close that they risked being bitten by scout ants. These patrol ants strayed well to the side of the advancing column, informing the main body of danger, if need be. Should the ants encounter a roadblock, such as a stream, the lead ants would secure themselves to a branch or root on the bank, and then those next in line would latch on to the lead ants, etc. Eventually, a living bridge would form. In short, nothing could stop a driver-ant migration.

  “Mademoiselle, please observe,” Pierre said. He heaved the bloody section of elephant hide into the middle of the column.

  The American gasped, as Pierre knew she would, for immediately the heavy chunk of flesh-covered hide began to move. Taking care not to encounter any of the scout ants, Pierre squatted and cleaned his hands by rubbing them with soil. By the time he stood, the hide had already traveled several meters.

  “I will give the luhumbe another five minutes to do their job,” he said. “By then the skin will be clean enough for tanning.”

  The American nodded, wide-eyed.

  Chapter Five

  The people that Cripple had spotted approaching from a distance were Bapende—a tribe whose members filed their teeth to points and wore mud piled in their hair. They claimed to have smelled the blood of the elephant all the way from their village, which was two miles hence. And since the elephant had been killed on their land—or so they claimed—the meat belonged to them.

  Pierre was very glad to share some of the meat with them, and of course, to leave them with the carcass, but that was a moot point since the ants had most definitely smelled the elephant kill as well. It was Pierre’s men who had been doing all the hard work of butchering who were loathe to part with any of the meat—especially since they were of the Baluba tribe and found the Bapende particularly backward.

  “But Captain Jardin,” Private Gaspar said, “these people are savages whose ancestors ate humans just a generation ago. Should they not be taught the value of hard work?”

  “You are exactly right,” Pierre said in French, for he suspected that the Bapende standing before them probably could not speak French. “But we are vastly outnumbered, no?”

  “Oui, Monsieur le Capitain, but we have guns, whereas these savages have only bows and arrows.”

  “Again, you are right. But suppose we should get a flat tire one kilometer up the road? Then what? And remember, we must also return this way. Do you want to risk the possibility of an ambush from behind every hill, from out of every gully?”

  Private Gaspar shook his head as he muttered something unintelligible. At the same time his eyes, along with the rest of his body language, let it be known that every kilo of elephant meat taken off the truck and transferred to the outstretched wicker baskets held by the half-naked Bapende women was a kilo of meat not destined for a Muluba mouth.

  “Tribal politics,” said Pierre, still speaking French. “It’s the one thing that will keep this country from ever succeeding.”

  “Mukelenge Capitain,” Cripple said in Tshiluba, for she knew that Pierre was fluent in her language, “I can no longer be expected to ride in the back of this truck.”

  “Why is that, Baba?”

  “Because the stink of this elephant meat is overpowering. Besides, there is no place for me to sit except for on top of the meat, and it is still warm with the pulse of life.”

  “Ah, but my men have spread some heavy mats over the meat. Look, they are quite content to sit up there, for they have a better view, nasha? Perhaps they will even spot another elephant.”

  Cripple felt the vein on her left temple twitch. “Mukelenge, I am not one of your men; I am the first wife of a Muluba witch doctor. And I am Cripple, hero to all the Congolese people.”

  The white man smiled. “Is that so, Baba?”

  Now Cripple was thoroughly annoyed. “Eyoa, Bula Matadi,” she said. Yes, Rock Breaker. It was meant as an insult, and thus was taken as such.

  The young Belgian ignored the fact that Cripple, along with just about everyone else in the Kasai mispronounced the name Bula Matari, because their languages lacked an equivalent for the letter R.

  “Baba,” he said, no longer smiling, “some say that the name Bula Matadi was given to us because of our character—we are strong like rocks. Others say it is because we force you to break rocks for us with which to build our roads. What is your opinion?”

  Anyone who really knew Cripple knew that she needed no time in which to form an opinion. “It is my opinion that you have forgotten that just makelela—yesterday—I was carried on the shoulders of men from many different tribes as they demanded our independence. That is why I am a hero.”

  The Belgian had the temerity to shake his head. “You are not a hero, Cripple; you are a mascot. Nevertheless, you must ride in back.”

  “Then I will walk.”

  Both of the soldiers had been listening intently to this shocking exchange of words between the Bula Matadi and a simple tribal woman. Now they laughed nervously, as was the custom. Even the white mamu made sounds that indicated surprise and dismay.

  “Cripple, you cannot mean that,” the white mamu said. “It is too far to walk home, and you cannot possibly consider continuing on your own to some strange Bashilele village. Not with that big head of yours.”

  Cripple regarded her employer gravely. “Mamu, do you joke?”

  “That depends.”

  “It is best not to,” Cripple said.

  “Then I do not joke now,” the white mamu said. “But I am telling you that walking is out of the question.”

  As fond as Cripple was of the young American, she could not tolerate being told what she could, or could not, do. “Mamu, I am not a child, or a possession,” she said. “If I wish to walk, then I will.”

  “But Cripple,” the white mamu said, “it will be dark before you get home. It is possible that you will encounter leopards, snakes, maybe even lions—right here in the road.” The white mamu turned to the Belgian. “Is this not true, Bula Matadi?”

  The captain laughed. “Not you too, mademoiselle. Although you are quite correct about the animals. Did you mention hyenas?”

  “Aiyee,” Cripple said. “I am especially afraid of hyenas, for they are said to tear one apart piece by piece, and make of one a living death—but yet I prefer to walk.”

  “You see? She is indeed a hero,” Private Gaspar said. There was not a shred of mockery in his voice.

  “Eyo,” his companion said. “She makes me proud to be a Muluba.”

  “What nonsense,” the white mamu said. “Captain, why is it that Cripple cannot sit in front, when there is yet room? Look at her. She is no larger than a scrawny Lulua chicken.”

  Cripple clapped her hands with delight. Now this was the mamu
that she admired. The captain, however, was not at all pleased with the course that the conversation had taken. One could see it in his face, even if he did not shout as Cripple had hoped he would.

  That was the trouble with whites; they were so unpredictable. Just when you were hoping for some good entertainment, they sucked their emotions back in like turtles withdrawing their heads.

  “Mademoiselle,” Captain Jardin said, “this is quite enough. Apparently you have still not been in the Congo long enough to know the way things are.”

  “Oh,” Amanda said, “I am quite familiar with the way things are, Captain Jardin; they are that way in America as well. But who is to say that they must stay that way?”

  Cripple held her breath. Never had she heard such shocking words, and that they should be spoken by a woman, no less! Now that alone was worth the stench of the elephant meat—well, at least from this distance. Surely the captain would lose his temper now!

  The captain turned kunzubile—which is the color of a baby’s gums. “This is not America,” he said, but still he did not raise his voice. “We whites are vastly outnumbered here. If I give in and put one African up front in the cab, then another will demand to ride up here, and then another, and then where will it stop?”

  Amanda put her hands on her hips, a hostile gesture in Cripple’s eyes. “You can explain to them, Captain, that it was a one-time special occasion. You were carrying a load of elephant meat and had a woman passenger with no place else to sit.”

  It was then that the captain raised his voice. Alas, he switched to another language—possibly the one called English, as Cripple was no longer able to understand him.

  Had the nosy, but very clever, Muluba woman been able to understand the conversation, she would have heard the following: “You are ignorant of Congo customs, Mademoiselle Amanda Brown. Here, it is not the women who get special treatment, but the highest-ranking men. Congolese women must make do the best that they can with the scraps of life. If I were to put your assistant housekeeper up front with me and leave both of my soldiers in back, I would risk the possibility of a mutiny.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Amanda, I have lived among these people my entire life—with the exception of my university years, which were spent in Brussels. Please believe me when I tell you that I know these people.”

  More is the pity that the heroine of her people did not understand this very rational explanation. At least she had made her point, but in the end she really was deathly afraid of hyenas, so she sat in the back of the truck, atop the still warm elephant flesh with its rank smell. The hatred that brewed in her heart was toward some amorphous Belgian who had made the rules many years ago, and not toward Captain Jardin, who deep down she knew to be a good and honorable man.

  * * *

  It was Iron Sliver who first relayed the terrifying news: Bula Matadi were coming with soldiers. Never in the memory-story of any living person had a white man set foot in the village. And not only that, Iron Sliver said, but one of the white men appeared as if he might also be a woman—although that detail had yet to be confirmed. Oh, and they were bringing with them elephant meat.

  “Where shall we hide?” asked Mother. “Shall we hide in shadows of the forest by the spring, or submerge ourselves in the swamp where the shindwah plants grow?”

  “I will not hide,” Iron Sliver said. “I am no longer such a young woman; my cycles have dried up and my breasts hang down to my waist cord, yet I have never seen a white man. Although I have heard that they are hideous to look upon, I think that it would be very foolish of me to pass up this opportunity.”

  “Tch, watch what you say, Iron Sliver, for you have indeed seen a white person!”

  “Friend, now you waste your own time with this bit of foolishness; you know that I have never been away from this unfortunate village.”

  “Iron Sliver, have you forgotten that Headhunter’s Daughter is a white?”

  Iron Sliver froze for a second. Then her eyes widened.

  “You are sure of this?”

  “It has been confirmed.”

  “Aiyee!”

  The two women had been standing in the open, just outside the Headhunter’s hut. It should not have surprised either of them then when the Headhunter, who was inside the hut taking his afternoon nap, stepped outside to join them. Nonetheless the women were startled, and they shrieked; predictably, Iron Sliver was the louder of the two. The Headhunter quickly put an end to her theatrics and asked her to repeat what she’d said about some approaching Bula Matadi.

  Iron Sliver told him everything she knew, which is what she had heard from the arrowsmith’s wife, who had learned it from her husband, whose job it was this day to keep watch on the trail. Unfortunately, the arrowsmith had, as of late, been plagued with hemorrhoids. When he went to relieve himself he became the victim of a particularly painful and uncooperative bowl movement, and thus was absent from his post for far longer than he might otherwise have been. But when he spotted the approaching party of foreigners, he did his best to run all the way back.

  The Headhunter reached for his bow. “Why has the alarm not been sounded?” he demanded. “And where is our daughter?”

  “As you know, all the able-bodied men except for you and the arrowsmith have gone on a hunting trip—now that the grass is short—”

  “Shut up, Iron Sliver! Please. Again, Wife, I ask you, where is the girl?”

  “They are braiding hair, Husband, in the hut of Broken Jaw. We shall all run into the forest if that is your wish.”

  What was his wish? With the chief gone, it was the Headhunter’s job to make decisions for the village, for he was the elder brother of the chief’s senior wife. Over the years many problems had presented themselves in the chief’s absence, but never anything as unsettling as this. At the same time, what at first appeared to be a problem could well be a gift from his son in the spirit world, could it not?

  With his dying breath Born-With-Cord-Around-His-Neck had brought them a Bula Matadi infant. At first there had been much fear in the village, and rightly so, that there would be reprisals for this incomprehensible act. But when none came, and the child flourished, it was easy to pretend—if not believe—that she was a gift from the spirit world. The Headhunter’s Daughter—her name was really Ugly Eyes, for they were disgustingly pale—was liked by everyone. Likewise, she astounded everyone in that she was able to learn their difficult tongue—something the neighboring tribes said that they could not.

  But as much as the girl acted as a proper Mushilele, and for all the talk of marrying her off for a nice fat dowry, sadly the Headhunter realized that his daughter’s path was not going to be an easy one. The call of the blood was not something that could be overcome with incantations and charms.

  One could cull eggs from a wild guinea fowl’s nest and set them under a hen. The hen would raise the chicks as her own and all would be well until a flock of wild guinea approached too near the village crying “ca-ca-ca-ca-ca” and in that moment their brethren, though raised like chickens, would abandon their mother for the forest. The same thing could also be said of slaves— including the chief—who could never truly be trusted to act entirely on their own.

  Perhaps it was thus for the young of a Bula Matadi. How could it not be so? Sadly, the Headhunter recalled how visiting Bashilele sometimes reacted when encountering Ugly Eyes for the first time. Old women often screamed and reared back, as if they sought to protect themselves from devils, and little children usually screamed and soiled themselves. The worst reactions came from people of intermediate ages, for their response was laughter, and crude comments, which cut Ugly Eyes to the core.

  Now after all these years, the sudden appearance of Bula Matadi, just before the age of bleeding—well, surely it was proof that Ugly Eyes’ time amongst the Bashilele had come to an end. For there was no such thing as a coincidence in Bashilele culture; in fact, the word did not even exist. The Headhunter had heard of this strange concept from ano
ther Mushilele who had been to the outside world and had heard about it from a missionary. Apparently, the whites ascribed many things they could not explain to this category rather than try to understand them. It never failed to amaze the Headhunter how such a primitive and ignorant people had managed to subjugate his own.

  “Husband,” Wife said again, but with a great deal of urgency this time, for she could hear the keening as the visitors reached the outer tier of huts, “what is your wish?”

  “We wait here and do nothing. But you, Iron Sliver, will run to the hut of Broken Jaw and fetch my daughter.”

  Amanda realized that she was experiencing a rare privilege. According to Dorcas’s students this was the first time that white people had ever stepped foot in this particular Bashilele village. Ever. It was hard to say what impressed her the most.

  First, there was the fact that the village was laid out in the shape of a spiral, which radiated out from a pair of trees known as the Trees of Life. These sacred trees had been planted over two skulls—one taken from a man, one from a woman—both harvested from a tribe other than the Bashilele. Their trunks were smooth like that of crape myrtle, and their oval leaves were the color of cooked spinach and roughly the size of a tablespoon. In the branches of the trees lived the spirits that protected the village.

  The huts closest to the center were occupied by the chief and his wives—in this case thirteen wives—each with her own hut; then the witch doctor, and senior council members such as the Headhunter; and then so on, until the occupants of the very outer ring might be slaves, or recent arrivals from other Bashilele villages.

  All the huts were rectangular, with exactly four walls, and each had a door but no windows. The door was set about a foot above the hard-packed ground as protection against snakes. The roofs were all pitched A-frames. The materials used on both walls and roofs were woven mats tied to pole frames. The mats were woven from the fibers of the raffia palm (Raphia hookeri) which grows in the swamps and along the streams that wind among the grassy hills of Bashilele country.