The Headhunter's Daughter

by Tamar Myers

  Amanda tapped her water glass with her bread knife. The clear sound elicited a muffled yelp from the “rescued girl,” the one who had yet to be given a proper name.

  “You may be excused,” she said with a smile. “Dinner will be served at noon. I hope to see most of you then.”

  “Good heavens, dear,” Dorcas said, laying a hand protectively on Amanda’s arm, “you may be seeing quite a few people before then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dorcas stood and pointed in the direction of the bridge that spanned the great falls. A caravan of cars was patiently wending its way through the walking traffic, which at any time of the day consisted of dozens of natives. Wow! There was no end to that line of cars. Literally. It went all the way up to Boulevard des Allies, and then branched out in both directions. Everyone in Belle Vue must be on their way to someplace important. But where? Were they fleeing from some danger?

  “Pierre,” Amanda said, her voice quavering. “What is going on?”

  “Damn it,” Pierre said. “Pardonnez moi, mesdames,” he said, bowing quickly to each woman in turn. “They’re coming here, I’m afraid. Quick, we must get the girl inside.”

  “Here? But why?”

  “I know,” Peaches said triumphantly. “They wanta get a good look at her, that’s why.”

  “That is exactly the case, mademoiselle,” the OP said. “You are very perceptive for one who is such a—how do you say—?”

  “Hey watch it, buddy,” Mr. Gorman said.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” Peaches said.

  The OP flushed. “I agree with the captain; we must get that girl inside.”

  “How?” Amanda asked. She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Cripple! Cripple. Eleh kahia! ” Put a fire under it!

  Was it possible that the white Mushilele giggled? Amanda shook her head. Just four months ago, back in Rock Hill, she never would have believed such a scene was possible. Ah, and there was Cripple now, brandishing a stick, for heaven’s sake. A stick! As if she’d been summoned to herd chickens.

  “Ya,” Cripple sang out, as she whipped the Mushilele girl lightly about the ankles, “go into the house quickly before you embarrass the new mamu with your unsightly presence.”

  Much to Amanda’s relief the girl did seem to get the picture, but she walked slowly—practically dragging her feet—all the while muttering something in rapid-fire Bushilele.

  “Cripple,” Amanda asked, “do you have any idea what she is saying?”

  “Mamu, as I told you before, I do not speak the speech of monkeys.”

  “Cripple! That was not a nice—”

  “Eyo, Mamu, I should not have spoken with such frankness in front of the bakalenge—the lords.”

  “Ooh!” Amanda said in frustration. “Hurry up. Just get her inside!”

  “Come along then, monkey girl,” Cripple said to the Headhunter’s daughter. With a flick of her switch she actually managed to eleh kaphia under the feet of her young white charge.

  Amanda watched in growing relief. It was plumb amazing. Either serendipity had stepped in, or Cripple had found her calling; that of playing the part of keeper to a kidnapper’s victim.

  Or was that even the case? Pierre had been unwilling to commit to that theory. There wasn’t enough to go on, he said. In fact, there really wasn’t anything. A white child—a young woman really—of definite European heritage—is found tucked away in a remote village deep in the African bush. Virtually no one speaks the language. Officially what can be made of it? Which conclusions can be drawn? Nothing! None! The girl might just as well have come from the moon.

  Amanda felt a hand at her elbow and turned. It was the OP.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said gently, almost fatherly, “perhaps you should go inside now as well. Allow me please to deal with these inquisitive people.”

  Amanda smiled and nodded. Een-queez-ee-teev. The OP could be charming—gallant even—when he wasn’t being stubborn, bordering on ruthless, in his quest to overturn the mission’s lease on their sixty hectares of prime real estate along the Kasai River. But that was another issue entirely, wasn’t it? Yes, that would have to wait.

  * * *

  Bulelela. It was indeed true that Husband was only a mediocre witch doctor. How could he deny such accusations when there were other medicine men in the village that were far more powerful than he? Why should anyone pay for a curse that had only a small chance of affecting its intended victim? Of what use was a potion that brought no relief to a body wracked with pain?

  There can be no denial that Husband’s father, and his father before him, were both witch doctors of great stature amongst the Baluba people. It was common knowledge that the special powers a witch doctor possessed were passed down through the generations. Of course, the witch doctor was also required to apprentice, during which time he would learn the many incantations required by his office, and also familiarize himself with a vast quantity of herbs and roots.

  Kadi—but—when he was a boy just ten long dry seasons in age, Husband’s quick mind discovered the power of the witch doctor. By observing his father interact with his clients, Husband saw that it was only the people who truly believed in his father’s words, or the potions he sold, who were affected by them.

  How did most people come to believe in such things? They believed because it was always thus and because the witch doctors projected such frightening images when they danced in their straw-and-palm-fiber costumes, their faces hidden behind wooden masks surrounded by enormous headdresses.

  There was power in these dances; one could feel it. There was power in the strange gravelly utterances that were emitted from behind those masks. But the power, Husband observed, was something his father created. When his father was not dancing, the costume and mask hung lifeless from pegs in the potion hut next to the dovecote. Bulelela, the same words, the same potions—these things were virtually useless in the hands of skeptics.

  This partnership of salesmanship/belief, Husband soon learned, was the ingredient necessary in any witch doctor–patient (or client, as the case may be) relationship. Unfortunately, Husband had been born happy, with no wish to deceive anyone. In fact, his mother had wished to call him Mumuemue, because he’d been born with a smile on his face, but that was not an appropriate name for a future witch doctor. (Instead he was called Tshibungu, which is a type of dried gourd used in divining.)

  One might rightfully ask what an unemployed, mediocre witch doctor does during the day in a workers’ village. The answer is nothing out of the ordinary. When he is through with his breakfast and has seen his two wives off to work—Cripple down the hill to the Rest House, and Second Wife off to work in the fields, her children in tow—Husband takes Amanda, the youngest child, and meanders over to the palaver hut. There Husband selects whichever chair seems most likely to remain in the shade the greatest part of the day, and settles in to spend the day snoozing and occasionally participating in the art of male storytelling. This is all that is expected of him; in fact, to do otherwise would be considered strange, and Husband already has been accused of enough strange behavior.

  On this morning Husband carried baby Amanda aloft on his shoulders. The child, a boy, is named after Amanda Brown, the young American missionary who runs the Rest House, where Cripple is employed. From the high path that leads to the palaver hut Husband could see the bridge that connected the two Belle Vues, the mist created by the falls, and a line of automobiles waiting to cross over to the African side. Immediately his heart began to pound.

  After all, there were only two options that Husband could think of that could be behind such a dramatic European migration: either the whites were fleeing from something, or they were running to something. In the latter case the Missionary Rest House could conceivably be their destination. If it wasn’t, whatever was causing them to flee would undoubtedly be cause for Amanda Brown to flee as well.

  In either case, at that moment he felt a strong need to be at Cripple’s side.


  Ugly Eyes—she who could really lay claim to the name, for she had worn it all her life, worn it like a second skin—this Ugly Eyes took in all there was to see in the sitting area of the Missionary Rest House. And sticking close beside her, as close as the stench of a dog’s breath is to its face in order that they might whisper unnoticed, was the funny little Muluba woman, Cripple.

  “They are incapable of squatting on their haunches,” Cripple whispered.

  “Truly? Is that so?”

  “Eyo. They are a very strange people, these whites.”

  “Eh?” Ugly Eyes began to shiver. After all, what really was her connection to these people who were incapable of squatting, and who had to bring food up to their lips with metal implements every bit as sharp as arrowheads? Perhaps there was a similarity in the color of her eyes and skin, but likewise, were not the mouse and the elephant both mufika?

  “But not only that,” Cripple said, “look at the ornaments on the walls. Can you see that each contains the likeness of a place?”

  “I do not understand,” Ugly Eyes whispered.

  “Look. There is a river, and there a house. Behind it are hills.” Ugly Eyes stared at the rectangles which hung suspended from metal pegs. They were, for the most part, brightly colored, but she could detect no images.

  “They are the color of the water poured off manioc leaves,” she whispered. Mayi wa matamba. “That is all I see.”

  Her new friend groaned. “Aiyee! Then you have eaten too many manioc leaves. There are images to be seen; not just color. Tch! Let us move to this other ornament. Do you not see the face of a person?”

  Ugly Eyes was astounded. She saw nothing but a dark square with strange light markings on it. But in any case, who would want the face of a person gazing at them all the time? Perhaps it was a curse and could not be avoided. In that case, where was the altar with the countermeasures: the antelope horn, the baboon skull, or the little pouch containing the powders prepared by the white man’s witch doctor?

  “Cripple, I do not see a face of a person. But I wish to return to the sleeping room, for this is truly an evil place.”

  At that Cripple snorted into her hands. “Ugly Eyes, you are indeed uncivilized—a musenji! How fortunate you are to have me, Cripple, as your teacher. Behold, this is not an evil totem, but a likeness of Mamu Ugly Eyes and her family. Follow my finger. This is the nose of Mamu Ugly Eyes. These are the eyes. And here the mouth. Now do you see?”

  Ugly Eyes tried her best to imagine a face—the face of the white mamu superimposed on the square of confusing patterns and shades of black and white, but she could not. To begin with, the square was altogether much smaller than the mamu’s face, and it was flat.

  “Concentrate,” Cripple commanded.

  “Surely this is a trick,” Ugly Eyes exclaimed, because for a second she saw the likeness of a woman seated on a chair and next to her a man. Now the images were gone—wait, there they were! Somehow the exact likenesses of five people had been captured and put on this little totem. Or were they perhaps trapped inside, and if so, how could Ugly Eyes be two places at once, and at once be both so small and yet of normal size?

  “Aiyee,” the Headhunter’s Daughter moaned. “Echi chidi bualu bukole!”

  It was with dread that Ugly Eyes realized that she and Cripple had allowed themselves to get carried away. They had been far too loud and the young white girl, the one who was about her own age, was coming straight toward her with a triumphant look on her face.

  Chapter Twelve

  The OP counted fourteen cars. That was one heck of a welcome committee. Just how the news had spread overnight—Belle Vue did not have an operating telephone system—absolutely mystified him, but he knew he’d never find out. Chances were though, it was the night watchman who’d initially let the cat out of the bag. No doubt from then on it spread from servant to servant.

  Well, at this point what did it matter? He’d admit that the girl was here, but he wouldn’t let anyone close enough to bother her. Already she’d had enough stress for one day. Like she needed to be poked and prodded by some fat Flemish hausfrau, ha!

  “Attention!” he shouted, waving his arms. “This is not a circus sideshow. The girl is a human being. She is inside, and she will not come out. Does everyone understand? Bon! Now go back across the river, and if you are scheduled to work today, then please go to your jobs.”

  The OP watched with satisfaction as everyone—except for Hans Bruebeggar—obeyed without protest. As for Hans, well, he was Flemish, and had been in the Congo longer than anyone working for the Consortium, including the OP. He just wasn’t OP material.

  “With all due respect, Monsieur OP,” Hans said, “you are the dictator of Belle Vue and the Consortium, but you have no authority over the Protestant missionaries. N’est-ce pas?”

  The OP looked Bruebeggar straight in his bloodshot eyes. The man was a drinker, favoring Johnnie Walker Red—perhaps because the name described his face. No, that was a cheap shot. The OP had to get over his anti-Flemish feelings if he was ever going to be a truly effective manager, because, face it, the union of Flanders and of the Walloons was here to stay.

  “You are correct, Monsieur Bruebeggar. I have no control of your actions on this side of the river, and as it is Saturday, and you have the day off, neither can I dictate your activities. However, in order to return to your house, you must either cross my bridge, or take a detour of some one hundred kilometers. It is a hot day, monsieur, but at least it is not raining. Now, the choice is yours; bon chance.”

  “You bastard,” Hans Bruebeggar said, and made a meaty fist, which he waved in the OP’s face, before turning around and heading back across the mighty Kasai River.

  As the OP watched his employee drive angrily off he felt a curious mix of power and tenderness. The feeling of power he welcomed—he’d come to rely on that; it was like oxygen. The feeling of tenderness was frightening; it was like being awakened in the dead of the night and being told that there was a spider under the cover with you, but you didn’t have a flashlight, and there was no electricity. Just you, darkness, and a poisonous spider that could be anywhere and bite at any time.

  Love and tenderness were terrible things.

  “Cripple,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said, “the master’s daughter says that she saw you and the white Mushilele whispering together. Is that true?”

  “Which master?” Cripple said. Her eyes were wide and innocent, although in her voice could be heard the insouciance of Protruding Navel. “Is it the handsome young police captain, the rich king of diamonds, or the missionary whose belly exceeds mine but which does not carry within it a child?”

  “Cripple, you are wasting my time! You know that it is the fat man—aiyee! You see what you have done to my tongue?” It appeared as if Mamu Ugly Eyes was fighting back a smile.

  Cripple clapped her hands and laughed happily; truly, Mamu Ugly Eyes was the source of much amusement. But why stop there? Because Mamu Ugly Eyes had taken Cripple into her sleeping room for the conversation, they were quite alone.

  “Aiyee,” Cripple said, pointing to the bed. “Mamu, are you not afraid?”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Mamu, there is space beneath your bed. Like so!” Cripple gestured with her hands to indicate the amount of airspace between the box springs and the cement floor. “At night it is the gathering place of many demons.”

  “Tch!” Mamu Ugly Eyes was learning how to reply like a good African. “Where did you get such a silly idea, Cripple?”

  “From your sacred book, Mamu.”

  “From the Book of God?”

  “Eyo, from the Mukanda wa Nzambi. Are there not demons mentioned in this book, Mamu?”

  “Eyo, kadi—”

  “It is true, Mamu, that I am but a lowly heathen. Quite possibly I am the biggest sinner that you will ever have the privilege to meet, for I have no intention of repenting. Nevertheless, despite my heathenish ways, I am not an ignorant woman. As my brother, whose head
was as hard as a mahogany stump, sat inside the school of the Catholic Fathers and struggled to learn, I sat outside on the grass and soaked up their words like a head cloth soaks up the dew if one forgets to bring it in for the night.”

  “I am sure that you did, Cripple,” Ugly Eyes said.

  “Mamu, one of the many things which I learned was this: in your world of beliefs, your chief demon—the one who you call Satana—gets very much annoyed by direct confrontation. Even though you do not belong to a real religion, such as Catholicism, I am sure that he is very much disturbed by your presence here, and will do everything in his power to wage a spiritual war against you. For you have come to give rest and renewal to the hardworking Protestants who—although not quite real Christians—are still close enough to make the Prince of Darkness very, very angry with you, the caregiver. Do you not agree with my analysis, Mamu?”

  Mamu Ugly Eyes sighed. “Eyo, I quite agree. You are very perceptive, Cripple. I think that, despite statements to the contrary, you are indeed a wise woman.”

  “What statements, Mamu?”

  “Yala! Perhaps I spoke without thinking. In that case, you must please disregard what I said. Because we almost—but not quite—Christians are not allowed to engage in gossip. Now, where was our conversation before I made such a terrible error in judgment?”

  “You were telling me what a wise woman I am, Mamu.”

  “Eyo, so very wise.”

  “Now, speaking as a wise woman of many more years than you possess, I must ask you: do you not desire to feel a man’s body pressed next to yours in such a big bed as this?”

  “Kah!”

  “It was only a question, Mamu. But if not a man, then perhaps a goat. Just for the company, you understand.”

  “Cripple, are we through here?”