The Headhunter's Daughter

by Tamar Myers

  The Headhunter had no wish to discuss theology at the moment, even though he was mildly curious about this father god in the skies. Perhaps such a god could be persuaded to hold off a severe thunderstorm while a hunt was underway. Last season two hunters in their prime had been struck by lightning, and both of them had been wearing protective leopards’ teeth around their necks.

  To indicate that he had heard but did not necessarily agree, the Headhunter grunted.

  “Eh? said Harry. “What must I do to get you to leave? Call the Bula Matadi?”

  It crossed the Headhunter’s mind again how easy it would be to kill the white man. If he slit his throat, there would be too much blood. Far better for the Headhunter to bring the knife up behind the ear and enter the skull at the soft spot there. Then, even though the white man was fat, the Headhunter could carry him to the edge of the precipice and throw him to the crocodile. Of course, before doing that, the Headhunter would take a moment to separate the grinning head from its corpulent owner. He would then take the head into the tshisuku and bury it somewhere deep enough that hyenas and jackals would be discouraged from digging it up.

  “No, master, I do not wish to speak to the Bula Matadi,” he said.

  Mastermind couldn’t help but rejoice. The plan, like a puzzle, had been composed of distinct pieces. Unfortunately, the pieces had been scattered for thirteen years, but now all of them were accounted for. Now it was simply a matter of fitting the pieces back into their proper places. In fact, with the child’s baba out of the picture—one could only presume the Bashilele were responsible—there was one less loose end to worry about. But oh, the payoff! In the intervening years new mines had been discovered, and the ransom, when delivered, would be ten times the amount it would have been all those years ago.

  The OP’s eyes must have radiated pride, shame, joy, wonder, love—surely too many things to explain. And of course he had no proof—except a feeling, like an invisible web that connected him to the girl, a web that had always been there, just never had been spoken about.

  “Thirteen years ago,” he said, “almost fourteen years ago, I was assigned to Belle Vue as Operations Manager. Shortly afterwards my wife, Heilewid, became pregnant. It was a very difficult pregnancy and we had to make many trips into Luluaburg to see the doctor—as we had none here. But then when the baby was born—I mean soon after—she went missing. This girl”—he pointed directly at her—“this is she. I know it. I feel it. Besides, there have been no other reports of European girls gone missing in all these years.”

  “What was your daughter’s name?” Amanda asked.

  “What? She was a baby, just three weeks old. She wouldn’t remember it!”

  It was Captain Jardin who put a hand on the OP’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. “Monsieur OP,” he said, “I think that the Mademoiselle Brown is merely curious—in addition to being perhaps a touch rude.”

  “Oui, oui, she is very rude,” the OP said. Fat hot tears filled his eyes as he recalled the morning of the abduction. “Her name is Danielle Louise.” She was named after her grandmother—Heilewid’s mother.”

  The OP heard the black housekeeper whisper something to his daughter, something that he couldn’t understand. After an adult lifetime in the Congo the OP still couldn’t understand the local language, which was fine with him, because the natives all spoke French. That is, either they did speak French, or found someone who did. But what was the point of the maid whispering to his daughter, if the girl couldn’t speak the language either?

  “Excuse me,” he said in French, “what were you saying to my daughter just now?”

  The African woman was certainly not one to be intimidated. She even stepped forward—hobbled, to be more exact—and did her best to straighten her bent frame.

  “Monsieur OP,” she said, “do you not recognize me? I am the Muluba woman who gazed down upon you from high up on your gallows. You may feel free to address me as madame, or you may use my name, which is Cripple.”

  The OP felt a pang of loathing. “You were arrested for my wife’s murder.”

  “The governor set her free,” Amanda said.

  “Mademoiselle,” the OP said, “I recall that this was really your doing.”

  “Mon ami,” Pierre said, “the past is past, non? Now you have an exciting future to look forward to.”

  “Perhaps,” said the OP. After all, his daughter looked every bit as happy to be there as the crippled one had looked on the day of her scheduled execution. “Alors,” he said, “j’ai une idée merveilleuse!”

  Husband knew his place. That did not mean that he liked it. He certainly did not approve of it, but there was only so much that one man alone could do. After all, by himself, Husband was not a movement; he was not Cripple.

  He was not even master of his own feet. Now, as he waited at the back door of the Missionary Rest House for someone to answer his knock, Husband shifted nervously from foot to foot. Like a small boy he rubbed the soles of his shoes against his shins in turn. Husband could feel the calloused pads of his feet against his hairy legs, but not vice versa.

  At last the screen door was flung open by Protruding Navel, the head houseboy. This man of the Bena Lulua tribe was in Husband’s eyes of less worth than a caterpillar; at least the caterpillar could be eaten.

  “Tch,” the houseboy said, rolling his eyes in disgust. “What does this disgraced Muluba witch doctor want?”

  “I have come to see my wife,” Husband said.

  “Your wife? This is the house of an American missionary. Does she know that she is married to the likes of you?”

  “My wife is Cripple, a fact which you know very well. As for your joke, Monsieur Tablier—Mr. Apron—it was not funny. Intermarriage is against the law.”

  The man named Protruding Navel clutched the once white apron with both hands. “It is a job, the pay is good, and there are many nights when I am sent home with extra food for my family.”

  “Eh, that is so. Cripple too returns with food—but what we are to make of it, that is often a great puzzle. This sow-wah-clout!” Husband spat on the grass to the side of the back steps. “Aiyee, I once tasted monkey brains that had been left too long in the sun. Believe me; the brains tasted better.”

  The houseboy roared with laugher. “Yes, yes, they have some very strange flavors. The mamu must eat small quantities of a thing called cho-co-laht or she will become very unhappy; she will even whip us.”

  “Aiyee! Even Cripple?”

  “Especially Cripple.”

  “Then I must speak to her at once.”

  “I’m afraid that is impossible,” Protruding Navel said. “She is working. Did you not see all the whites in their cars on the front road? They have all come to see this strange creature plucked from the midst of the heathen Bashilele.”

  “You will fetch my wife, Muena Lulua,” Husband said to Protruding Navel. He chose to address him as an individual of the Bena Lulua tribe, rather than by his given name. It was meant as an insult.

  However, the man in the apron—he who did woman’s work—this man had the gall to gaze with insolence into Husband’s eyes. During that length of time a good wife could have fried caterpillars in palm oil until they crunched between the teeth, launching waves of pleasure that seemed to sweep beyond the mouth even, causing the entire body to shiver with ecstasy.

  Protruding Navel was a man without prejudices. The Belgians, the Americans, the Baluba, the Bashilele—all of them were equal in his sight. That is to say, they were equal to each other, but not, of course, to the Bena Lulua. It mattered not to Protruding Navel if these aforementioned tribes fought amongst each other, just as long as he still had a job that paid him every Saturday evening, and that his hut was still standing at the end of each and every day.

  Therefore, was not Protruding Navel a progressive man? Some might even consider him an evolved man, worthy of receiving special status by the colonial government, given only to those blacks who had managed to lift the
mselves up above the level of savagery. One must also never forget that Protruding Navel was the legitimate son of a Bena Lulua chief—a minor chief, and of a small village—but a real chief nonetheless.

  Tch! Still, as important as he was, Protruding Navel could not ignore the fact that he was fond of the American with the meaningless name, Amanda Brown—but now called Mamu Ugly Eyes—and that stubborn Muluba woman named Cripple. That annoying little woman was supposed to be Protruding Navel’s assistant, but she seemed to do whatever she pleased, whenever she pleased.

  At any rate, for the past six years Protruding Navel had been saving up to purchase a house—a real house with a tin roof—in the Jacaranda Grove section of the workers’ village. This house was only steps away from one of the village’s four public water faucets. If they lived in this house then Protruding Navel’s wife, who was expecting her third child, would not have to carry her laundry or her water for more than a kilometer, as she did now. This house did not have electricity, but it had wooden shutters that could be closed at night against the mosquitoes, and best of all, it had two rooms! Imagine that; two rooms.

  But in order to get this house Protruding Navel had to make sure that everything continued on as it was. The status quo had to be maintained. Thus it was that when he saw two men rolling about on the grass at the edge of the Missionary Rest House property; one of them white, one of them black, Protruding Navel was horrified. Not knowing what to do in this case he picked up a large fallen branch—one bereft of leaves—and began thrashing both men soundly.

  “You fools,” he cried.

  “Aiyee!” the Headhunter groaned as he tried to shield his face.

  “Stop it,” roared the enraged missionary.

  Protruding Navel was, of course, horrified at what he had done, and would have stopped immediately—perhaps even run away from the scene—but then it occurred to him that this would be the perfect opportunity to beat a white man. Down came the stick—thwack, thwack, thwack—across the missionary’s blubbery back.

  “You heathen Mushilele,” Protruding Navel shouted. “How dare you try and harm this white man, this emissary of God? I should beat you even harder for this.” Thwack, thwack, thwack.

  “Ow! Damn you to hell, you son of a bitch!” Despite his great size, and the steady onslaught from the houseboy’s makeshift cudgel, the white man had managed to get to his feet. “How dare you strike me?” he roared. “I am a white man! A white man.”

  Protruding Navel gave each man another whack. The missionary received his blow across the bottom, and as a result he lurched forward but remained standing. The Headhunter was smitten across his broad shoulders and knocked temporarily back to the ground.

  Having regained his balance the missionary advanced on the houseboy like a man intending to do severe bodily harm. Alas, the time for games was over. No longer could Protruding Navel hide behind the excuse that he had suffered momentary confusion. This white man was not so easily fooled. With flight as his only other option, Protruding Navel closed his eyes and held his clenched fists by his sides. The offending stick now lay on the ground at his feet.

  However, the muambi did not strike the lowly servant, as was his right in this case. “Extended Belly,” he sputtered, “or whatever your name is, you are going to be very sorry for this! Believe me.”

  “Eyo, muambi.”

  The white man was silent for a long time. Finally, Protruding Navel couldn’t stand the silence, so he opened his eyes. Much to his distress he saw tears in the muambi’s strange green eyes. How was a mere houseboy—even if he were a chief’s son—to deal with such an embarrassing turn of events? He need not have worried too much, for things only got worse.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Headhunter’s Daughter wanted nothing more than to go home, to return to her village. Perhaps the only thing she wanted more was to see her father again, for she was not sure at that point that he had kept his word—that he had been able to keep his word—and remain within hearing distance of her cries. Oh how glorious it would be to see her mother, her baba, again, and her baba’s best friend, Iron Sliver. Even the annoying village children, even the cruelest among them, would be a welcome sight.

  “Be patient,” the little crippled one was saying. “It will be all right.”

  Yes, but for whom? Ugly Eyes felt naked in the blue dress selected for her because it didn’t even come down to the knees. Only the village harlot dared wear her madiba above her knees, and she was mocked and spat upon by the other women. That was certainly not a life to which one should aspire.

  Then there was the matter of the breast garment. It was meant to draw attention to the breasts, and surely it did, for it generated strange lumps beneath the cloth of the dress that should rightly scare away any man who was not possessed by malevolent spirits. It made the hair on her arms and neck stand on end.

  As to her hair; it was frightening. Her hair closely resembled the dried grass sewn around the perimeter of the witch doctor’s mask. That was meant to give the impression of a lion’s mane. Who was the girl who wished to look like that? It was not Ugly Eyes.

  Simply said, it was all too much. Too much had happened since yesterday; too much was happening that very moment, too much which was strange and frightening. Ugly Eyes could no longer contain herself.

  “I want to go home,” she said, in a loud, clear voice. She spoke the words in Tshiluba, the trade language, so that the white mamu named Ugly Eyes, and the Bula Matadi, would understand.

  There fell a silence such as there is immediately following a flash of lightning. Then the white mamu gasped and clapped her hands to her cheeks.

  “You do know Tshiluba! Why did you and your father—wait, does he speak it as well?”

  “Lady mamu,” Ugly Eyes said, “we are the Bashilele; we are not savages like the Bapende people. Of course we speak the regional language in addition to your own. It is a pity, however, that you do not speak our language since it does not assault the ears as does Tshiluba.”

  “Aiyee,” the little one cried. “See how this white woman lies!”

  “I am not a white woman,” Ugly Eyes said. She wanted to look each person in their face, but instead could look only at her own feet.

  “Yes, you are a white woman,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said. “If not that, then at least a white girl.”

  “I am an albino,” said the real Ugly Eyes. This was a notion that she longed to believe, but could not. Mother and Father had shown her the difference. They had taken her to visit a real albino, and held her healthy arm up next to his blistered skin. The difference was indeed clear, but the truth so unwelcome. Where had she come from? Surely not from people such as these.

  “No, you are not an albino,” the white mamu said. Sadly, even she could not be fooled.

  “What is your name?” demanded the Bula Matadi.

  “Ugly Eyes.”

  “Who told you to say that?” the white mamu said, suddenly very agitated. “Did Cripple tell you?”

  “Aiyee,” Cripple wailed again. “Not me. Why, until just a few minutes ago I was unaware that this bush rat was capable of speech.”

  Ugly Eyes smiled. “Cripple, you and Iron Sliver would make fast friends, for you both enjoy the advantage of quick wits. But you are a witness to the fact that it was me who spoke first of this name.”

  “Is this true?” the Bula Matadi said.

  “E,” Cripple said.

  It was then that the old white man—the one who had the gall to claim that he was her father—said something. Since he spoke in one of the foreign languages, Ugly Eyes didn’t understand a word. However, she hoped it had to do with him withdrawing his claim to her, so that she could return to her village. At once! She would gladly walk that distance, by the way.

  “Permit me to translate—please,” said the Bula Matadi. “This man is the chief of this village. His name is Chief Raging Baboon.” The Bula Matadi paused to glare at Cripple for giggling. “Chief Raging Baboon has offered to give a big fea
st in your honor at his house tonight. The entire village is to be invited. Of course, as his daughter, you are to be the guest of honor.”

  Ugly Eyes squelched an impulse to spit on the Bula Matadi, because she realized that he was merely the translator, and not responsible for these words. Besides, he was a very attractive man—despite the color of his skin.

  “This man is not my father. If he wants my father to attend this feast, then someone must invite him.”

  Cripple laughed openly despite cautionary looks from both the Bula Matadi and the young white woman.

  “I will give him the message,” the young Bula Matadi said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Protruding Navel, coward that he was, opened his eyes, the white man was gone. But so was the Headhunter. Protruding Navel had heard the sound of scuffling, and grunting, like the sound of pigs mating in the banana grove, and then a thin reedy screech, like that of a hawk as it calls for a mate. Then silence—well, but for the roar of the falls. There was always the falls.

  For some the constant noise of water striking against rocks was soothing, whereas for others, it brought on the pains that threatened to split open one’s head. Generally, it was the women who suffered more from this disease, but Protruding Navel also suffered from such pains.

  Sometimes it was a thunderstorm that brought on the suffering. Other times it could be a simple act, such as beating Mamu’s braided rugs, of which there were many, and from which great clouds of dust flew up, as if each rug contained a miniature drought’s worth. Yet another source of these intense pains was stress, and as far as Protruding Navel could reckon, absolutely nothing in his life until then had been quite as stress producing as beating a white man with a mango branch as thick as his thumb.

  On another day Protruding Navel might have investigated the sudden, almost mystical absence of the other two men, or even considered the thin reedy cry of the hawk, but today he had all he could do just to keep from gathering his knees to his chest and calling aloud for his baba. In order to appear as a semblance of a man, if only a lazy, sleeping Lulua man, Protruding Navel stretched out in the shade of a mango tree, put one of the mamu’s “borrowed” handkerchiefs over his face, and pretended to sleep. With any luck, in due course, real sleep would follow.