“It’s obvious,” said one adult. “So that she who is sacrificed for the well-being of the community can be easily recognized among the newborns. Though traditional sacrifice should be avoided. If the police find out, they’ll arrest us.”
“Well, then, what do we do?” asked the boy.
“We protect the father who allows the zeru zeru to die in the forest or who poisons it.”
The boy nodded with gravity.
“We have a lot of problems,” muttered a snaggletooth fisherman in an I ♥ NY T-shirt. “We haven’t caught many fish lately, and the rice and cassava harvests are increasingly scarce. A limb of a zeru zeru woven into a net will make it impossible for fish to hide.” Nkamba was aware that the fisherman had many worries of late. His fifth child had been recently born, and the family was always short of food, keeping him awake with worry at night, his wife had told her.
“If that thing is allowed to live, we’ll have even worse luck. Let’s get it the second it’s dead so we can make amulets.”
“While it’s still alive!” cried one of the elders. “Everyone knows an embulamaro[3] vanishes at death.”
A tall man, thin like a brittle branch and with pinhole eyes, approached the group. He had been standing on the sidelines up until then, silent and preoccupied.
“Listen to me!” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You know if we can recover it while it’s still living, the disgrace of its birth will transform into bounty, bringing us wealth and good fortune. Through its body, gold will rise! And when it’s old enough, our village will have our own cure for AIDS.”
Several of the men nodded, others whispered, and a growing hum emanated around the baobab.
Sefu gazed at the ground, his left eye dominated by a nervous twitch. Though Sefu was of large stature, some part of him was always moving, like a boat being bounced on the lake when the waters were choppy.
Zuberi seemed to take in that the new father had lost his bearings. He looked to the village chief and capitalized on Kondo’s inertia by grasping Sefu’s hands, snaring his eyes and attention. Like the tall thin man, Zuberi saw an opportunity staring him in the face. “Let the Spirits of the Lake decide through the beasts.”
The baby’s father inhaled with resignation. After the shaman had spoken, he had to obey.
One of the clansmen crowding around the tree also let out an expression of irritation when he heard Zuberi had decided to abide by the old woman’s request.
Nkamba was amazed that Zuberi, not Kondo, had taken her side. One never knows through whom the Spirits will speak, she thought, and that the words came from Zuberi, a self-important dolt, only reinforces that the Spirits of the Lake are protecting my mjukuu. Swaddling the baby, Nkamba quickly withdrew from the crowd and returned to the hut.
As she opened the sheet-metal door, Nkamba ordered the loiterers out, protecting the babe in her arms.
The stream of women left without saying a word. One of them, however, the daughter of Nkamba’s sister and a longtime friend of Juma, stayed behind.
2.
Since Yunis was of childbearing age, it was possible the taint of the birth would cling to her, curse her own future children. To protect her progeny, she knew she had to follow tradition. Yet, since the time she and Juma were children, the two had been inseparable, together taking the sheep and goats to graze. Not having a sister, Yunis took Juma as hers. Though they were born in different rainy seasons, they seemed to have a common destiny, at least until nine months before. As girls, they learned from Yunis’s mother—side by side—how to sew and mend clothing. They both grew to be tailors. When they married, they shared the dream of having a home full of children. Then Juma had conceived but Yunis had not. When Juma’s first pains came and she was certain this one would be born, Yunis felt like a dry stream. Why can’t I have children? she had cried as she watched her friend’s belly grow, repeating the whine to herself while attending the birth.
When she saw that the creature was not a baby but a zeru zeru, Yunis felt dismay and relief. Certainly it was better to wait many rainy seasons before conceiving, she told herself, than to give birth to a disgrace.
As a young woman of the clan, she had to follow the custom to ward off a similar disaster from striking her. However, a sense of guilt and fear of offending Juma and harming their friendship made her hesitant to go through with it.
The last of her qualms were brushed aside when one of the old women of the clan said before stepping out of the hut, “You have to do it. You belong to Sefu’s clan. The spell will latch onto you all the more.”
Juma will understand, Yunis told herself. This is how it’s always been done. Juma would not want me to suffer the same disgrace.
She stared at her friend’s belly in silence. Then she sipped some water to rinse her mouth, and she began: “Wretched zeru zeru.” She spat with force at Juma, aiming directly for her navel with the intent of poisoning the root of the evil. She tilted back her head and spat a second time and then a third, as though she were releasing a scream of pain. And she continued to spit until she had no more saliva. Then she left the room.
Nkamba spent the night praying to the Spirits of the Lake and to Father Andrew’s God—the God known as both the beginning and the end, the God with power over every human being.
“You give and take away, You create and destroy. Mungu, Mulungu, Ruwa, and Ishwaga,[4] Creator of the universe, of man, of woman, of the trees, the mountains, rivers, lakes, and animals, the rain and the dawn, Jesus Christ our savior. Every element is Your representative on Earth and reflects Your face. If something does not go well, it is because You are angry with man; every event occurs because You—Mungu—desire it. You were yesterday, You are today, and You will be tomorrow. You are pure, infallible, and wise.”
Thus, Nkamba prayed. Thus, Nkamba reminded the Spirits of the Lake of her long-ago oath. The baby, however, cried and cried in her grandmother’s arms before finally falling asleep, exhausted and hungry.
In the dark of night the old woman, crept to the pen where the cattle were kept, each one known to her by name. She stayed there only long enough to collect some urine from a cow to dampen a rag.
“This way you will recognize her as one of your own and do her no harm,” Nkamba whispered, perhaps to convince herself.
The sun shimmered pink on the eastern horizon the next morning. Nkamba, in her house, pinched the baby’s arm fiercely and released the flesh just before damaging it. She wanted to make her scream. The infant needed to be heard—and heard well—by the animals in the pen. Nkamba said another prayer, and then wrapped the baby in the damp rag and left to take her granddaughter to the ritual that would determine all of their fates.
3.
In the presence of the head of the village, along with the witch doctor, members of the tribe, and others who had gathered to witness the event, Nkamba set the yelling bundle on the ground, right in front of the pen’s gate. She asked her son if she could be the one to open it. After a nod, Sefu waited, a motionless ebony statue against a gray sky that threatened rain. Most of the villagers hoped to see the hooves of the milk cows trample the newborn and, thus, ward off the curse that risked destroying their island world.
Nkamba observed her son out of the corner of her eye. If the baby was trampled, she would mourn for Sefu as well as for her grandchild. The evil that lived in her boy and allowed him to let his daughter die would condemn him to the same destiny that Nkamba had suffered. Kheri would have behaved differently, she told herself. She remembered the day he returned from Mwanza at the beginning of the long rains, all those years ago. When he had heard what had happened in his absence, he held Nkamba all night long, and together they cried and mourned and prayed.
She opened the gate.
The beasts bellowed and moaned and crowded the pen’s entryway. They were restless and impatient to free themselves from the enclosure.
The first cow trod forward with uncertain steps. The animal lowered its muzzle toward
the infant, obstructing the others behind it. It sniffed at the bundle and stepped over it. The second and then the third cow distinguished the presence of a living thing on the ground and sidestepped it too.
The pressure of the herd behind the few beasts that were loose began to build. They bellowed more and bucked, causing a frenzy as they jostled through the gate. The stench and the dust generated by the herd obscured the infant. Many hooves pounded the earth, one landing violently on the bundle. Nkamba held her breath; she had done all she could. The rest of the villagers were straining to see signs of life in the small bundle that the cattle had now passed. The din of the cows receded. In the distance, a crack of thunder sounded. A silence from the crowd of spectators could be felt by Nkamba.
Then, out of the hush, an acute and distressing cry from the tiny creature issued forth. A small white arm broke free and waved in the air.
Nkamba felt her heart do a flip. She was alive! Her granddaughter had survived certain death on her first day of life. The old woman looked at Sefu. Her son nodded, and she rushed to pick up her grandchild.
The baby cried and thrashed about. Nkamba held her tight, rocking her in the way a shell and its mollusk are moved by the rhythm of waves on the lake. The newborn had escaped her first threat, though Nkamba knew the dangers of life would never be over for her.
“What will become of you when I go to your grandfather?” she whispered.
The baby quieted. The older woman extended her mjukuu toward her son, presenting him with the gift of a small white body with its sparse, curly blond hair. Nkamba’s tight-lipped smile transformed her eyes into two slits while her arthritic hands trembled under the slight weight of her naked granddaughter wrapped in a rag. It began to rain, and the raindrops released the sour smell of urine from the swaddling cloth. The sound of boughs and branches shaking in the wind shrouded the buzz of the villagers’ pronouncements. The restless herd moved on, moaning, oblivious to their part in the drama.
Sefu looked to the side, in search of the head of the community who, in turn, locked eyes with the witch doctor.
Under the pounding raindrops, the baby had begun to whine again. The newborn’s father waited for the pronouncement of the leaders of the clan. Kondo and Zuberi took their time. Finally the shaman tilted his head forward, ever so slightly, and the head of the village responded in kind. Nkamba inhaled deeply. For the shaman it was clear the Spirits of the Lake had spoken through the beasts. Sefu understood that it was their will that the zeru zeru live.
Looking at his mother, without so much as grazing the baby with his eyes, Sefu said, “May your will, as well as that of the Spirits of the Lake, and my word be done. It lives. However, it will remain unnamed and will not belong to my clan, and from this day forward, it shall live with you. As for me, I leave this house and shall return to live with my first wife and children.”
Juma stared at the ground as her husband spoke. He had made it clear to her that he would never forgive what he considered her impure betrayal that led to the birth of the curse.
The racket of rain on sheet-metal roofs echoed the downpour of words from the villagers. Mindful that disgrace from the birth would affect them all—from the young to the old—they wanted to express opinions and participate in deciding the fate of the zeru zeru whose destiny was tied to theirs with a double thread.
Nkamba answered her son with a smile, pulling the child toward her bosom, and then she took two small steps to the side until she was standing in front of Kondo and Zuberi. Sefu understood that his mother wanted to receive their consent, face to face. She was looking for a single nod that would spread across the entire island, like a ripple of a wave to the water’s edge. She had always been hardheaded.
The two men were stoic. Kondo broke the impasse when he commanded, “Go, Nkamba,” accompanying his words with a gesture of his hand. The old woman shuffled in retreat without turning her back to them. Sefu and those gathered watched Nkamba until she disappeared inside the hut with the newborn, fully aware that until she was out of sight, the decision could be changed with the rapidity of clouds that clear for a beam of golden sunlight.
Sefu left with the elders of his clan. He promised himself that he would never so much as glance in the direction of the hut where he had lived with the mother of the zeru zeru. The crowd dissipated behind the leaders’ slow steps; the two men were absorbed in a discussion that no one could hear.
Juma, all alone, stared at the door of her hut. Crossing that threshold meant entering a prison without bars.
Your life as a shunned bride begins today, she said to herself. She looked at the room full of ritual objects for a propitious birth—libations, semiprecious stones, bones for divination. She thought about her joy during the previous months of pregnancy, before the skin of her daughter became whiter than the cloth in which she was swaddled. For an instant, Juma felt the creature move again inside her, recalling the vital force that filled her from the first moment she knew her womb was inhabited. Hate for this zeru zeru replaced her love for her real daughter, and the mother cried out for mercy, imagining her husband there with her. She thought of Afua, his first wife, many rainy seasons older than Juma and a big gossip. Juma had been so proud to have a husband who could afford two wives, and she had been convinced that she would always remain the favored wife. Rain began to fall again, and the fat drops pattered on the straw roof like twigs shaken by the wind. Then Juma heard a cry, and her breasts began to lactate.
Nkamba had been inside the hut, waiting for her. She walked in her daughter-in-law’s direction, holding the baby out toward her.
Juma’s body stiffened.
“My dear,” Nkamba said with a smile, “you must feed your child.”
Juma did not react, except to turn her face to the tiny window near the door. The sun will come out soon, she thought.
The baby wiggled in her grandmother’s arms. Nkamba went to her daughter-in-law and unveiled the young woman’s breast. Juma did not resist, and the baby latched onto her nipple. The new mother watched, her arms down by her sides. Nkamba held her granddaughter to Juma’s breast, her hand supporting the baby’s back. Then, with a surge of affection, she passed her other arm around Juma’s neck and pulled her close. The tiny creature, who was between them, drank greedily from her mother. Juma wished a real baby was suckling, not a zeru zeru.
“I need to confide something, but I must be certain you will keep the secret,” Nkamba said quietly in Juma’s ear.
Juma shifted. Her mother-in-law might have knowledge about her condition. “My tongue shall fall in the lake and be eaten by crabs if I speak of it.”
“My husband had gone to Mwanza. We did not have a field to plow nor a boat from which to fish; he was forced to look for work elsewhere. Otherwise, he would never have left me alone while I carried our first child. He would never have allowed her to disappear.”
“Continue.”
“The time of the birth came. I was happy, just as you were yesterday. My husband was far away, but I was surrounded by the affection of our families. I did not suffer pain and gave birth as quickly as a hen lays an egg. I offered the infant my breast, and the sensation gave me wings upon which to fly beyond the shores of the lake. Watching her latched to my breast, sucking my heart into her…It was the first and last time I nursed a child. Did you know that Sefu took milk from Arafa?”
“What do you mean, the first and last time?” asked Juma. “And who is this girl if my husband has no sisters?”
“Shortly after the birth of my firstborn, she, too, became zeru zeru, as my grandchild has. They used the same words with me as they have with you. They insisted the zeru zeru belonged to the Spirits of the Lake and it was to our gods she had to return. I believed and trusted them, that it was the best solution for the child and for me and my husband. Had Kheri been present, destiny would have led my daughter along the path to our home. Instead, I placed her in the arms of another woman, knowing she would be left in the forest.” Nkamba shook her h
ead and looked out the window. “Time passed, and I had another baby, but I was unable to nourish him. My breasts remained forever empty. The moment I gave up my daughter, I was cursed.”
Juma could feel her mother-in-law’s labored breath on her cheek and the mouth of the infant on her breast. Still, she remained frozen.
After a pause, Nkamba spoke again. “I do not want you to live with the remorse that has imprisoned me. We have saved her. Help me so that she grows and leads a rich life. I am old. How many more rainy seasons will I live?”
Juma twisted free from Nkamba’s determined embrace and wrenched her breast from the baby’s mouth. “I will not help it live!” she shouted. “I want to live with my husband! I want my previous life, not this zeru zeru that has destroyed my family!”
“I understand your pain,” Nkamba replied, “but if you nurse the infant, I promise I will convince my son to return to you.”
Juma’s breath came in gasps. Sefu had always been deferential to his mother. Her only hope was her mother-in-law’s influence over her husband.
“As long as I have milk, I will nurse it. After that, for me it is dead.”
4.
Nkamba had prepared meat soup and had brought it to Juma, a delicacy to help the new mother recover from fatigue and produce good milk. The dish sat on the table. Juma ignored it. She went to the mirror, searching her reflection. What she saw disturbed her, and she turned the looking glass toward the wall.
The sun was setting. The last ray of light made its way through crevices in the roof and fell on Juma’s drawn face. She felt as though she had aged ten rainy seasons since the previous sunset. She undressed. Naked and confused, she searched the hut with her eyes. She saw an unused cloth, left from the birth, lying in a corner, a long, narrow piece of white linen. She seized the bandage and began to wind it around her chest, tight and then tighter, promising herself to do so until her breasts went dry. She lay on her bed of palm leaves and held her husband’s pillow close. His scent of nut and mango made her weep.
Then She Was Born Page 2