The baby always took her mother’s milk under Nkamba’s vigilant gaze. Sometimes Juma, while nursing, would fall asleep with her daughter. The grandmother, noticing the serenity of the young mother’s sleep, shook her head. If only Juma had the courage to confess to herself the peace she found having the baby near!
Only once did Nkamba trust her daughter-in-law to be alone with the infant. She was so happy seeing them close; Juma’s long tapered fingers patted the little one’s gold hair. Nkamba felt the need to share her joy with her husband. She went to his burial site, closed her eyes, and murmured, “Kheri, our baby has returned and is stronger than ever. This time she will live!”
Going back toward Juma’s hut, the old woman quickened her step until she was running as quickly as her arthritic body would allow. Her granddaughter was screaming, desperation inflaming her voice. Naked under the cruel sun, the newborn lay on the yellow earth in front of the sheet-metal door. Nkamba threw herself on the tiny creature, snatching her from the jaws of the sun’s rays, and carried her into the shade of a tree. She railed against her daughter-in-law, who stared at her—dully, lifelessly—from the doorway.
“I thought the sun might change her color,” said Juma.
Nkamba gathered the baby’s few things and walked away with short, rapid steps.
“You told me you would convince Sefu to come back to me if I fed the zeru zeru!” Juma shouted, running after them.
Nkamba wanted to yell back, “No, I will never keep my promise,” that she would prefer to see Juma drown in the lake and be eaten by fish than meet her again in the market. However, she knew that keeping her word would be beneficial for the baby’s future. If her son took back his second wife, perhaps he would also accept his daughter into his home.
“It is more in my interest than in yours,” Nkamba said, turning away with the baby in her arms.
Night after night, Juma bound her chest before going to bed. As she slept she was haunted by nightmares and stabbing pain. Her breasts felt like blazing embers. One evening, she decided she would rid herself once and for all of the cursed milk that insisted on flowing from her breasts. She took a long strip of fine cloth, dampened it, and tied one end to a pole in the hut. From the farthest side of the room she began to turn in circles, winding the wet cloth around her chest so tight that she could barely breathe. Juma could have saved herself such suffering; Nkamba had already decided that would be the last day the baby would suckle from her mother. Starting the next morning, she would give the child goat’s milk.
5.
Mosi—Father Andrew—was born on Ukerewe and lived there until he was fourteen years old. He was a solitary boy who did not like to participate in the diversions of other youngsters. By age eight, he was certain he would leave the island.
It happened on an afternoon when the houses assumed the color of the sun and the air seemed to shine with its own light; Mosi passed under the great baobab and spotted an unusual gathering. He squirmed his way to the front of the crowd. Two men, dressed in long black tunics, were talking about the life of a man with a foreign name.
“His eyes shone like rays of light, and his gaze was so blinding no one could look directly at his face,” one of them said.
Slowly, as the news of the strangers’ presence spread across the fields and among the village dwellings, the number of people under the great tree grew. The villagers listened with fascination to stories about this special man who spoke of justice and refuge and who defended the weak and oppressed. They were surprised to hear he had cured illnesses and deformities and that he was awaiting good, deserving men in a kingdom of light beyond this earthly life. Mosi was lucky enough to claim one of the books the men were distributing. “Here is salvation, justice, and eternal life,” the Jesuit said as he handed the boy the leather-bound pages.
“I’ll never sell it or feed it to the fire, I promise,” said Mosi, who ran home, clutching the volume in his hands.
He often went to listen to the priests talk about Jesus of Nazareth. Gradually, Mosi fell in love with He who dispensed justice and love, and every day he read a part of the book that told the story of Jesus’s life.
One evening, after he had stayed too long at the shore, tossing stones into the lake, he arrived home for supper only to find the table bare. His mother was waiting, furious, and his apologies were useless. He would be punished: his kerosene lamp would be taken from him, the one he kept next to his bed. Thus, he spent the night in darkness, unable to read the Gospel. At dawn, he extracted the book from under his blanket and read the story of Jesus receiving a group of children whom adults had tried to keep at bay so as not to disturb Him. Mosi was such a child, and he was certain that Jesus wanted to receive him. It was then Mosi decided to follow His example: to help others. That would be his work. To spend his life without Him would be like living in a darkened room without the light of a lantern to dispel the gloom.
So it was that at the age of fourteen, Mosi went to Mwanza to enter the seminary. It was a challenge to convince his father he didn’t want to marry. In the end, his mother’s intervention and his own stubbornness prevailed. After long years of study and finally ordination, he began to travel among the villages in his service. Every Sunday he returned to his island to lead Mass. The day his aged father saw him for the first time after many rainy seasons—tall, well fed, and dressed in a black tunic—he was in awe and bowed his head. Father Andrew wrapped him in his arms, blessing him in the name of the one who had become his only God.
It was several months after her granddaughter’s birth that Nkamba waited until the end of Mass to approach Father Andrew. She tired of her son’s persistent eschewal of Juma. She had given up hope of his ever accepting his second wife and their daughter and had been trying to, at the very least, convince Sefu to agree to name the child. She decided to ask Father Andrew for his help on persuading her son. He was a learned man and came from a respected local clan. If anyone could help her, it was he. He is a representative on Earth of the One who embraces the excluded, isn’t he? she asked herself. That was what Mosi always said.
The infant was sleeping, wrapped in a sling on her grandmother’s back. Nkamba waited for the others to leave the priest’s side. Once he was alone, she shifted the sling so the baby was in her arms, and she walked with determination toward him.
“My mjukuu does not have a name,” she said, revealing the baby’s face. “No one wants to give her one, neither her father nor Zuberi. Please, try to convince them; perhaps they’ll listen to you.”
The priest seemed to stifle a grimace. “Certainly they will listen to me. Only I—God’s representative—can give a name to the child. Or rather,” he pointed his index finger skyward, “only He can.”
Nkamba looked at the sky, her granddaughter, and then at the young man who appeared annoyed. Her wrinkled face revealed contrasting emotions. For her, any god would do as long as the babe in her arms was given a name, and she imagined Father Andrew knew what she was thinking.
“You are a priest,” she said finally, “but you are also the son of a farmer. Zuberi will not want you to give the baby a name.”
“She will have a name and will be baptized in the open before the community,” he said, smiling. “Return to me in a week.”
6.
Zuberi, bent over his mortar, ground the pharmaceutical tablets to powder. With each strike of the pestle, he imagined his fame growing, stretching outside the limits of the island, reaching throughout the country and, perhaps, beyond. People would come from far away to request his services. One day even white men would appear. He puffed out his chest as he reminded himself that his family had been healers for twenty generations, and when future shamans spoke of Zuberi, the stories of his magic would be shared and swapped—they’d say he defined the Golden Age of the divinatory arts.
Jane, Zuberi’s vervet, was sitting on the table watching her master, captivated by the sound of the pestle in the mortar. Her bright eyes—black like roasted coffee beans, wh
ite fur framing her thick-skinned face—skipped from Zuberi to the row of colored tablets.
“Lucky little monkey, how proud you must be to belong to the best healer in Tanzania. One day my name will be on everyone’s lips!” he said, transferring the powder from the mortar into a wooden bowl.
There was a knock on his workroom door, and his daughter announced the visitors. Zuberi hurried to put the tablets back into their plastic vials, hiding them in a large drawer under his worktable. Drying the sweat from his brow, he opened the door.
Father Andrew entered, followed by his elderly father, Idi. Even though Idi was a humble farmer, he was considered one of the wisest of village elders and could not be ignored.
“Idi, welcome to my home. And I welcome your son too,” Zuberi said with condescension. What can this priest want from me? he wondered.
“Thank you for receiving us,” replied Idi. “I hope you and your family are in good health.”
“I wish the same for you and your family.”
After exhausting the required pleasantries and inquiries about the health of members of their respective clans, Father Andrew said, “I am here about Sefu’s child. Don’t you believe it’s time to give her a name? Soon I will baptize her, though I’d like your approval.”
Abruptly, the smile disappeared from Zuberi’s lips, leaving in its place an indignant grimace.
“Never,” he replied with irritation. “An embulamaro is without name. We must abide the Spirits of the Lake.”
Father Andrew struggled with the temptation to leave the house and slam the door behind him. He remained silent for several moments as he considered how to reply. “Think, Zuberi. In our village every lamb, every cow, every goat has its name. Even your monkey has one! What could be wrong if we give one to the child?”
“It is simple. A zeru zeru is not a person, not even an animal,” he replied, petting Jane, who obediently rubbed herself against the witch doctor’s incongruous Western-style button-down shirt, a red cloth tied over his right shoulder to identify his tribe.
“What is a zeru zeru in your opinion? Do they not eat our same food? Do they not speak our same language?”
Zuberi shook his head and huffed, striding toward the door. Vexed, he opened it. “Zeru zerus have never had names. Why should that change now? Excuse me, but I have important things to attend to.”
Alone once more, Zuberi considered why he chose to let the zeru zeru live. Money is power and magic, he thought to himself, and let’s never forget the riches that a zeru zeru can bring. I must hatch a plan to wrest from it all I can. It will be the centerpiece of my Golden Age.
Although Father Andrew had studied and led a life very different from that of his family, he had not forgotten his origins and held deep respect for his father. When he had requested Idi’s advice after Nkamba approached him about naming her granddaughter, the old man had reminded his son of the importance of precise, unwritten rules that had to be followed and that it would be most advantageous to appeal to the clan’s elders rather than to act discretely. “Your one God may be stronger than the Spirits of the Lake,” the old man had said to his son, “yet it is here where the zeru zeru must live, and to give it a name behind Kondo’s and Zuberi’s backs would be a grave offense. Try to convince them to collaborate with you. Be kind and respectful so they will want to indulge you. Then you may act according to the wishes of your God.”
Standing before Zuberi, Father Andrew had felt as if he were taking an examination given by a man who he held in disesteem; however, he had been aware that he needed to ingratiate himself, and he had prayed for strength to hold his tongue, which, with the help of God he had, until he was outside the hut. “Who does that charlatan think he is? God will punish him for his arrogance!”
Idi walked alongside his son. “Your God is powerless against our traditions. Changes need time, not threats. Forget about Zuberi for now, and let’s pay a visit to Kondo,” he said, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder. “He knows the secret of balance. Plus, he has always been especially fond of Nkamba and might be inclined to extend her the favor.”
Kondo’s house sat in the central part of the village, protected by mango and acacia trees. The chief was expecting Father Andrew’s visit. He remembered well Nkamba’s countenance on the day of her granddaughter’s escape from death—the expression of a suffering mother. He had seen her attend Mass and imagined her solitude. He knew that sooner or later, she would go to the priest and his God. It was for this reason that he had deferred the decision on whether the zeru zeru should live—any request she brought to him would be difficult to deny.
“And, so, Zuberi sent you away from his house,” said Kondo. “He is ill-mannered, but do you want him as your enemy?”
Idi hastened to respond on his son’s behalf. “No, the shaman was preoccupied when we intruded on him. We are ready to forget his offensive behavior so long as my son can give a name to the child, according to the will of his God.”
Kondo rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I speak to you, Idi, with an empty mouth. As a village elder, I trust you understand how difficult this situation is.” Kondo paused.
The only sound in the room came from a fly that lifted in flight.
“Idi, if I follow the will of your son’s God, I will disappoint many people. If I listen to the Spirits of the Lake, I will disappoint fewer, yet other problems will remain.” Kondo drank some tea and filled cups for his guests. “…The most important one has to do precisely with a name for the zeru zeru,” he added, as if he were talking to himself. “Never mind that the father made a public pronouncement that the baby would have no name.”
Idi nodded. Father Andrew shifted nervously on the mat where he was sitting.
“Allow me time to think of a solution. When I have decided, I will let you know,” said Kondo.
That evening Kondo refused the supper his wife had prepared. In the depths of the night, he stepped out of his hut and withdrew to a place under the great baobab. He needed solitude in order to reflect. Although for many, many rainy seasons, he had mediated the relations among inhabitants of the village, his old soul told him that this time too many forces conflicted, and the traditions of his people were like leaves on the winds. Idi was a good man. He came with respect to ask for justice from the head of his village, and he deserved to be satisfied. A slight breeze uncovered the full moon from behind wisps of sheetlike clouds. Yes, Idi’s request deserved to be granted. As for Zuberi, he had the manners of a wild buffalo. His ambition made him blind, and his wisdom was barely as deep as a rice bowl. Many of the villagers—too many—were enchanted by his authoritative ways and his inflated promises. People follow those who speak loudest without paying attention to the meaning of their words, he thought with a touch of bitterness. Allowing Idi’s son to give a name to the zeru zeru could be the perfect opportunity to establish a new equilibrium. It might reduce Zuberi’s influence in the community, even if, in doing so, he would give greater credit to Father Andrew’s God. Hadn’t the Spirits of the Lake already decided that the child should live? Almost certainly, in this circumstance, the gods of Ukerewe and Father Andrew were in agreement. And how relieved Nkamba will be. In consensus, there is peace, asserted Kondo, and if the Greater Spirits are in harmony, there is no reason why men should not be so as well. He leaned his head against the trunk of the tree and looked up. The baobab was in flower; it was the blooming season. The large white hairy blossoms that hung among the leaves would bloom for this one night. It could only be a good sign.
It was decided. He would go personally to Zuberi. Dawn appeared in the indigo sky. On Kondo’s way home, red beams—streaking through the chill and the sun, seeming so close to Earth as to threaten it—rose with haste above the horizon.
7.
Zuberi did not expect the visit from the village chief, nor did he imagine Kondo would take Father Andrew’s request seriously. Just the same, the leader had come to his home in person to raise the question, a sign of respect
and consideration of his position. They shared ugali[5] and fish, and Kondo spoke with him as if they were equals.
“There cannot be any harm if the zeru zeru receives a name,” he said. “The Spirits of the Lake have already spoken through the animals, choosing life over death. Am I wrong?”
“Yes, so true. If, however, Sefu refuses to give a name to that creature, we have to respect him,” declared Zuberi, his face solemn.
Kondo was quick to explain that neither he nor Sefu would be burdened with that inconvenience. “The priest and his God will give a name to the embulamaro.”
A shadow of doubt crossed Zuberi’s mind. What sort of power did Kondo attribute to the priest? he wondered. Who gave Mosi the right to decide the name for a member of the community? He considered if Kondo was plotting to depose him and replace him with the one-god priest! Ah, he forgot, they were speaking about a zeru zeru, a nobody that would never be accepted as a living being. Mosi could do what he wanted. Zuberi took three black cowrie-shell amulets from his pocket, threw them to the ground, pronounced magic words, and declared, “Nkamba shall choose the name, not the young charlatan. On this Earth, people follow the will of the Spirits of the Lake, not the futile desires of a foreign god.”
Kondo nodded in silence.
“Although he is called ‘Father Andrew’ now, to us, he is always Mosi, the son of a poor farmer,” added Zuberi, his eyebrows pulling down tight.
The head of the village left Zuberi’s hut to complete his final task: to speak with Sefu so that he would feel included in the decision. He set out for the father’s house as soon as the sun was beginning to set and a breeze cooled the way.
Then She Was Born Page 3