“In here are the amulets and ritual ornaments from my innumerable ancestors,” said the witch doctor as he inserted a key into the padlock. “They go back to the time when Ukerewe emerged from the water of the lake. My lineage spoke directly to the primordial spirits. These most powerful totems and jujus will remain at rest until the day I need them.”
Kondo stepped forward to examine the contents of the chest: pendants, headdresses, fabric panels. What does this have to do with the zeru zeru? Kondo asked himself, looking suspiciously at the village shaman.
Zuberi closed the lid of the chest and moved closer to Kondo. “It survived the trial of the beasts, the Spirits of the Lake pronounced themselves in its favor, and now it has a name—though sanctified by that charlatan Mosi,” said the healer with a flash of irony in his voice. “We can let the zeru zeru live on the island until the time comes.”
“Like the objects inside the chest?” asked Kondo.
“Yes, like the magic inside this chest.” Zuberi flashed a knowing look at the village chief as though they were speaking in their own clandestine language.
“I would have thought you’d be happy it was in the white people’s hands. It’s a good way to be rid of it,” Kondo said. “You must promise me that you will not harm the zeru zeru.”
Zuberi shook his head. “The time will come when it will be useful. Besides, Sefu is adamant. He wants his mother to have it,” he added.
“We have to respect Sefu’s will. We must remain vigilant and protect the embulamaro so it’s not stolen a second time,” Kondo said.
“Amulets made from zeru zeru bodies are the strongest of all,” mumbled Zuberi under his breath. “Yes, we must protect it until the right moment.”
Jackob and Sefu were waiting in Zuberi’s house proper for the two elders to, once again, decide the fate of the zeru zeru. Sefu had calmed down and was staring at the fire. Both men jumped when the door opened. The witch doctor and the head of the village walked with slow steps into the room where Jackob and Sefu sat.
“Sefu is right,” said Kondo to Jackob. “Go to your mzungu[9] and tell him that the zeru zeru must remain in the community into which it was born. It must be returned to Nkamba.”
Jackob reached into his pocket. “Mr. Charles gave me these.” He held out the bills. “To make amends.”
“They are for Sefu,” said Kondo. “He is the one who has been offended, and reparation should go to him.”
Sefu pressed his palm on the smooth blue plastic surface of the table. How can I accept payment for the disgrace of being the presumed father of a white shadow? he asked himself. He would take the money, though it wasn’t adequate compensation for the humiliating event.
He spied Zuberi who appeared spellbound by the bills. Sefu had no notion that Zuberi envisioned being handed an even greater stack of bills, one day, thanks to the zeru zeru.
13.
Jackob drove at a slow pace toward White House. The tropical night had rolled a shaker of dice to disseminate a sky full of stars, and an orange moon hung between the interlaced branches of mango trees like a nugget pendant worn around Heaven’s neck. The mission had gone well. Mrs. Fielding’s proposal coincided with Sefu’s interests. His boss would be pleased, and the ugly event would conclude without consequences.
White House appeared in the distance, illuminated by torches in the garden. Jackob pondered the building’s magnificence: it was truly worthy of a king. He found Charles sitting on the veranda in a seagrass rush chair, immersed in the newspaper.
“How are you, sir?”
Charles wavered. He seemed tired, and his eyes were puffy and red. “Have you resolved the matter?”
Jackob took on a solemn air. “Tomorrow morning you can bring the child to her family as your wife wishes. I was able to convince them to take her back and to have you present at the transaction. It was difficult sir, but I did it.”
“Thank you, my friend. Thank you.” Charles rose from the chair and patted Jackob on the back.
Jackob’s employer was stingy with compliments. “My friend.” Those two words were balm for his soul. He would have wagged his tail if he had had one. Just then, Sarah appeared on the threshold. She was wearing a light robe that grazed the floor, her hair was down, and she was massaging the back of her neck. She looked radiant. She sat in a green canvas armchair and joined the men. “So?” she asked Jackob.
“The village chief has decided, madam. The zeru zeru must be returned to her family tomorrow. He has conceded that you and your husband may bring her to them, though only if that is what you prefer.”
Sarah hung her head, pinching the skin between her eyes, and stood up. “Tonight you’ll sleep alone, Charles. I’ll stay in the room with the child.”
Charles exhaled and watched her walk away with decisive steps, her robe fluttering in the dim evening light.
“Go ahead, Jackob. It’s been a long day for you too.”
His assistant hesitated, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “There is one last thing, sir.”
“What is it?” Charles asked with alarm.
“I should like to suggest that you and your wife pay a visit to the healer to thank him for his interest in this matter.”
For Jackob, this would flaunt his connection to the wealthy and famous white man and would provide an occasion to augment his prestige in the village. Besides, a visit to Zuberi would be an extra guarantee for the child: the life of an embulamaro was precarious, and Jackob wanted to keep problems in the future from arising between Mr. and Mrs. Fielding. He anticipated at every turn what was best for his boss.
“Impossible,” said Charles. “I want nothing more to do with this baby, and, in any case, Sarah would refuse. She is English.” He paused and then added, “She has always avoided relations with those types of people.”
Jackob shrugged off the insult as he so often had to do when dealing with whites. “Zuberi is very influential in the village. If you secure his favor, the child will walk on streets free of mud. Just as your wife wants,” insisted Jackob. “Furthermore,” he added with fervor, “he is the most prestigious shaman. His skills as a fortune-teller are well known throughout the island. His friendship and influence could bring you good luck in business.”
“Ah, really? My business is thriving without magic. In any case, I’ll go if it will help protect the child and, especially, if it keeps our paths from ever again crossing with the child’s.” He added in a low voice, “Seeing her is bad for Sarah.”
Jackob thought of how radiant Mrs. Fielding had looked. He said, “I will accompany you to his home myself. Until morning, sir.”
“Wait. Sarah mustn’t know of our conversation. Tomorrow, suggest visiting Zuberi on the spur of the moment, if you get what I mean.”
“Of course, sir. As you wish. Good night.”
Charles remained alone on the veranda. That mysterious feeling of regret, that strange sense of guilt toward his wife, welled up in him. And, yet, he had given her everything a woman could desire: houses, trips, money, Italian clothes, and his love. Perhaps most importantly, he had given her his respect. He thought of his mother. He couldn’t imagine having Sarah look at him in the way his mother had looked at his father the mornings after Finley had spent a night on the town: his mother’s eyes flat with disappointment, the expression of a dog whose joy had been beaten out of it by its master. He would avoid inflicting such pain on Sarah. He would always be true to her.
Sarah was lucky to have him as her husband. The day he proposed marriage was when her good luck commenced.
Ah, women, he thought. Capricious and moody like the weather but such delicious beings! It would be difficult, maybe impossible for him to live without Sarah—her practicality, her integrity. She was his island of goodness and happiness, a safe haven from which to depart in the morning and return at night, a place for him to be restored. Charles knew how angry Sarah would be if he suggested they visit the witch doctor. She abhorred superstition and religion. She ha
d insisted they be married in a civil ceremony, even though that wasn’t his preference. “God does not exist, Charles,” she’d said. “There’s nothing up there. Each person constructs their own destiny with the help of others on Earth.” He had conceded to her wishes, though doing so went against his better judgment. His Christian faith was mercurial, but he bet on playing it safe rather than risk antagonizing some omnipotence. In the end, who can affirm God’s existence one way or the other?
Charles had heard of shamans’ nonpareil powers—how the strongest of them communicate directly with the ancient spirits—and he couldn’t help but envision how such a man might help him with the business decision he had been obsessing about. He would have to convince Sarah, make her understand that taking a short detour to visit the healer was in the child’s best interest. Too difficult to explain the truth, thought Charles as he yawned. Much better a small innocent lie.
He folded the newspaper and went into the house. Just before falling asleep, Jackob’s words returned to him: His friendship and influence could bring you good luck in business. When in doubt, best not to displease anyone, he reminded himself, a lesson he took from his father. It was preferable to have gods and spirits on his side. He laughed to himself. He lay on his back, enjoying the cool silk bed sheets. As sleep came and carried him away, he was thinking how he needed all the help he could get for his new endeavor.
14.
Sarah climbed the stairs, bearing an invisible heavy weight. How many empty rooms, she thought as she dragged herself along the corridor. The door to the room where the baby lay was ajar. Adimu slept in the queen-sized bed near the window. Sarah had surrounded her with pillows to keep her safe from the edges of the mattress and had unknotted the insect net.
In the afternoon, once she’d succeeded in calming the child, she spoon-fed Adimu ugali and creamed chicken prepared by the cook. “Good girl,” Sarah had cooed, kissing her with each bite eaten and caressing her golden hair.
She sat on a chair next to the bed and drew the insect net aside. She watched the baby’s pink eyelids quiver as she dreamed. Sarah looked at the chubby legs, her rounded, fleshy feet and felt her heart take a dive. She remained like that, absorbed, until her back ached. She considered lying next to the child to sleep with her and immediately decided against it. She would watch over her until the morning. She would stay present, vigilant, ready to protect her. She could see that the child was well cared for and that made her feel tenderness toward her caregiver. The baby whimpered in her sleep, and a memory emerged, one that had been hiding in the corridor of Sarah’s mind since the mystery woman had left Adimu in her husband’s lap.
It was the last time she’d seen him. Her father. She was eating cereal when he lopped down the stairs. He sat beside her in the kitchen and asked her to plunk herself on his lap. She refused, though hugged him, and he hugged her so tight that it scared her. He kissed her forehead and told her he loved her and to get ready for school.
He was found with a rope around his neck, she had been told when she was quite a bit older. She couldn’t help but feel that if she had said something different, if she had sat on his lap, he might not have done it. Because he took his own life, there was no priest at the memorial—just Sarah, her mother, and an aunt who she hadn’t known, a big sister to a father she adored. Her mother explained that the memorial was a way to say goodbye to him, though she anticipated his return. Sarah thought about the months that followed. Her classmates’ comments. The looks from people on the street, the silence into which her mother had withdrawn, her nocturnal tears. She remembered the meaning of the words that, until then, she had ignored—“sin,” “godless.” Suicide. The shameful word, that was overheard between sobs during a conversation between her mother and aunt. That was the day she understood she would never see her father again. That word would torment her for the rest of her life. It would be ever-present, lying in ambush like a guard dog, ferocious, ready to wake up and bite at any moment. She was certain that if she had been by his side and did what he had asked, her father would have desisted from his purpose. She had refused to protect him.
Protecting the child would be her redemption. She looked at her engagement ring, its three carats catching the subdued light. She thought about what that stone signified for her. Not the aesthetic or material value but its promise of endless love. Nevertheless, she would give away even that symbol if it meant keeping the child with her. Her heart jumped at the thought.
She heard her husband open and close the tap in the bathroom. She resisted the temptation to speak with him about the yearning she was drowning in. In England, Charles had seemed anxious to have her as a part of his world. Strong. Determined to protect her. Where was that Charles who she had married only five years earlier? It was almost as though a twin had taken her loving husband’s place. Almost as though the Charles she had married removed a mask and was showing his true fearful, feckless, angry face. Adimu gurgled and coughed several times. Sarah leaned over to make sure the child was well and caressed her cheek.
15.
News of Adimu’s kidnapping spread as quickly through Murutanga as the barking of dogs on a quiet night. When Juma heard of it, she lifted her face and opened her palms toward the heavens. But then regret took hold of her, and she quickly crossed her arms over her chest. Sefu’s first wife, Afua, was visiting her sister who’d given birth in a village on the mainland, and she had taken their children. Juma took her rival’s absence to mean this was the right moment to speak with Sefu. They were still husband and wife and, despite his denial, the zeru zeru was their offspring. Juma felt she needed—and had the right—to express her opinion.
In the evening, she washed and dressed with care. She rubbed coconut oil on her soft belly; on her breasts, which were still firm and high like they had been before the birth; and on her strong thighs. She braided her hair and put on the beaded bracelets her husband had given her as a wedding gift. She glanced at her photo of Sefu that she had set on a stool. A NGO worker had taken it of Sefu beside a flourishing crop of corn, beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. He had been proud of that photograph, as was she. Every night, since he’d left, Juma lit a candle in front of that picture of her husband. Illuminated by the soft light, his face kept her company during her solitary hours and kept alive her hope that the Spirits of the Lake would lead him back to her. Drawing on her remaining courage, she went to visit his other home.
When approaching his hut, she held her breath. Her heart raced. She heard a woman talking with her husband. Could Afua have returned? she wondered. Leaning into the front door, Juma recognized the woman’s voice. She rested against a tree trunk and exhaled. She imagined that her husband’s cousin Yunis must have come to find out about the kidnapping. Juma would hide among the bushes, close enough to hear while out of sight until her best friend departed.
The morning after the dark-eyed woman had left Adimu with the Fieldings, she returned home, upset, and told her husband her version of what had happened in the forest. He advised her to confide in Sefu that very day. And so it was that husband and wife went to visit and explain.
“I took the embulamaro. I wanted to abandon it in the forest as an offering to the Spirits. I did it out of friendship, cousin Sefu,” she said. She inhaled deeply as if she had come up from the depths of the lake for air. “I wanted to relieve you of your burden.”
Only Yunis knew the truth. What happened in the forest was still fresh in her mind: the temptation to escape from the island with the baby. She remembered Adimu’s tiny lips latched onto her sterile breast. How she had wished her breasts swelled with milk to nourish the creature! She’d been trapped like a bird in a snare and coerced into desiring the child’s well-being. “Baby girl, not zeru zeru,” she had whispered to the child, rubbing her nose on the infant’s tiny one. Her joy had been so immense at the thought of Adimu safe with the white couple that it surely could not have been demonical, could it have been? Demons generate hate and evil. The sensations that had s
heathed her body had been good and loving; they were maternal feelings. The woman had always hoped she’d experience the feelings of a mother: now she had. She shuddered and put her arms around her body in shame. She banished her memories into the depths of her being, deeper and deeper where they could remain buried forever. She lifted her head and stared into her cousin’s eyes, pretending to express disdain for the baby.
“I hate the zeru zeru as much as I am disgusted by what I have done and the pain I’ve caused through my recklessness, dear cousin. I beg you to forgive me,” she said, dropping to her knees before Sefu’s rigid gaze.
“I believe you, cousin,” he said to the young woman. He expressed to her that her experience in the forest was additional proof of the maleficence of the zeru zeru, that it was best for him, for their clan, to have the fiend removed from their lives.
“I forgive you, Yunis. You acted for the good of the clan. I hope you are aware of the zeru zeru’s power and that you will, from now on, behave as I do and not deign it with a glance.”
Juma listened to her friend confess, shivering as she pressed herself against the bark of the tree. The tremor began in her belly and radiated out to the ends of her limbs. Why did Yunis act without first coming to her? Had Juma really become so insignificant? Invisible, that’s what she was. She would be better off dead by her own hand. Her legs tired from holding herself up, and she crumpled to the ground.
Hearing Sefu’s deep voice startled her.
“Why to the white man?” Sefu demanded. “Don’t you realize this dishonors me? Taking the zeru zeru to him suggests that he is the real father.”
“That was not my intention,” Yunis stressed. “The evil creature took charge of me while we were in the forest and guided my steps. Its magic made me go to the wasungu. The white shadow possessed me.”
Then She Was Born Page 6