Charles poured a glass of wine for himself and took a sip. “I know that. I may be European but I’m also African. Don’t forget I was born here. I know about my continent’s problems better than you. How is it that you know about infectious diseases?”
Sarah sat down next to him. “Haven’t you ever noticed the vehicle parked in Murutanga with the hand-painted red cross?”
“Yes, it’s an ambulance.”
Sarah chuckled. “An ambulance? No, it’s a mobile testing-lab for AIDS, Charles!”
“Oh, come on. I can’t believe that.”
“It’s true, ask Jackob. You’ll see, he’ll tell you. He’s already confirmed it for me.”
“So,” he said as he leaned back in his chair, “are you telling me there’s an AIDS problem on this island? It’s so isolated. I never would have guessed.”
“Of course there is. Ukerewe is part of Africa.”
“Hmm.” Charles looked left and right before whispering in Sarah’s ear. “Okay, I promise to add women’s and children’s services at the hospital. As for the AIDS testing, I want our employees here at White House to have it. Including Jackob. You never know.”
22.
When Charles first saw his company’s financial statement, he thought he was having problems with his eyes. Something was wrong. According to the business plan for the new mine, it should have started to turn a profit after five years. But not only wasn’t it bringing in money, the profits from the first mine were being absorbed by the excavation costs of the second. Surely this trend will turn around soon, thought Charles.
He spent a sleepless night, shifting positions from the force of the hands of worry while the hands of anxiety massaged his thoughts. Nevertheless, a voice in his head chanted that his financial setback was only a small detour on the path of a great industrialist who was destined to hold a place in history. After all, he had a lucky charm. He admired how it glittered under the small lamp with the green silk shade. He imagined looking at himself from below: imposing, outlined against the sky, white like a statue. A marble statue—Carrara marble, certainly not plaster. He poked at his thighs to make certain they hadn’t yet turned to stone.
A hospital with my name on it, he thought. What a grand idea. Hundreds of people saved, thanks to me. Their eternal gratitude will be mine. No, I can’t abandon the project. Every problem has its own perfect solution, no need to panic.
The islanders shared Mr. Fielding’s worries about the future.
“For seasons now, we have been pulling empty fishing nets onto our boats,” said a disgruntled fisherman while he mended the boat’s already often-patched cotton sail.
“Not even reducing the mesh has worked,” said another, who was gazing at the lake, thinking about the good old days when fishermen gathered on the dock with cold beers in hand after long periods spent in the water, trying to outdo each other with the number of fish they’d caught.
“When I was a small boy and fished with my father, there were hundreds of kinds of fish. The Spirits of the Lake graced us then. Now there are only Nile perch and tilapia.”
“I say all those kinds of fish are still here, only they’ve learned how to stay out of the nets! They’ve outsmarted us,” shouted an old fisherman who, together with some of the others, was trying out a new method that saved on the cost of fuel. He extended a large net from the beach to his boat that was anchored at a distance. Weights held down the net. From his boat, he pulled the gill net parallel to the shore for about a hundred yards. Then two fishermen pulled the net onto the beach to form a crescent moon in the water to catch the few small fish.
A woman, intent on washing clothes, watched the fish flop silver on the beach. She picked one up by its tail. “They’re not even good for soup. The bigger ones end up at the market in Mwanza, and we have to feed our children with the bones.”
From the day he had accompanied the Fieldings to Zuberi, Jackob enjoyed—as he’d hoped— greater prestige among the villagers, and, in particular, in the eyes of the healer. One morning, the young man went to Zuberi to tell him of his employer’s new, incredible undertaking.
“It will be a modern hospital where the best doctors in the country will work,” he declared, his eyes bright with pride. “Mr. Fielding has already made contact with the central government that will run it, and soon construction will begin.”
Though Zuberi pretended to be happy about the news, his mind quickly went to work on a solution to what he considered an insidious threat. An efficient hospital would mean he’d lose patients, and this was to be avoided. Jackob went on to jabber about the usual villagers while Zuberi was so engrossed in his cogitations that he heard only half of the gossip. Not even the news that Jackob would soon have a second child attracted his attention.
The witch doctor was aware he could not directly block a man as powerful as Charles Fielding and, surely, he shouldn’t voice his dissent. Jackob was like a dog when it came to his master: he would run to the white man with the news in his mouth, hoping for a bone and a pat on his head.
After the two men said their goodbyes, Zuberi shouted out, “Jackob, wait. Tell the mzungu that I’ll favor his project with a good luck gift. I’ll make the first brick myself.”
Jackob trotted back. “I’m sure Mr. Fielding will appreciate your gesture,” he said, squeezing Zuberi’s hands as a sign of gratitude.
Zuberi locked himself in his workroom. He needed to find the most potent curse for the foreigner’s project. The evil spell could be worked into a brick, and from there it would propagate through the foundation of the building and impede its completion. The shaman went to the old wooden chest. It had remained closed since that evening, years before, when he’d shown it to Kondo. He pushed aside the objects stacked on top of it and threw the heavy red carpet that covered it onto the floor. A cloud of dust rose and a multitude of spiders crawled in every direction. Zuberi panted as he dug through the amulets and venerated ornaments inside the chest. Jane watched him with curiosity from her perch on a shelf.
If only one of his ancestors would appear and give him the solution! Such magic had never transpired for him, though he had been told stories of a great-great uncle who often received visitations. This hospital could compromise his position, forever. It could ruin everything. The official medicine of doctors carried the same seed of doom as Father Andrew’s God. Both were invented by wazungu to pilfer the soul of my people and plunder the wealth of my land, Zuberi thought. And, most importantly, they threaten me. I am Zuberi, the infallible shaman and healer who soon will have unending trust and respect. Everyone must turn to me for help.
As Zuberi lined up various ingredients and considered the most efficient formula to enhance the spell, a clap of thunder came from the sky. Jane pricked her ears and lifted her upper lip to reveal her sharp canine and then ran to hide under the table. The rainy season was beginning, the eighth one since their zeru zeru was born. Zuberi picked up Jane and held her while he watched the lightning crackle through the window. Mosi and the white man were like water during the first rains of the season—they slid over the dry, clayey earth without soaking in. They did not worry him. He was the good rain—the water that, little by little, worked its way into the deepest cracks of the earth to make the soil fertile. It was about time to put to use his lucky omen that the Spirits of the Lake saved for his advantage.
Jackob’s wife gave birth to a healthy boy. The young father was in seventh heaven. So many years had passed with only a daughter to show for their time together. Could a greater joy exist? Jackob embraced his wife who was still sore from the birth. As he held her tight in his arms, he begged her to grant him a wish that he had harbored for many years. He wanted to call his firstborn son after his employer.
“You know how much a name influences the destiny of a man, and I want to give my child an important name,” he said to her. “Have you ever met a more extraordinary person than Mr. Fielding? We’ll call our son ‘Charles.’ For the benefit of the clan, he can be kno
wn as ‘Amri,’” Jackob added.
“Why must our son have two names? If that’s what you want, we’ll call him ‘Charles’ only.”
“Mr. Fielding would be offended if he knew the son of a simple man like me had been given his name.”
His wife looked at Jackob, unable to understand how such a thing could offend someone.
“He will be Charles at home, and everyone else will call him Amri,” concluded Jackob, taking advantage of his wife’s hesitation.
To herself she thought, No, we will call him Charles.
23.
From the day her grandmother had told her that only a white girl could be her friend, Adimu dreamed of a playmate with pale skin. She thought about her so often that she was able to describe her features in detail. Going to school one morning, Adimu saw a doll on the ground, and it was her same color. She it picked it up. It was dirty and had a hole in place of an eye, and it was missing one arm. A tuft of blond hair, caked with mud, hung on one side. Its dress was little more than a scrap of fabric. Adimu examined every detail of the doll that had fallen into a state of disrepair, and, in a fit of compassion, she hugged it to her chest. It had been abandoned. Now it would be hers, and she would call it “Adimu,” just like her. Along the road to school, she found a place to hide her treasure, behind a bush that was before the clearing where the other students crowded.
In the evening she showed her grandmother what she had found. “Look, Bibi,” she said. “I found a white girl, just like me! I hid her so no one will take her.”
Nkamba laughed. “In that sorry state, you don’t need to worry about anyone stealing her from you,” she said. “Tomorrow we will go to the lake to wash her.”
“Will you make her a dress?” asked Adimu, trying to pass her fingers through the doll’s muddy hair. It was a real toy, and the best surrogate friend she could imagine.
Adimu had no idea that before too long the opportunity she had always dreamed of would present itself, that she would have a best friend who was a live girl and just like her. The chain of events leading up to that miraculous meeting began one afternoon during that rainy season. The roads had been reduced to slurry, but that did not stop a dozen children from gathering near the village mill at a secondary path that linked the forest to the main road, beyond which extended the cultivated fields. The children stood alongside bags full of cassava and maize that waited to be ground. They had seen Adimu lingering and, as always, they ignored her. Adimu was playing alone, bouncing a ball of rags against the wall and then running to catch it on the fly before it fell. The sky was heavy with clouds, and there was a slight breeze.
“Zeru zeru!” a voice rang out.
She turned and squinted. The wad of rags bounced near, landing in a puddle of water and mud.
“Zeru zeru!”
The voice came from the forest’s cavern of darkness. A branch snapped, and shapes moved among the thick vegetation. She felt like prey, an extra sense she had developed that was deeply ingrained in Adimu by her grandmother. The little girl was in danger. She should run away, yell that someone was stealing the herd as Nkamba had taught her. Instead Adimu’s vision darkened, and she remained paralyzed as if waiting for destiny to decide her fate for her, the way a stalked and mortally wounded animal resigns itself to the inevitable.
One boy, Antony, understood what was happening. He ran to Adimu, hooked her arm and shoved her toward the storeroom of the mill, pushing her behind a pile of sacks. The other children were still. They looked toward the forest. They were paralyzed too. Three tall men emerged from the vegetation and ran in the direction of the building. One of them had a long scar that crossed his entire face, transforming his mouth into a grimace. The men, armed with heavy sticks and machetes, searched the area.
The tallest of the men entered the storeroom and kicked the sacks, hitting them with his club. Threadbare canvas tore, and piles of grain poured out. Adimu felt the blows land on the bags. She felt the booming move closer and closer. Though her back ached under the weight of the sack that hid her, she remained immobile—her head between her knees, eyes closed, breath locked in her chest. Her life was hanging by a thread, and her only thought was of Antony’s hands. He had touched her! Without being afraid and without her having to give him anything in return. He had saved her.
One of the men was so close to where Adimu had curled up that she thought he had found her. She willed her body to be still, including her pounding heart, although it raced even faster. The man continued on. After long minutes of searching, the three of them approached the children who were standing near the wall where Adimu’s ball of rags was lying. The smallest children were crying. Antony was the only one who looked straight at the men, keeping his gaze from wandering toward Adimu’s hiding place.
“Where did it go?” shouted the stockiest of the three. He was sweating and puffing as if he were standing under the scorching sun, even though the air was cool.
“I don’t know, mister. We were just playing among ourselves,” replied Antony, his voice steady.
“Damn,” said the man with the disfigured face. “The evil thing must have vanished.”
The men circled the mill again like hungry hyenas that smell blood and death in the air. As quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared.
“Keep playing as if nothing happened,” Antony whispered to the children, and he, too, continued with their game, shooting sidelong glances at the bags of grain to be sure Adimu stayed hidden. When he was certain the strangers were far away, he went to the storeroom.
“Mzungu, you can come out now. They’re gone.”
Adimu knew it might be a trap. She had disobeyed her grandmother by going off to play with the children, and she had been unable to react as she knew she was supposed to. She would be dead if the men took her. Her grandmother would be alone. She thought of Kikete and how he was lazy so he could care for his brothers, and she knew that her job was to take care of her bibi.
Antony kicked the sack. “I said, come out, zeru zeru!” He climbed onto the big, rough bags and moved them one by one. Adimu was still crouched with her head between her legs, and Antony had to tug at her to get her to emerge. Her face was frozen in its frightened expression. The sky was still cloudy, a strip of blue peeking out between the gray.
Adimu expected to see the bad men jump out from the bushes or from behind a tree. Cautiously, her face contracted into a half smile and tears dampened her cheeks. She didn’t try to speak until the lump in her throat disappeared.
“Thank you for saving my life,” she finally said to Antony. She looked at the other children who had scattered around her. “Thank you,” she said again. They seemed as perplexed as she was and did not reply.
“We’re taking the boat to go fishing,” said Antony. “Do you want to come?”
She could hardly believe her ears. If someone had invited her only an hour before, she would have refused without a moment’s thought. She had not forgotten Nkamba’s warnings. But after Antony saved her life and the other children helped him, her defenses were weakened. However, she hesitated all the same.
“Come on, zeru zeru. If we wanted to hurt you, we would have given you up!” urged Antony.
That was true. They protected me, thought Adimu.
Only a few of the children went. On the way to the lake, they spoke among themselves, ignoring her. Adimu kept up alongside the group. Her prayer was slowly coming true. When they got to the boat, the children sat at the back and she sat in the prow, like Antony told her.
Adimu did not know how to swim, and she told herself not to look down into the dark water as the boat moved away from the shore. Best to look at the sky where her joy came from. Even if no one says a word to me, I am here with them. One day they’ll understand I’m not dangerous. I’ll be their friend, she thought to herself. She watched the water on the lake form whitecaps; the air was damp and there was a breeze. It would soon start raining.
When they returned to the shore, Adimu got out of
the boat and, with a wave of her hand, she said goodbye to her companions in adventure. She did not give much importance to the fact that no one replied, and while Antony tied up the boat, she skipped away, anxious to tell her grandmother.
When Adimu was almost home, she realized how late it was and quickened her pace. Her grandmother would surely be worried. Adimu found her bibi behind their hut, preparing supper.
“Where have you been? I was worried!”
“Bibi, you’ll never believe it! Today Antony and the other children protected me from three strangers, and then I went in the boat with them. We went fishing. And they told me they had never gone so far from the shore,” she said all in one breath.
Nkamba felt an icy shiver run along her spine.
Adimu’s face clouded. “Why do you look sad?”
Three strangers: Nkamba’s worst fear. A band of zeru zeru hunters. Rich and powerful scoundrels paid those killers to obtain embulamaro, dead or alive, to make amulets and potions. Then the village children took her out on the lake in their boat, and Adimu thought it was a gesture of friendship, but it was the exact opposite: Adimu was in danger. Adimu was growing up, and her bibi could no longer protect her. The time had come to contact the community in Tanga. She remembered that she had buried the special piece of paper the lady doctor had given her and immediately trudged to the old tree where it lay in wait to be dug up. She prayed to the Spirits of the Lake that the last two symbols were readable.
24.
At the end of Mass on the following Sunday, Father Andrew stretched out his arms, a newspaper in his hand, as he approached Nkamba and Adimu.
Then She Was Born Page 11