Then She Was Born

by Cristiano Gentili

  Outside the reception hall, in the direction of the garden, Adimu sat on the ground, next to a bush. She set the fork beside her and lightly touched the dark top of the unusual dessert. A thin layer of cocoa powder dusted her fingers. She tasted it with the tip of her tongue. It was slightly bitter. She poked at it and discovered that under the dusting of chocolate was a layer of light, fluffy cream, and below that was another dark layer that was moist and porous. She stuck her tongue into the hole she’d made with her finger. Nothing so good had ever been victim of her taste buds.

  Adimu ate quickly, licking her fingers and lips. She ate half of her dessert and saved the rest for her grandmother. Then she set the plate aside, next to the fork, closed her eyes, and thought about how lucky she was. She was at a party, no one had sent her away, and the white woman from the grocery had even served her. She reflected that only another person like herself could be so kind to her, like the woman doctor who had examined her when she was little. She thought, Bibi is right. Only a girl like me will ever be my friend. She looked at her plate, at the slice of dessert for her bibi, the dark powder mixed with the delicious white cream. With her finger, she cleaned off the edge of the plate. Then she licked a little of the cacao and closed her eyes. The extraordinary sweetness filled her mouth; the temptation was stronger than her good intentions. Greedily she ate the rest of it and cleaned the plate as if she were cleansing her conscience. She would go inside and get another portion for her grandmother. Maybe she would run into the woman who had helped her.

  Adimu stood up and, while she straightened the pleats of her dress, she heard a man’s voice, the same deep one with the hovering end-sounds. It was Mr. Fielding, she was sure of it. Peeking around the corner of the building, she saw him, in his white suit, talking on the phone in a language she didn’t know. He seemed upset and walked back and forth, waving one arm in the air. He was headed in her direction. Adimu couldn’t decide whether to run or to risk it all and look him in the face. Then she froze where she was. The man walked past her, engrossed in his conversation, and didn’t seem to notice her. As he pulled his hand from his pocket, a small shiny object slipped out of it and fell onto the lawn.

  Charles walked away, and Adimu ran to where the object fell. With the tall grass and her uncertain vision, she had to get down on her knees to find it. She detected a sparkle and picked it up: a yellow stone hanging from a chain of the same color. It looked like a rock with a tail. It glistened, and it was easy for her to see the light that licked it. Now she had an excuse to get near the man who might be her true father! She thought how lucky this shiny thing was, and forgot about the cake for Nkamba. The only task of any importance was to find Mr. Fielding and give him back the stone. She saw a white spot in the distance. She brought the image into focus and went straight in its direction.

  Charles noticed the girl approaching him and ducked behind three very large men. Ten minutes later, while he was talking with one of the minister’s assistants, he noticed the girl again, lurking. Wants money, like all the others, he was sure. It has to be that Adimu. Maybe she was told what happened between us all those years ago. He excused himself and hurried off in another direction.

  Adimu tried for a third time to approach Mr. Fielding and was now certain that he was intentionally avoiding her. She had learned early on to interpret body language; indeed, it was the most accurate form of dialogue she knew. However, she wasn’t ready to give up. She figured that maybe he thought he was her father, too, and it made him shy. Just like it made her. So she worked her way through the crowd until she found herself to his right, as close to him as three goats. Summoning her shaky confidence, she looked at him. They didn’t seem to share any physical traits, except for the color of their skin.

  Charles, who was sweating, was speaking with a woman wrapped in a lemon yellow dress. He kept his eyes on the white woman in yellow, his large hands flagging at his sides. Adimu observed his fingers, and she thought they looked like her own. Charles abruptly took the woman by the elbow and led her away, turning his back to Adimu who stayed behind, swallowed by the crowd. He cannot be my father, she thought. Otherwise he would have spoken to me.

  Disappointed, she began to leave the clinic without getting more cake, though unexpectedly found herself, again, next to Mr. Fielding, who was chatting with a different white woman. Adimu recognized her voice—she was the one who had helped her get the piece of cake and bought her the ice cream at the grocery. Maybe I can give the stone to the dessert lady and ask her to return it to Mr. Fielding, Adimu considered.

  Adimu waited until the adults stopped talking and Charles walked away. She approached the white woman with long, wavy blond hair, took the woman’s hand, and placed the strange stone in her palm. “The man you were speaking with dropped this. I tried to give it back to him, but I’m invisible to many people. Can you give it to him?”

  Sarah held Adimu’s hand and squeezed it tight. “Thank you very much, Adimu. My name is Sarah.”

  “Adimu is what my bibi calls me. How did you know?”

  “I’ll give it to him.” Sarah bent down and kissed Adimu on both cheeks. “He’s my husband. Come along, let’s get some cake.”

  Neither more dessert nor holding the hand of the wife of the most famous white man on the island could have brought greater joy than receiving two kisses. No one before had ever dared such an expression of affection. Few had ever even touched her. Sarah handed Adimu a plate with two slices of cake on it. Adimu thanked her with a smile that went from ear to ear. Her bibi was right—she was the center of attention!

  She left the reception hall carrying her gift of cake close to her chest. Adimu passed the other villagers with her head held high, ignoring the looks and whispers of disapproval.

  At home, Charles was on the veranda enjoying the evening air as his wife came close and sat on his lap.

  “What a lovely evening. I’m proud of you and sorry I doubted the clinic,” she said, passing her fingers through his hair.

  Charles sighed, letting himself relax under her gentle, caring touch.

  “Do you remember that baby with albinism that was put in your arms shortly after we came to the island? She was at the inauguration.”

  “Yes, I know. I saw her. She was following me,” he replied defensively.

  “Indeed! She told me that it had been impossible to get close to you. She wanted to give you this.” Sarah let the nugget swing in front of her husband’s eyes.

  “Oh, my lucky charm!” he exclaimed, touching his empty pocket. “I thought she wanted money.”

  “Maybe you should lower your guard, dear. Not everyone is interested in your money. There are people who care about you for other reasons,” Sarah said as she kissed the back of his neck and rubbed her ringless finger against his cheek.

  “My dear, I know how these things go. People get close to you with the excuse of friendship, and then they end up demanding that you help them.”

  “Who are you talking about?” she asked, pulling back from Charles.

  “People. In general.”

  Sarah sighed and lifted her palms. “What can I do with you?” she said softly. “You’re obsessive. First your fixation about your weight, then insomnia, and now you believe the world is conspiring against you. I think it’s time to take a vacation. We could go for two or three weeks to England. A change of scenery would do you good.”

  Charles shook his head. “It’s out of the question. I have too many commitments right now.” After regarding his wife’s dissatisfaction, he added, as a concession, “Maybe…sometime in the future, mind you…I can take you to the savannah to see the gnus and zebras. Would that please you?”

  Sarah poured a glass of lemonade for herself from the pitcher on the table next to her husband’s armchair. She drank thirstily.

  “What would please me is to invite the girl to lunch. We should thank her for returning the thing you value most,” she said, thumping the empty glass on the table. “And to apologize for your indif
ference when she tried to return it to you.” The crystal jingled. The sky was veiled, the stars hidden.

  Charles caught his wife’s irony. “It’s useless for me to try and change your mind. I’ll have Jackob contact her,” he promised, electing then and there to forget to mention it to his assistant.

  28.

  With a giant platter of crustaceans in front of him, which he washed down with gold champagne, Mr. Fielding opened his heart to Jackob. He was going through a period of bad luck, he admitted.

  “There could be an evil eye,” Jackob suggested.

  Charles barely heard his assistant. The second mine was not turning a profit, and from a break-even budget, the company was operating at a loss. Selling it, though, would be a sign of weakness, and everyone knew that predators prefer prey that is vulnerable, either due to the malice of man or the cruelty of nature. “There must be more gold on that land, more than decorated the courts of Egyptian pharaohs. But how to bring it to the surface?”

  Jackob listened in silence. When Charles paused, his head bowed over his plate, Jackob proposed an idea. “There is a solution, and it’s right here on the island. Zuberi. People go to Zuberi in times of need. Maybe it’s different in Europe, but here in Tanzania, no one is immune to the magic that rules over everything, and Zuberi can turn it to your favor. That’s how it is in Africa,” Jackob reminded Charles. “He comes from generations of powerful healers. Do you remember the brick he donated for the clinic? It was because of the spell he had worked into it that the building was completed on time. Even though it was funded by you, when does a government project ever open on schedule?”

  Charles seemed vaguely interested. That’s how it is in Africa, Jackob had said. How many times had Charles himself said those same words?

  That night, Charles had a nightmare. He dreamed he’d caught a lethal virus that would kill him in the space of several months. The incurable virus was called “misfortune.”

  Charles bolted awake, blinking in the darkness. He listened to Sarah’s light breath next to him. He wanted to wake her but decided against it. If she knew the extent of his financial troubles, she would leave him, or she would suggest he sell the business. It was easy for her to proclaim disinterest in his money so long as she lived under the fanciest roof and was driven in a Rolls Royce. Initially Charles felt stung when his wife had announced she was removing his ancestral ring from her finger. He had never considered she would be able to live without her lucky charm. Once he became used to the idea, though, he believed it was for the best, that there was no place safer for the precious gem than in their safe. It wasn’t as though she had thrown the ring away. He was certain if he had no designer clothes to offer her, she would be gone. He was sure of it, even if she wasn’t. Sometimes those closest to you know you better than you know yourself, he thought.

  His heartbeat accelerated, and air stumbled through his tightened windpipe. He struggled to get out of bed and down the stairs—the fresh fat around his waist made moving more difficult—and he flung open the door to step out onto the veranda.

  He felt a little better in the fresh air. He collapsed into an armchair and sucked oxygen into his lungs as questions raced through his mind. I know how things work in Africa, don’t I? Is the blood that flows through my veins that of my ancestors or the blood of this land? God Almighty, where is this misfortune coming from?

  The white man’s science had failed him. Geologists had said there was a low concentration of gold in the soil at the new site. And African wisdom had been of little help. The diviners kept wandering over the tract of land without even the slightest pull on their wands. There was only one option left. He would go to Zuberi.

  He would ask Jackob to make an appointment for the weekend and would sneak off without Sarah knowing.

  Charles jumped when he heard rustling from a bush near the parapet of the veranda. He sharpened his vision and saw two shining eyes. He remained still, his muscles tense. Has evil finally arrived? he wondered. The pair of golden irises sprang out from the vegetation. Charles braced himself. A small, fluffy stray dog trotted toward the garden.

  Sarah liked to keep the gate open at night, something about feeling unconfined. He would order the guards to close it starting that day. Who knows what might wander in? For once, his wife would have to obey him.

  Zuberi was waiting for them in the yard and stepped forward when they arrived. “Welcome to my home,” he said, extending his arm toward the door and displaying a radiant smile.

  Inside the room, two villagers, who were sitting on the ground, looked at Charles with fear, hiding their faces in their hands when he greeted them.

  “Patients persecuted by evil spirits. Their minds are disturbed,” explained Zuberi.

  Charles took small steps, his attention focused on those sitting on the earthen floor.

  “Modern medicine has been unable to help them. Their family members beg me to send away the evil that has taken over their minds,” the healer continued.

  Jackob, noticing Charles’s unnatural silence, interrupted Zuberi. “I need a cure for a headache. Also, Mr. Fielding suffers from insomnia. Could you prepare a potion for him as well?”

  Zuberi studied Charles’s eyes. “You will see, I will free you from the bad that is troubling you,” he assured him. “I act on the cause, not only the symptoms. I heal your soul, I take away the curse, and I strengthen the body.”

  Though Charles wanted to laugh at the man’s words, there was something magnetic about him, and he felt an odd impulse to trust him.

  “I am the twentieth generation of healers in my family,” the shaman said, making large gestures with his hands. He stopped, suddenly, and leaned closer to Charles. “Trees grew tall while my masterful father guided me.”

  Zuberi led the way to the main room in the house and invited his guests to sit. He called his daughter to serve the tea.

  Jackob explained Charles’s situation, the bad luck that had been following him and the second mine’s poor profits. “My boss needs help.”

  The witch doctor could barely contain his enthusiasm. The white man must have been sent by the benevolent spirit of one of his ancestors. He took Charles’s hands in his and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. For minutes he was lost in meditation.

  “Simple. There is a very strong curse from one of your business rivals,” announced Zuberi. He got up and fetched a large roll of paper that was propped in a corner behind a table. His daughter entered with the tea, threw a glance at the white man, and left in silence. The soothsayer drank greedily and invited his guests to do the same. Then he cleared the table and unrolled the scroll, weighing down the corners of the paper with black stones. Crumpled and yellowed at the edges, the scroll revealed the outline of a human body with red Xs covering various segments of it. Zuberi observed his guests’ reactions. Charles’s lips faintly lifted at the corners. Zuberi was not certain how to read the white man’s conflicting signals, though he knew white men respected confidence. So with half of the zeru zeru already requisitioned by his village clientele—sex organs, left foot, eyes, etc.—he would aggressively persuade Charles to place his order. Without the white man, Zuberi’s dream wasn’t financially feasible.

  “Simple,” repeated Zuberi, “there is nothing more simple than resolving problems like this one, for me that is. The limb of an embulamaro, that’s what you need. The right arm, to be exact. It will point to the vein of gold in the earth.” The witch doctor continued. “Simple to amputate it. A stick is slid under the limb, and then a clean stroke of a machete to cut it off. To prevent the isope[14] from dying so it won’t vanish, kerosene is poured on the wound. Your destiny is in the arm of an albino.”

  Charles was unprepared for that solution. His eyes narrowed. “What sort of albino animal are you speaking about? A chimpanzee?”

  “Perhaps I have not explained myself well.” Zuberi assumed a serious air. “I am speaking of a zeru zeru, that which you Westerners perceive as a person but isn’t.”

&nb
sp; Charles limited himself to a nervous grin, tilting back his head, wanting to distance himself from the tangle of sensations that were taking shape in his stomach. “I’ll think about it and let you know,” he stammered. The ground burned under his feet. Adimu popped into his thoughts. She, of all people, was the one who had returned his good luck charm. What could it mean? He erased her from his mind.

  At the door, as Zuberi was concluding his salutations, he remembered Jackob’s requests. He asked the men to wait and went back into his workshop. He opened a table drawer and searched until he found a package containing two painkillers and a tranquillizer. He ground the pills in separate mortars, added some dry root extracts, and prepared two paper envelopes—one for Jackob and the other for Mr. Fielding. He gave them the remedies and waited on the threshold for the car to pull away. Standing straight as a tree trunk, he waved when Charles turned to look back at him. If Mr. Fielding accepted his proposal, he would be able to save the inhabitants of Ukerewe from their troubles and take his place in history. Only the white man’s wealth could put into action such a costly endeavor.

  Once the witch doctor was out of sight, Charles asked, “How could he propose such a thing?”

  Jackob let his employer vent his outrage. Finally the assistant said, “That’s how it is in Africa. Remember, sir, we are not in Europe.”

  The words echoed in Charles’s mind over the following days. The more time he spent in the company of his financial worries, the louder were Jackob’s words. Exasperated by insomnia, he took the powdered remedy Zuberi had given him and slept through the night. When he awoke midmorning the following day, he felt rested and fortified. As he stood in the bathroom, looking at the envelope of powder, he had to admit to himself that the natural remedy had really worked as well as, if not better than, regular medicine.

  While Charles filled his stomach with a mound of chicken and fried potatoes for lunch, he thought about the terrible consequences that financial failure would have. I’ll have to work in someone else’s employ at the bottom of the ladder, eking out a living like a common man. A tiny apartment in the suburbs, barely enough money for rent, food, and gas for my used Toyota. And I will be alone because Sarah—I don’t care what she says—will leave me. The thought of it was unbearable, humiliating.