Nkamba blocked her sheet-metal door with a wooden pole and unearthed her savings. She took only a few coins and, as though she had just awakened from a restful sleep, walked briskly out of the hut.
Many were waiting in line to use the public phone. Nkamba waited her turn, squeezing the coins in the palm of her hand. From time to time, she squatted to rest her legs. When it was finally her turn, she gripped the receiver in her dusty hand and dialed. A woman’s voice answered after a few rings.
“Hello, my name is Nkamba from Ukerewe. My granddaughter is a zeru zeru, and I’m calling so she’ll be safe in your protected community,” she said in one breath.
“Who gave you our number?” asked the woman.
“The vaccine doctor. The white lady doctor.”
“Who does the girl live with?”
“Me. Her parents rejected her. She is an outcast among her clan and in the village. She is in danger. Please. She is a very good little girl. Help her. Take her.”
“Wait a moment, please,” said the voice on the other end of the line. After a pause, the woman spoke again. “There is a place available for your granddaughter.”
Nkamba was unable to hold back the heavy wave of tears that soaked her cheeks, streaked her neck. A relief she hadn’t known in years pervaded her. “My granddaughter can come? When?”
“In a week. Next Wednesday a white man and a woman from Dodoma will be waiting for her at the Mwanza port where the ferry from Ukerewe docks. Their names are Roman and Martha. They will accompany your granddaughter to Tanga.”
Nkamba hung up the phone, kissed the slip of paper, and lifted her eyes toward Heaven and Kheri. This was more than she had hoped. And enough money would be left for Adimu to return to the island at least once to visit. She walked home feeling twenty years younger.
The receptionist at the Tanga office held on to the shiny black receiver. She was thinking. She went outside of the administrative building for the protective community and walked to a stand of trees where she wouldn’t be heard. She took out her cell phone, looking around to double check that none of her do-good colleagues could overhear.
A man with a raspy voice picked up the phone and greeted her.
“Get ready,” the receptionist whispered. “Next Wednesday a white female fish will drop into the net. She lives with an old grandma. No one on Ukerewe cares about her. She’s easy prey.”
PART THREE
35.
Zuberi informed his headhunters—Thomas, Amani, Akili, and Aki—of a zeru zeru that had died at the hospital in Mwanza. Skin cancer. The four young men trailed the body from the infirmary to its village of origin, hoping to seize the cadaver at some point during the trip. As an opportunity didn’t present itself, they waited for its burial. In the depth of night, they located the grave in the cemetery and started to dig. While they worked, the wooden cross bearing the name of the deceased began to lean and then to lay on the soft earth. They continued digging downward without incident until both the shovel and hoe bounced off the ground.
“Stones,” said Amani, the youngest.
“Keep digging. Hurry!” ordered Thomas, who was getting jumpy.
They persevered and scratched and pried and gouged. They hadn’t hit a layer of stone but rather a layer of cement. The family of the deceased had covered the coffin with concrete to prevent theft of the body. Aki, who tended to be the most skittish of the hunters, swore. Thomas forced himself to be calm—getting angry would only make them lose precious time. “Let’s look somewhere else,” he said.
“We could kill a mzungu, cut off his head, bury it in the forest, and pass off the remaining parts as an isope,” suggested Akili, who was known as the resourceful one.
“Are you crazy?” said Thomas. “If we kill a tourist, we’ll have the police after us. And don’t even think about doing in a white African. You want to spend the rest of your life in prison and waste the good luck we were promised?”
“If we could get our hands on a living zeru zeru,” interjected Amani, “nothing could stop us from killing it and saying it was already dead.”
“True,” Thomas agreed.
The next day, Zuberi called Thomas to say an albino girl had been killed in Shinyanga. “Only its legs have been nabbed; it could work for us,” said the witch doctor. His priority was getting the arm for Mr. Fielding, and with the upper body available, he could satisfy most of his other clients.
The group arrived in the village after the funeral had concluded. Neither in the cemetery nor in the vicinity of the family’s house were there signs of a recent burial. They camped at the edge of the forest, near the hut where the target had lived with its grandparents.
“Sooner or later they’ll visit the grave. Then we’ll follow them,” said Thomas.
The elderly couple remained inside their home for two days. The four young men searched all around the area for the grave. Eventually they noticed two Westerners with cameras enter the hut and exit.
The next day, Thomas got a call from Zuberi.
“You’re wasting your time,” grumbled the shaman. “The newspaper ran an article about an old man in Shinyanga who buried his granddaughter under his bed so her grave wouldn’t be desecrated. And there’s too much attention from the press to kill the old bastard.”
“Understood. We’ll keep hunting.”
Thomas’s companions were beginning to show signs of impatience. They had been told this would be a quick job. Instead, many months had gone by with nothing to show for it.
“We’re not getting paid enough,” complained one.
“Yeah, you said it would be easy,” said another.
“Let’s cross the border and go to Burundi for a zeru zeru,” suggested Akili.
“Too risky,” the leader said. “If we get caught here, Zuberi will pay off the police or a judge. In Burundi, we’re not protected. We have to find the isope in Tanzania.”
“At least let’s ask for more money!” said Amani.
Thomas slapped the boy so hard he lost his balance. “I make the decisions,” he barked. “We’ll complete our mission and—if I feel like it—I’ll get more money. And if I’m real nice, I’ll pass some of it on to you. Now, get up and go look for wood for the fire. I’m hungry,” he concluded, lighting a cigarette.
Another rainy season had ended. The clouds left space for ample stretches of clear sky and the island was a dense splash of vivid green floating in the lake. Zuberi had collected the initial payments from his clients without telling them the whole truth about what they’d be getting for their nominal “donations.” It was time to let them know the whole story.
“The largest contributor—the one who’s made it possible for you to receive your part of the zeru zeru for well under market value—is against a fresh kill. So if the part I need for your potion has already been taken, you’re out of luck.”
“No way,” said Yunis’s husband. “My wife and I are dreaming of having many, many children.”
The fishermen especially protested. “Tell us who set such ridiculous conditions. Our future is at stake!”
“Do I ever mention names? When you come to me, you’re assured anonymity,” said Zuberi, sticking out his chin and directing his eyes at the genitals of the man who spoke.
The inhabitants of Ukerewe had invested their hopes and many of them their small savings.
One old fisherman, who paid special attention to the Gospel at Mass, dreamed not of a miraculous multiplication of bread and fish. In his dream, the stones on the bottom of the lake turned into enormous fish that—like pieces of iron to a magnet—were drawn to the fishing net. When one of the fish squirmed in the boat and fell back into the water, he was thrilled—thrilled to have a smidgen of room, so full was his boat with fish.
After Zuberi’s confession, many of the villagers were feeling discouraged. Everyone knew zeru zerus vanish when they’re dead. And even if the hunters were lucky enough to find a dead embulamaro before it vanished, it wouldn’t be as potent as one f
reshly killed. Skepticism began to spread and persist like a bad odor that hangs in the air long after the cause for the stench has evanesced.
“Who will guarantee that the body’s an isope?” was asked again and again.
No one in the community was more upset than Kondo. He needed a live one for Ramadani. Thankfully he had an alternate plan. Now he understood why Zuberi wouldn’t allow Ramadani to travel with the headhunters. The shaman was swindling Kondo. He said he wanted to make sure the future village chief was safe—ha. Safe from the truth! thought Kondo. Sometimes he was dumbfounded by Zuberi. Always the showman shaman. When he challenged Zuberi on his trickery, the healer responded by saying, “I have only just now discovered this. Do you think I would betray you?”
Yes, Kondo thought, absolutely. “I have to think of my son and my clan. What good is a dead body for us? You are the one who said the only hope for Ramadani is sexual relations with an embulamaro!” Kondo’s words came out in short gasps.
Though Zuberi had never heard the village chief so upset, in a flash he intuited how to respond. “Don’t you remember our promise? Adimu.”
“What does that have to do with this?”
If Zuberi had been less driven by his hunger for glory and power, he would have caught the look of embarrassment in his interlocutor’s eyes. Kondo rarely lied. Lying—even to save his son’s life—made him uncomfortable. But conspiring with the witch doctor was something he could not do.
“Nothing, of course,” responded the healer, quickly lowering his gaze so he’d appear deferential.
“Nothing will happen to Adimu. Do you hear me?” Kondo’s voice was shaking as he yelled, as though he was speaking not only to Zuberi but also to a dark side of himself. “I remember our pact well.” Then lowering his voice, Kondo continued. “Working from a dead zeru zeru must be the doing of the mzungu. I have heard whispers about the frequency with which Jackob comes to see you.”
The witch doctor, caught red-handed, lowered his eyes again. “I will find a solution for your son. Don’t worry.”
Kondo stood up, and in three steps was at the door. Thankfully he was prepared for these unexpected complications, though he’d have to wait to put his plan into action.
36.
As soon as Nkama told Adimu the miraculous news, the girl started to pack her bag even though her departure was a week away. The dream, cultivated throughout so many rainy seasons, was about to become reality. Her two dresses, her pieces of newspaper, her comb, and the few undergarments she owned were folded and placed inside a single plastic bag.
Adimu asked her bibi to tell her again and again what the white doctor had told her about the community in Tanga, but Nkamba remembered very little, so to satisfy her dear girl, she began making up small details, harmless stories about how neat the bedrooms would be where the girls sleep, how the nearby mango tree produces especially ripe fruit. Adimu and her grandmother enjoyed chatting about how happy Adimu was going to be in Tanga.
On her last days on the island, Adimu spent every instant fantasizing about her future far from Ukerewe. Her excitement about a new life abounded; not even the thought of leaving her beloved grandmother could sadden her.
The night before the big trip, Adimu and Nkamba slept lightly. Adimu moved about as if she were skipping in her sleep while a recently recurring pain in Nkamba’s arm disturbed her. It’s from the extra work I’ve been doing in the field, she told herself.
At sunrise Adimu gazed at the white doll she had named after herself and decided to leave it with her bibi for company. She felt pity for the broken toy. Though in recent years she had rarely played with it, she associated it with herself and knew it would need their grandmother’s love to remain safe on the island. Melancholy gave way to unexpected joy as she imagined all the love that would shine on her in her new community. She pictured herself in a circle with other girls who were just like her. Her future would cancel out her past, the way soap rubs off mango stains on a dress, she thought. Adimu said farewell to the saddest part of herself when she left the doll behind.
She skipped out of the hut, laughing beside her grandmother.
Nkamba was happy and sorrowful. Since the morning, she had laid the newborn on the earth before the animal pen, she had worried that someone, something, would harm the child, steal her, mutilate her, even rape her. For ten rainy seasons, Nkamba had slept with one eye open. For ten rainy seasons, Nkamba had dedicated her life to raising her granddaughter, preparing Adimu to be strong and brave and capable of fending for herself. Now she could fully rest, finally rest, as an old woman should. Still, knowing her mjukuu would be across the lake where she could not reach her made her eyes grow moist, and her hand cradled her belly. Adimu had given Nkamba’s life purpose, and now the old woman’s job was done.
Nkamba no longer worried that the clan might discover where she was sending Adimu. It was in Sefu’s interest that the girl disappear. She was certain that her son would consider Adimu’s absence a liberation. She would tell him herself when she got back in the evening.
Nkamba could barely keep pace with Adimu as they headed toward the dock. She did her best to partake in the girl’s excitement, though she couldn’t help but feel a shadow of sadness in her heart. Her granddaughter’s smiling face glowed with a light that remained invisible to an outsider’s eyes but was well known to her: hope.
As soon as she stepped on the ferry, Adimu stomped her feet on the wooden planks. She needed to prove to herself—through sound and sensation—that she really was, in flesh and bone, leaving this hostile world, never to be among the cruel again. She looked at the shadow of her body rippling on the water; it was black, as she wanted her skin to be. For once, she was a passenger, not the lifesaver. Grandmother and grandchild held hands.
Nkamba felt dizzy. A sharp pain traveled up her arm. She freed her hand from Adimu’s and went below to rest on a wooden bench.
After nearly three hours on the deck, watching the island of Ukerewe shrink and fade until it disappeared behind her, Adimu ran downstairs to find her grandmother.
“We’re there, Bibi, wake up. We’re in Mwanza!” Adimu urged eagerly.
Nkamba heard her granddaughter’s voice approach her from far away. She wanted to turn toward her, but her body wouldn’t respond. Adimu shook her grandmother and, seeing she wasn’t waking up, the girl sat on the wooden bench beside her bibi and lifted the elder’s head, resting it on her thighs. Her grandmother opened her eyes. Adimu saw her reflection in Nkamba’s ebony pupils.
Nkamba spoke to her with one thread of her voice. “Soon I will go away forever.”
“What do you mean, Bibi?” asked Adimu. The sight of her exhausted grandmother was surreal. She’d always been tireless and robust, like a centuries-old tree filled with ancient sap.
“Listen to me, dear: two things I wish from you.”
Nkamba reached out to dry Adimu’s tears. With her strength failing, she set her hand lightly on her granddaughter’s cheek.
“Study, promise me. And bury me next to your grandfather, under the mango…” Nkamba’s words stopped midsentence.
“Bibi, Bibi.” Adimu shook the elder with both hands and, when there was no response, lovingly touched Nkamba’s dark wrinkled cheek with a quivering hand. She understood she’d gone. Where Adimu could not go. Her grandmother’s final wishes were a ringing in her ears like a funeral bell. Promise me, bury me. Promise me, bury me. Promise me, bury me.
Adimu held her grandmother’s cold, rigid hand against her face, cradling the bony fingers until the captain of the boat approached.
“Are you getting off or not?”
Adimu hesitated only for a moment. If she left now, she could not satisfy both of Nkamba’s requests. The love she felt for her grandmother was greater than the bitterness she felt toward her relatives and the others on the island. “I will take my bibi home,” she told the captain. To herself, she thought, I am the only one who can escort her on her final voyage. Me. No one else. She thought of Kik
ete.
On the way back across the lake, Adimu convinced herself—and accepted the conviction—that with her grandmother gone, it would be impossible to leave the island. Like a young branch, once the roots of the tree have been severed, she was unable to stretch skyward. She had never considered she was leaving Nkamba in the days before her departure. It wasn’t “leaving” when she was certain they would see each other again. Now the spark that lit Adimu’s flame of hope was dead, along with her bibi, her true mother.
The white man and the black woman waiting on the dock watched as the ferry left with the girl still on board. The man threw his cigarette on the ground, grinding the butt in the dirt with the tip of his shoe. “I’ll have to deal with this matter in another way,” he said. “I’ve already committed her.”
“We’ll get her in a few days,” suggested the woman.
“Out of the question,” the man declared. “One minute she’s on her way to the community and then she’s kidnapped? Too easy to trace. We can’t risk it.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
Many of Nkamba’s peers as well as members of her clan came to the funeral. Nkamba’s body had been placed in a coffin, and she was carried the short distance to where her husband rested under the mango tree. Women from the clan danced behind the small procession.
“We wish you light feet for the rest of your journey, Nkamba,” shouted Adimu’s older stepsister as she moved her body in rhythm with the others.
Then She Was Born Page 18