Charles put his copy of the photograph in a frame and positioned it on the desk in his Mwanza office. Looking at it makes me smile, he said to himself. That afternoon, with his Sarah and Adimu, was one of the loveliest he had spent in a while. His money worries evaporated when he looked into the eyes of “his two girls.” Might they be his two girls? he wondered. No…No…Charles was sure Sarah would abandon him if all he had to offer her were the privations of life. And how could he support a child when he could no longer support his wife?
He couldn’t, and he blamed it on his good-luck charm. You…you…you pledged to be my one true friend, he thought, holding up his golden nugget, twirling it to catch the light. I’ve counted on you, he murmured, to stay by Sarah’s side during her shopping sprees and to surround me with wealth wherever I go and to give me confidence—and, now, you have abandoned me. Why?
Impulsively he dropped the nugget into the wastebasket with a plunk. Charles sat at his desk and opened the newspaper. He read the headlines on the front page and then turned to the business section. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and lunged at the basket, rummaging inside, then frantically dumping its contents onto the floor. A greasy napkin and chicken bones from his lunch, along with wads of paper, spilled onto the Oriental carpet. With the toe of his shoe, he poked at the garbage until he found his charm. Lovingly, he picked it up, cleaned it on his pant leg, squeezed it, and tucked it safely back into his pocket. He turned the framed photograph face down on his desk.
One hot and humid afternoon not long after that, Charles turned off the air conditioner in his office. He maintained that the best decisions were made under pressure, and few things were as stressful as torrid heat. The telephone rang, making the dense, humid air tremble. “Never demonstrate weakness by not answering the phone” was one of his mottoes and, so, despite his anxiety, he picked up the receiver, half expecting it to be a creditor or a buyer who was complaining about a delayed order.
The voice on the other end of the line took his breath away. It was the director of his primary bank, a devoted businessman who, until a couple of years before, would have missed his daughter’s wedding to do Charles a favor. “Your word is no longer a sufficient guarantee for your debts.” He spoke in an apologetic and embarrassed manner as if he were informing a neighbor about a fatal accident. “The bank’s main office in Geneva is demanding collateral to cover your loans. I’m sorry, but your only option is a mortgage.”
“A mortgage on what?” Charles asked.
“On the first mine,” suggested the banker.
“Have I heard you correctly? You’re asking me to mortgage my child?!”
Charles proposed other solutions. The bank director did not budge. “If you don’t put a mortgage on that mine, you’ll have to pay back the money the bank has advanced you and, in essence, declare bankruptcy. I’m sorry, Mr. Fielding, these orders come from the main office.” The banker seemed grieved.
Charles reluctantly agreed to the mortgage. “At least grant me maximum discretion. It would be devastating if this got out.”
When Charles hung up the phone, he took a deep breath. He experienced a momentary and inexplicable sense of relief before the deluge of worries returned. His social position was in mortal danger. Sarah and Jackob must be kept in the dark, he said to himself. His wife’s silly gesture with her diamond ring was a ploy to gain his trust so he’d open up about his problems, and she’d know the exact moment to jump ship. His assistant would spread the word of his boss’s failure and would run away laughing without looking back. His social position was in danger, held at gunpoint, the gun cocked and a quivering finger on the trigger.
Adimu and Charles were constantly on each other’s minds.
He was the father Adimu had always dreamed of. With Mr. Fielding, she’d have family, friends, and an education. And by his side, she’d be the right color. With Mr. Fielding, she was sure that she’d be safe.
Adimu in her hut, Charles in his office—each studied the photo. Charles’s in a leather frame, positioned to the right of his computer, Adimu’s between the pages as a bookmark of whichever volume she carried with her.
One afternoon, during a now-frequent panic attack, the solution to Charles’s lack of liquidity flashed before him. He had been staring at the photo, convinced he was on the brink of losing everything. Then his miraculous insight…he would sacrifice the girl! Only an arm, mind you. One can live without an arm, he repeated to himself. The act would be carried out in the least traumatic way possible. Why, he exclaimed aloud, the resolution would benefit her too! They would adopt her, give her a future, permit her to study, and then, one day, she’d be the heir to his immense estate. Sarah would be happy. This is the solution to all my problems, all three of our problems.
He rubbed his tired eyes to erase the disagreeable notion and focused again on the image of them sitting together on the veranda, he and Adimu enjoying tiramisu. He was ashamed of his macabre fantasy. Perhaps I really am losing my mind, he thought. A sharp stab of affection for the girl in the photo with her adult expression pierced him. And Sarah, more beautiful than ever, seemed younger with Adimu by her side. In the photo, he seemed like the shadow, a white shadow, a phantom, a temporary and fleeting element. With his finger, he traced his wife’s outline.
Adimu returned earlier than expected with her stepsisters’ laundry and paused longer than usual to look at the photo. With her glasses on, she glanced at the pages beside the bookmark. She read about the word “destiny”: the force that decides events, external to the will of man. She scanned the letters on the spine of the other volumes until she found the one that contained the W for “will.” The ability to act, to reach an objective. She continued browsing other entries, but those two terms remained in her mind. She could use “will” to modify her “destiny.”
For the first time in Adimu’s life, she understood it was possible to go after her desires. She would visit the Fieldings, she decided, and surprise them as they had surprised her. Simply the thought of it made her quiver with joy. She turned a blind eye to logistics, what excuse she’d give her stepsisters for her absence and that she didn’t know the address. She was filled with happiness. Simple happiness. A happiness that was not long-lived.
41.
Though Kondo hoped his son would find the cure for his illness when he joined the headhunters—this course of action wouldn’t be called “rape” since a zeru zeru is a nobody—he had a foolproof backup plan, which he had calculated over time. It consisted of Adimu staying in his family home for the shortest period necessary to ensure his son’s cure. He would pay for the girl with animals from his herd as though it were a marriage. He didn’t want to admit to himself he was glad that Nkamba was not alive to witness this.
Late one evening, Kondo visited Sefu and was invited to sit near the fire with him and his family to share an abundant meal. After their bellies were full, Kondo spoke of why he came, and his request caught Sefu by surprise. If Kondo made such an offer for one of his daughters with Afua, Sefu would never have agreed. “But Adimu is a different matter,” he said. Her name felt odd on his tongue, as he had never articulated it, had never accepted she had a name. To send her to the home of the leader of the community provided a modicum of redemption for the shame of having a zeru zeru in the family. The agreement was fair: Ramadani would have Adimu as an antidote for his illness, and Sefu would gain more animals for his herd. He accepted the offer.
As Kondo was leaving, he told Sefu to inform Juma’s father, who was living with his daughter, of the arrangement. The decision was Sefu’s to make, of course, but it was a courtesy owed to the most-senior male of his second wife’s clan. Sefu loathed seeing Juma. It did not take him long to rationalize that his visit should be awkward for her, not for him, that she was the one who gave birth to the ngazu.
Thus, on the morning following his meeting with Kondo, Sefu walked with purpose toward his former home. Juma was kneeling on the ground, and as she stoked the fire, she watched wh
at looked like the shape of her husband take form in the distance. She opened her eyes wider, dropped the stick she was using to stir the coals, and turned to look at the photograph of her beloved. As moments passed, her doubt dissipated. It was her husband. And he was about to enter her home!
He crossed the threshold, and his dark eyes fell on his image. The photograph of him taken by the NGO worker was illuminated by the feeble light of a candle. His gaze burned into what he perceived to be a shrine. He inhaled to calm his irritation.
“I have come to speak with your father.”
Juma withdrew her gaze from the face of the man she had prayed—for the past twelve years—would walk through her door.
“Welcome, please sit,” she said, indicating a mat next to the fire. She moved silently to a corner so the heat would warm Sefu.
The old man, her father, was asleep on a pallet made comfortable by a cushion of chicken feathers. She roused him and helped him sit near Sefu. Then she sat down as well. She intended to stay inside the hut, even though Sefu had made clear he was there to speak with his father-in-law. Whatever had pushed her husband to come under her roof could also offer the opportunity for them to get back together, she figured.
After the ritual salutations between the two men, the reason for Sefu’s visit rose to the surface. Juma’s presence irritated Sefu, and he kept his eyes far from the shape of her body. With measured words, he listed the advantages that would come from entrusting Adimu to Kondo for a limited period of time. “The two cows will be divided in equal parts between our two clans,” Sefu explained. Juma said nothing, seemingly bewitched by the flames that began to gain vigor.
Moments passed before Juma shouted, “Two cows, is that all? We could give it to the white people for more than that!” She threw the stick she’d been holding toward the fire.
“What have the wazungu to do with this?” Sefu’s voice was as sharp as the look he gave her.
“The white couple seek out the zeru zeru every time they come to the island,” said Juma meekly. She stood up and moved closer to the fire to retrieve the unburned stick, poking it at the hot coals.
Sefu was both worried and offended. The wazungu were rich and powerful. If they wanted, they could take the zeru zeru without paying anything. “Ramadani is the best solution. I will give the males of your family one of the two cows,” he declared, snatching the stick from Juma’s hands and tossing it into the flames.
Juma lowered her eyes. At the door, Sefu stopped, turned, stepped closer to the photo, and blew out the candle flame. He sought his wife’s eyes, but Juma’s gaze was fixed on the face of her husband in the photograph as he had been, not seeing the man he had become.
Juma decided to inform Father Andrew about Kondo’s and Sefu’s plans. Surely the priest would be opposed to it. She hoped that her idea to draw Adimu and the wazungu together would be encouraged. If the zeru zeru was no longer around, Sefu would return to her.
When the priest and Juma concluded their conversation at the end of the Sunday service, Father Andrew went straight to Kondo’s home with his liturgical vestments still on. Opposition to such exploitation would be a golden opportunity to demonstrate the strength of his God.
“I know what you are planning to do with Adimu,” he blurted as he neared the village chief.
Kondo was silent, not so much because the young man was being disrespectful but because of his shame that Mosi knew about the agreement he and Sefu had made, which went against the decision of the Spirits of the Lake. The agreement had been reached as a private accord, and he was concerned that the news would reach his fellow villagers, particularly Zuberi—to whom he had made a personal pledge—before he’d had a chance to tell him about his arrangement with Sefu. “What are you talking about?” he asked, rising from the rock where he had been sitting. He took several steps toward Father Andrew.
The priest said, “I know about the arrangement for Adimu to come live with you, and I know why you have made it. We shall oppose you.”
“Who will stop me?” Kondo asked, attempting to force Father Andrew to be more specific, fearing the “we” included Zuberi.
“My God and I.”
Kondo laughed. Mosi’s God was not one that Kondo feared. “I have not asked for your opinion, but I will listen to you. Come, let us sit and talk.”
Father Andrew sat while Kondo went into the house to get some water.
When the chief returned, he handed the priest a glass and said, “Mosi, have faith in me.”
The priest set down the glass on the earth. “The reason I’m aware of is a bad one.”
“What are you referring to?”
“Your son’s illness.”
The two men studied each other in silence.
“Does that really seem like a bad reason? Is the life of my son, the future village chief, of such little importance to you?” Kondo’s voice resonated.
“The life of Ramadani has the same value as Adimu’s or anyone else’s,” responded the priest, holding Kondo’s gaze.
“Have you forgotten that fathers have always decided the future for their daughters? The final decision is up to Sefu, and he has accepted.”
“Fathers decide on a daughter’s marriage, not on selling her as a remedy for an incurable disease!”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear that we have agreed on the bride price,”[23] said Kondo with stubborn certainty, knowing those two words would change the cards on the table.
Father Andrew was perplexed. Juma had forgotten to tell him that detail. “Does this mean they’ll marry?”
“Adimu will be protected and accepted by the villagers by living in my house,” said Kondo, avoiding a direct answer to the question. He paused for effect and then raised his hands to stop the priest who was about to speak. “What power does God have when only a few people listen to His words?”
The priest’s face became inquisitive.
“I have heard that fewer and fewer are attending your Sunday rituals.” Kondo waited in silence for his message to produce the desired effect.
“What does this have to do with Adimu?”
“I’m going to propose a pact,” said Kondo, ignoring the question. “You approve the arrangement between Adimu and my son, and I will ensure that your meetings under the baobab are attended as they were in the past.”
Mosi contemplated his glass of water. His throat was dry. As he sipped the liquid, its freshness had a comforting effect.
“Remember, you owe me. Thanks to my intervention, the zeru zeru has a name,” Kondo added. “I want what’s best for everyone—you and your church, Adimu, my son, and our village.”
The priest focused on the positive aspects of the proposal. Adimu would finally be accepted by the community, and she would have a husband, in a way, and a clan to protect her. He envisioned the future and looked into the distance, beyond Kondo’s yard, the dusty paths and the straw roofs of the isolated village. In the end, the village chief’s words were based on truth. What exactly had Kondo said? “What power does God have when only a few people listen to his words?” Maybe I have focused too much on the life of one individual at the expense of the collective who have, for weeks now, stayed away from the poetry of the most merciful God.
Father Andrew imagined Mass in the shade of the baobab, a crowd celebrating the word of the Lord, shoulder to shoulder like at Thursday market. Adimu would become a kind of wife of the future leader, an honor. Mosi wiped from his mind his initial thought that Kondo would cast out Adimu after a short time, that his “arrangement” would further taint her.
Although the priest’s conscience told him he was engaging in a sales transaction, he buried that sensation. To save a myriad of souls lost in pagan beliefs and devoted to a lesser god, to convert them to the truth of the Lord was Father Andrew’s one purpose. With Kondo’s support, he could reach the objective he had been working toward for years. Father Andrew would convince the entire population of the island of His truth. At the cost of only one life, a sac
rifice, like Jesus.
The sun slipped beyond the bluish horizon, and the air cooled. Kondo warmed his hands at the fire.
The crackling of wood brought Father Andrew back to the present. “Will you come to Mass as well?”
“Yes, after Adimu has come to live with Ramadani,” answered Kondo.
“Fine. Then you have my approval.”
“Do you promise on your God?”
Father Andrew wanted to say that such a promise was impossible, but he understood Kondo needed reassurance.
“I promise,” he muttered, looking at an insect that was trying to escape the heat of the fire but was unable to.
“Look at me while you say it.”
“I promise,” repeated the priest with a contemptuous tone. He crossed himself, as if seeking absolution from a sin just committed.
Her stepsister, while filling the laundry basket with dirty clothes, said to Adimu, “My father wants you to come to our house at dinnertime.”
The last time Adimu had seen Sefu was when he ignored her at her grandmother’s funeral. The time before that was years earlier, when she had put herself and her goats in his path, when she was a child who drew on walls. The outline of Sefu’s giant feet was still visible among the scratches on the hut.
Adimu wondered if Sefu had learned of her friendship with the Fieldings and wanted to apologize for ignoring her. Maybe he realizes I must be good, and now he wants me too?
Then She Was Born Page 21