The Girl Who Married an Eagle

by Tamar Myers

  Yes, mercifully, every now and then one of Verna’s battles and one of God’s battles would coincide, and when that happened, Nurse Verna gloried in the moment. It was then that she felt no guilt whatsoever, only empowerment.

  Take this evening’s mission, for instance. The Parliament in Brussels had decided that the white race and the black race should not mix. That was the law, and missionaries were to be law-abiding. By having this woman—a common housekeeper—dine in her house, Julia Newton was jeopardizing all the work that had been done on Mushihi Station.

  So you see, the battle to get Miss Julia Newton to publicly confess her sins and begin towing the line was righteous in nature. The outcome would affect the future of Mushihi Station.

  However, it was her ongoing struggle to dominate Henry that worried at the edges of Nurse Verna’s conscience. Where did that come from? What did that mean? It wasn’t something that she could ever talk about with Arvin. In their thirty-three years of marriage, Nurse Verna and Reverend Doyer had never once had a conversation that even came close to bordering on intimacy.

  Well, there you had it; Nurse Verna couldn’t even finish her thoughts in peace before Reverend Paul Henry Hayes slammed the door one more—this time behind him—and placed himself in the lead.

  “Just follow me. Flashlights off, please. No talking, of course.”

  Nurse Verna wanted to speak up, maybe even shout something, but of course that would have defeated the purpose of their mission. All right, her mission. That of making Miss Julia Elaine Newton play by the rules. It was only fair.

  If Nurse Verna had to play by the rules, then so did the others. During the thirty-three years in which they had been missionaries, there had indeed been occasions upon which Nurse Verna wished she could have invited certain Africans into her house to share a meal. She could think of several African men whom she had found to be rather stimulating conversationalists.

  There had even been a woman patient whose mind was sharp as a tack. Her name was Kukema, which means To Doubt. One day, while slicing manioc tubers with a machete, Kukema put a gash in her foot that required seventeen stitches. Not once during the procedure did Kukema as much as whimper.

  Nurse Verna later learned that Kukema had astonishing powers of concentration and had been busy reciting the Gospel of John to herself the entire time. For years after that, Nurse Verna often daydreamed scenes in which she and Kukema were friends—regular American-style friends, who could visit over a cup of tea. Perhaps even gossip a little.

  Of course that was not to be. And so neither was Julia Newton’s alliance with this misshapen Muluba woman from Belle Vue. Henry had taken forever to finish his supper and do whatever he did next behind that closed door. So who knows what those two lawbreakers were up to now.

  Frankly, nothing would surprise Verna. One couldn’t have been a nurse in Africa for thirty-three years and not have seen it all. But one could be sorely disappointed. Especially if one was completely honest with oneself, which Nurse Verna was. Sadly, this condition was almost as rare as Antarctic malaria.

  “Shhh,” said Henry needlessly when they got close to Julia Newton’s house. Then after some time he whispered over his shoulder. “What do you see through the window?”

  Nurse Verna stepped adroitly around the much younger man. Her stomach roiled and her head throbbed in rebellion. She couldn’t help the loud gasp for air that escaped.

  “Do not be so dramatic, wife,” Reverend Doyer said, as he pushed past Henry. “Well, look at that” were his next words. “Look at how we have misjudged her. She is on her knees praying with that woman.”

  “But in the house,” Nurse Verna said. “Convert her on the verandah, fine! Just not in the house!”

  “I will speak to her first thing in the morning,” Henry said. “I will even get a written apology from her if that is what you want.”

  Nurse Verna forced a laugh. “Oh, don’t be silly, Henry. What kind of woman do you take me for?” Of course she didn’t want him to answer. She wasn’t the kind of woman that she wanted to be; she wasn’t even close.

  SEVENTEEN

  Julia and Cripple did not tarry under the night sky. Their stargazing ended abruptly when Julia casually inquired about infant care in the Belgian Congo. What prompted this question was that whenever Cripple untied the wrap that held the baby to her back, Julia could see that baby girl was naked.

  “Cripple,” Julia said, “in my country we wrap our babies’ bottoms with thick strips of cloth, and then when they make water—or the other—we remove that cloth and wash it. Of course, we first put another clean cloth on before we wash the dirty one. However, we are very fortunate, in that we have water available to us all year. What do Congolese mothers do during the dry season?”

  “Kah!” said Cripple, immediately taking the offensive. “How long must your babies sit in their own filth?”

  “Well, that depends. If it happens at night—Cripple, why must you turn all my questions back around to me? I want to learn your customs.”

  “Tch,” Cripple said as she rocked to and fro, even though her folding chair was quite stationary. “Behold, I will share some of our traditions, but only because you have been kind to me. This way you may return across the great waters to that faraway place to teach other whites a better way to live. During my employment as a housekeeper, I have observed that many of your customs are truly disgusting.”

  “Aiyee!” Julia said. She was only pretending to be upset. By now she knew that this was just the kind of response that Cripple was hoping to get.

  “Eyoa,” Cripple said, and stopped rocking. “Truly, truly disgusting. Your cement floors cannot absorb the urine of an infant. Our traditional houses all have dirt floors. As soon as the baby starts to urinate, the mother holds her child above the floor. Every morning the mother sweeps the top layer of the soil out the door with a broom made from the stiff spines of a palm leaf. There is never any smell, nor does any problem develop on the skin, such as the itch and the red bumps that grow on the white babies at Belle Vue.”

  “It is called rash in English,” said Julia. “What about the feces, the tuinvi?”

  “The tuinvi is dog’s work, Mamu.”

  “Did you say dog?” Julia barked a couple of times before remembering that all the local dogs were basenjis, a breed that was naturally incapable of barking.

  “Are you in pain, Mamu?” Cripple asked.

  “No, most certainly I am not! Where I come from dogs make lots of sound—I am told that some baboons make similar sounds.”

  “Tch,” Cripple said, with a tilt of her chin. “I am traditional, and I am a heathen, but I am not a savage. How would I know the sound that a baboon makes. Do you think that I roam about the jungle like an animal? But, yes, I speak of the dogs that wander about the village, and which the men take when they go hunting. Dog,” she said, as if she were speaking to a person who was intellectually impaired.

  “I still do not understand,” Julia said. “How do dogs help clean up feces?”

  “Aiyee,” said Cripple, shaking her head. “You are like a small child in your thinking. Dogs lick the baby’s bottom. They lick it cleaner than soap, water, and cloth. The feces is good food for the dog as well, and therefore one does not need to feed one’s dog. Everyone benefits. In some traditions, every baby gets its own puppy.”

  “But then those puppies grow up to have puppies, and soon would there not be more puppies than people?”

  Cripple resumed her bizarre rocking. “Such a simple woman. We are a practical people, Mamu Mukashiana. We do not possess your untold riches, stolen as they are from others through forced labor on their own land. When we face hard times, we eat our dogs. That is what they wish us to do, in return for the good life we have given them, by offering them the fruit of our babies’ bottoms.”

  Julia felt both insulted and angry. She’d come to Africa with as open a mind as possible, determined not to be as judgmental as the previous generation of missionaries. This, howe
ver, was one cultural difference about which she could not remain mute. Julia adored dogs. She had been raised with dogs—properly, of course. Her second dog, Felix, had needed to be put down at age eleven when Julia was a freshman in college. That was four years ago, and the memory of that day still brought tears to her eyes.

  “That is the most disgusting story I have ever heard!” Julia shouted. “It is wrong to eat dogs. Do you hear me? Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

  Cripple stopped rocking again and swiveled on her chair. “Mamu, would you rather that my people starve when famine strikes?”

  “Kah? No, of course not. But from what I have been told, you also have chickens and ducks and goats. Sometimes even sheep. Is this not so?”

  “If we have those animals, Mamu, it is not yet famine.”

  Julia Elaine Newton, there you go again, rushing to pass judgment, and again, without knowing the first thing about the topic. The only famine you’ve ever experienced was having to go to bed without your supper one night when you and your brother wouldn’t stop fighting and your mother had to call your father at work in order to get you two to shut up.

  “E, Cripple,” Julia said simply.

  Cripple cleared her throat. “Mamu, it is good that you understand, because now we can discuss the matter of acquiring our dog.”

  “Our dog? We are not getting a dog, Cripple. Put that out of your mind.”

  “That is unfortunate, Mamu, because this house and the horrible little shed where you wish to stuff Pierre Jardin and her weary old mother—these places have the hard concrete floors. They will not clean up like a sensible dirt floor.”

  Julia pretended to pound the sides of her head with the palms of her hands. “Aiyee! Who is Pierre Jardin?”

  Cripple laughed. “Pierre Jardin is my baby.” She pulled the infant from her breast with a loud, wet pop and held it forth for inspection. “Yes, she is very much a girl as you can see for yourself. She was given this name because the first Pierre Jardin, who is the chief of police at Belle Vue, has been kind to my family. That Pierre Jardin is brave, strong, and very intelligent. Are these not qualities I would wish for my daughter?”

  “They are indeed,” Julia said.

  Cripple smiled with satisfaction, her point made. “Mamu, were you aware that this little one burned with fever yesterday and today?”

  “No! Cripple, how sick is she? We must get her to see Mamu Snake at once!”

  “Yala, do not concern yourself to this great extent, Mamu. Do you not see that she is better? Mamu Snake has already given her some of your white man’s medicine. Much to my great surprise it appears to have had some effect. Her appetite has been fully restored. But now, Mamu, let us return to the matter of the dog, for we have need of one now in the big room in which we just ate.”

  Julia rose from her metal folding chair. “Explain—please.”

  Cripple hopped to her feet and deftly managed to tie Pierre Jardin to her back in a matter of seconds. Then like a one-legged sparrow she dipped and hopped, hopped and dipped, leading the way to the dining room.

  “Mamu,” she said, “it was you who said, ‘Yes, Cripple, please go back in and see if any crumbs have fallen to the floor, and if so, please sweep them up. Because as you know, crumbs will lead to ants.’ Do you not remember saying this to me, Mamu?”

  “E, but—”

  “So I returned with a broom and a strange flat pan that is frankly quite useless for cooking, and I began to sweep. And indeed, there were crumbs around your chair, Mamu, so you were correct to worry. However, around my chair there were none. At any rate, no sooner did I began to sweep than Pierre Jardin began to squirm like a piglet carried to market in one’s bare hands. This I knew to be a sign that a dog was called for, so I removed my child from her sling and set her on the floor. Now, whatever nourishment my daughter had managed to siphon from this poor, twisted body of mine lies in that room next to your chair.” Cripple pointed across the room.

  It took a moment for Julia to translate and then decipher the clever woman’s words. To be sure, she was careful to pray before speaking. Julia had once come to the conclusion that it was words spoken in anger that were responsible for at least half the suffering in the world.

  “You must go and clean up the tuinvi.”

  “Kah! But, Mamu—”

  “Now!”

  “Che-che-che-,” Cripple said, or were her teeth just chattering? Whatever it was, the housekeeper now sounded as pitiful as she looked.

  “Yala,” said Julia, “then I will help you.” And so she did, but she made sure that Cripple remained with her at the scene of the crime.

  At least that was her intent. But they had no sooner got down on their knees with a rag Julia found in the kitchen and some soapy water when the door flew open, and Nurse Verna burst in.

  “Katuka weh!” she shouted at Cripple, which means “get out” but in the rudest possible way.

  Cripple struggled to her feet. It was apparently a lot harder for the poor woman to rise from a kneeling position than to hop off a chair. Nurse Verna didn’t seem to take this into consideration.

  “Do you not have ears? Get out now! It is forbidden for you to be in the house of a white person.”

  Then an even more incredible thing happened. Henry came rushing in, grabbed Nurse Verna by her narrow shoulders, and marched her back outside. Someone pulled the door shut behind them, and there followed the sound of angry voices. This went on for an embarrassingly long time, although it did allow Cripple ample time to regain her feet. She was even able to readjust her wrap and the precious bundle it swaddled.

  “It is time that you received a new name,” she announced suddenly. Her head was cocked, but whether it was because of her deformity or as an expression of sarcasm, Julia couldn’t tell.

  “Now?” Julia said.

  “Especially now, Mamu. It is most appropriate.”

  Julia sighed. “Please. Tell me.”

  “From now on your Tshiluba name will be Mamu Ndolo.”

  Ndolo: a helpful, kind, even-tempered person! Mamu Kindness would be the short English translation she would use when writing home to her mother. And all because she’d fed Cripple a meal, and because Nurse Verna had turned out to have a bat loose in her belfry.

  However, the latter was not a kind thought; therefore, Julia immediately asked the Lord to forgive her in the privacy of her heart. The fact was that Jesus could return from heaven at any moment, so it behooved one to remain in a state of “high alert” as it were, with a clean heart.

  “Mamu,” Cripple said, tugging gently at Julia’s skirt, “does this name displease you?”

  “Kah? Displease me? It is a wonderful name. Thank you, Cripple. I will try very hard not to disappoint you.”

  “Do not worry, Mamu Ndolo. Because you are white, I have already assumed that you will disappoint me—many times even. Thus, nothing will really change, and you can continue to keep your new name.”

  “Are you not special?” Julia said. It was a phrase she’d learned from a girlfriend at college who hailed from Georgia. Cora Beth had said—in the strictest of confidence—that it was a southerner’s way of being snide while still appearing to be polite. Truth be told, it came across a little different in Tshiluba.

  “Tch! Already you offend me, Mamu, because I am a cripple. But as I have said, it was to be expected.”

  Julia felt like tearing her hair out—but figuratively of course. She wasn’t going to be like Great-Granny Thompson, who literally did just that, before she was secretly committed to a special kind of home. Thank heavens Henry burst back into the room before she overreacted and stuck her foot in her mouth yet again.

  “Julia,” he said, his thick dark curls plastered against his forehead with perspiration, “please don’t be too quick to judge Nurse Verna. She loves Africans, she really does. She spends her life caring for them; you wouldn’t believe some of the sacrifices she’s made, the things that she has done for the Bashilele.

  “You also
need to understand that Nurse Verna is—well, she’s stuck in her ways. She has a need for rules and protocol—her way, of course. In regard to segregation of the races, she follows the Belgian law. It’s not because she agrees with it, but because she believes that as a Christian, she must obey the law.”

  Julia unconsciously put her hands up in a defensive posture while at the same time stepping back until she was up against the table. She was practically snorting with rage, and she knew it. Julia was also very much aware that she was being closely scrutinized by Cripple, that highly intelligent, thorn-in-the-side heathen who knew English. Just calm down, girl, and get a hold of yourself, she said to herself, putting her mother’s voice inside her head.

  Then, feeling a bit more in control—certainly more like an adult—Julia looked Henry square in the eye. “Now would be the perfect time to put to test that phrase: agree to disagree. For Nurse Verna’s information, and perhaps peace of mind, my housekeeper was cleaning the floor under my supervision.”

  Henry looked at Cripple. “Is this so, Baba?”

  “Eyoa,” Cripple said, but she didn’t stop there. “Master, do you have a wife?”

  “Kah!” Henry said, and then chuckled. “No. Why, do you want me?”

  “Tch!” Cripple rolled her eyes in disgust. “Do not take offense, master, but you are ugly.”

  Henry chuckled again. “Me? Ugly?”

  “Master, surely you have seen your reflection in a water basin. Pinched nose, no lips—truly disgusting. But it is not for me that I inquire; it is on behalf of this poor woman, who is herself even more hideous than you.”

  Henry’s eyes twinkled. “So you think that she is even uglier than I am? If that is the case, why should we marry?”

  “E, look at her hair. It is like dried elephant grass. Is it any wonder that her parents sent her here, rather than pay a dowry in their faraway land? But she is a kind woman, master, with wide hips and full breasts. And I think that she may still be young enough to bear a child, although with white women, their age can be quite deceiving. I have been told that white women often lie and say that they are younger than their Belgian years. Is it shameful to survive—to become old and wise? In any case, this one is not wise, so I doubt if she is old. E, I believe that she is still young enough to bear you a son.”