by Tamar Myers
“Oh, Clementine, I’m so sorry,” Julia said. “Please forgive me. Sometimes I don’t think before I speak, and when that happens, I can be very inconsiderate of other people’s feelings.”
When Clementine pursed her lips, her mouth compressed to a pink bud no larger than the tip of Julia’s index finger. “E,” she finally said. “I know that I’m just a little girl, Aunt Julia, but you got to understand that I know a few things too.”
“I do, honey,” Julia said. She set her bag of supplies on the path and reached out to hug the motherless soon-to-be ten-year-old.
“No, thank you,” Clementine said. “I only accept hugs from Papa now.” Her lower lip trembled. “But feel free to check with me in the future.”
“Fair enough,” Julia said. “Spoken like a real trouper.”
NINETEEN
By only the second day of her stay in the girls’ compound, Buakane’s wound began to show signs of healing. She could walk now with the aid of a crutch. This had both its advantages and its disadvantages. No longer was Buakane in need of a night gourd by her bed, but now that she was ambulatory, she was required to accompany the other girls to participate in the bizarre activities that composed their day.
First they lined up and filed into this very large palaver hut, where they sang songs and prayed to a strange god. This was supposed to be a god that was part spirit and part man, sometimes dead and sometimes alive. The only thing Buakane knew for certain was that this god was always fighting one of his former warriors.
The white man laid claim to bringing their god with them from the Faraway Place, but they denied bringing the evil warrior along. They appeased their sometimes god by singing and by much flattery. Even the words to their songs were filled with flattery such as one might say to Paddle’s mother, who possessed the finest copper bracelets that Buakane had ever seen. Tch, but the tunes of these songs were akin to parrots being strangled.
All told, there was nothing about the white man’s bizarre rituals that truly made sense to Buakane. Instinctively, she knew that this religion was not for her. She also realized that if she wished to remain at Mushihi Station, she had best fit in. But what if she could not, if only because the white man’s god saw through to her heart and became angry at her deception? After all, she had been warned by several girls that unless she put her faith in this strange new god, she would be severely punished.
Aiyee! One could not be confused and continue to heal well at the same time.
“How severely does this Jehovah god punish?” Buakane asked.
The girls all became very serious. “You will be cast into a fire that will not consume you,” their leader said, “and there you will burn forever and ever.”
“Aiyee! This cannot be! For what reason will this strange new god punish me?” she had asked. “I have done nothing to offend him; truly, I have never met this man.”
“Because of your badness.”
Buakane thought back to the worst thing that she had ever done. While still young enough to prance about the village stark naked (six or fewer Belgian years) she’d stolen some fried plantain cakes, called mikata, from the hearth of an elderly woman whose back was turned.
The tasty cakes were simply treats to Buakane and her friend, but to the old woman, they represented hard labor and much needed calories for her and her ailing husband. But let it be remembered, Buakane had been but a child at the time of her crime.
So it was that on her first visit to the white man’s palaver hut, Buakane decided that the white man’s god, Our Father Which Art in Heaven, was most unfair. Thus, she was not in a receptive mood when she was thrust into a line of girls much younger than she was; these girls would still be free to go naked in Buakane’s home village. They were definitely not the same girls from the day before.
“Why am I in this line?” she asked the man in charge. “Do you not see that I am older?”
“Quiet, girl. You are with the first-year students, and I am your teacher, Monsieur François. Can you say François?”
“Flançois,” Buakane said. The letter “r” was unfamiliar to her tongue, and thus it wanted to flip over it, rather than ripple.
The other girls laughed. “Stupid chief ’s wife,” someone said.
“This one thinks that she is so special,” another sneered.
Things went from bad to worse when the actual teaching began. Monsieur François scratched some marks on a blackboard with a white stick, and then he pretended that these marks had meaning. Buakane was astounded when the other girls began to play along with him. One by one they too pretended that those chicken scratches had meaning.
Around the room, quite like a children’s game, they played. Finally it was time for Buakane, who was seated in front, beneath the window, to give meaning to the marks.
Hitherto the girls had said things that were at least somewhat related; all of them had to do with a boy, a girl, and a soccer ball. The boy runs and jumps and kicks the ball. The girl sees the boy running and jumping, but she does not kick the ball. She cries out “run, boy, run,” and “jump, boy, jump.”
“Buakane, now it is your turn,” Monsieur François said. He wore eyeglasses with thick black frames, although they lacked lenses.
There were other details about him that Buakane’s curious eyes had been busy observing, such as the dark brown ring around the inside collar. And then there was matter of the gray-and-white strip of cloth tied around the teacher’s neck. It hung down across his belly like a noose. What was its purpose? Was he aware that it bore a bright orange palm oil stain, about a third of the way down?
“Buakane,” Monsieur François said. “It is your turn; you must show us how well you can read.”
Of course Buakane stared at the marks and thought, Why not?
“The boy kicks the ball into the tshisuku,” she said in a clear, loud voice.
The silence was palpable, something that Buakane, who had always been praised for her stories, took to be an encouraging sign. This encouraged her to continue.
“The boy runs after the ball, and the girl runs after the boy. The girl cries out, ‘Come back, boy. Come back, boy.’ But the boy cannot come back, because he has been caught and eaten by a pack of fierce hyenas.”
The silence was replaced by Monsieur François’s heavy breathing. The veins along his temples—at least those not obscured by the empty eyeglass frames—twitched like worms when a clod of moist earth has been overturned by a lukasu. His fingers gripped the slender tip of his palm branch switch. His entire body began to tremble.
“Buakane!” he seemed to bark, his voice suddenly not unlike that of a baboon. “Get out of your seat.”
Buakane rose as regally as she could from the silly little bench that was befitting a child, and not the wife of great chief—although she would no sooner return to her marriage with Chief Eagle, and a future that involved being buried alive, than she would being fed piece by piece to a pack of hyenas. Only then did Buakane notice that all the other girls were already standing; some of them were trembling as well.
Not only that, but the white woman—she of the hair the color of dried tshisuku and eyes the color of a cloudless sky—was running toward the classroom, her skirts gathered up in her long slender hands. Imagine that: a white woman running! Who knew that such a thing was possible? They were said to be as feeble as the oldest of grandmothers, and beyond that, so lazy that they shunned even the easiest of tasks, such as sorting through rice to pick out small pebbles.
Buakane’s first thought was that the white mamu was running to scoop up the little white girl—the one who spoke Buakane’s language and who had shown her such kindness the night before last. The girl had been sitting—or perhaps even squatting like a real Mushilele—beneath a young mango tree that grew midway between the buildings containing classrooms. Somehow, despite her strange and cumbersome apparel, the girl turned into a chameleon and slipped into the lower branches of the tree unnoticed.
“Aiyee!” Monsieur F
rançois cried loudly, forgetting to bark. This was just before he dove under his desk. Monsieur François was a Muluba, so such cowardice was to be expected.
Most of the girls were Bashilele, and so they remained standing. The few who represented other tribes also cowered, but they had no desks, only the low wooden benches upon which they sat. Therefore some tried to take cover with Monsieur François, who rebuffed them viciously.
One girl stripped off her clothes, threw herself on the dirt floor, and wiggled under the bench at the rear of the building. There, covered in red dust, she lay as still, and unremarkable, as any dark log.
Throughout the chaos Buakane stood as still and remarkable as the finest ebony carving. Yet she knew that it was only she who was in danger. For the source of such great terror was none other than her rightful husband, Chief Eagle, he who had been unjustly shamed on her wedding night.
There was nothing for her to do now but to accept his wrath—but on her terms. She would never, ever, give him the pleasure of conquering her spirit. During her brief sojourn into the world, Buakane—the good, the kind, the beautiful—had grown wings more powerful than an eagle’s and had soared to heights that this cruel man could not even imagine.
Buakane had seen things that he would never see, heard things that he had no ears for. Even the hyenas were on her side, for they had chased Buakane into the white man’s path so that she might take a ride in the metal beast that roars, and as a result encounter all these wonders.
TWENTY
As director of the girls’ school at Mushihi Station, Julia had many tasks. For the first week, however, she was to take things slowly: sitting in on the various classes, observing the teachers and their methods, getting to know the students, and perhaps introducing some new teaching materials.
She would have preferred to sit in a class with the youngest girls first, but Monsieur Gaspar (all the teachers had taken French names) had taken great offense at this. The oldest girls had sacrificed the most to learn their lessons; therefore, they should be the first to show off their achievements. Monsieur Gaspar had a high-pitched nasal whine that sounded not unlike a wood borer, so Julia quickly appeased him.
It was during a recitation from the Book of Ecclesiastes, in French, that Julia looked out though an unscreened window opening. In the far distance she noticed what appeared to be a band of men carrying a litter. This is the real Africa, she thought, but as the group approached, others noticed it too, and a spell came over the room. The girls all stood and crowded the three open windows, all at the same time, as they vied not to be the one most exposed.
Monsieur Gaspar, on the other hand, who had struck Julia as being somewhat fastidious, was clucking like a hen who’d just laid an egg. He was also pacing furiously, and Julia practically had to chase him around the room just to have a conversation.
“What is it?” she demanded. “Who are those people?”
“Can you not see, mademoiselle? That is the great chief of the Bashilele, Chief Eagle. He rides upon the shoulders of eight slaves, and he is surrounded by ten warriors. He is coming here on business.”
“Business?” Julia asked. “What kind of business?”
“Tch, tch, tch,” Gaspar said. “Did the new girl, the one with the wound on her leg, did she not tell you that she is the chief’s wife?”
“Gaspar, she is no one’s wife! She is a child—a muana mukese. A small child even. She ran away from the chief because he is a cruel man. Now she is my student, and here she will stay.”
Gaspar threw back his head as if to laugh, but no sound came out. “Baba wetu, babe wetu,” he finally said in a squeak. Then he ran to the corner of the room to hide behind a movable chalkboard.
For better or worse, Julia had never been one to play dead. Even as a small child, when she thought that she heard a noise under her bed, instead of hiding under her covers or crying out for her parents, Julia would lean over the edge of her bed and dare the boogeyman to come out. When it didn’t—which, thankfully, was always—Julia would jump out of bed, grab her walking stick (it had once belonged to her grandpa), and vigorously poke at the darkness.
“Take that and that and that,” she’d say. Only then could she sleep. Yes, sir, Julia Elaine Newton confronted her problems head-on; she did not hide from them.
But what differentiated Julia from so many others of the postmodern generation was that the young missionary remembered to ask the Lord’s protection and guidance when the going got rough. However, this did not prevent her heart from pounding as the men and the litter drew nearer, and she could make out the scowls on their faces and smell the rancid odor given off by men who had been drinking palm wine for two days.
Julia had never been that close to half-naked men, except for those wearing swimming trunks at the swimming pool in Oxford or at nearby Acton Lake. Any stories she’d heard about the Bashilele men being so attractive now seemed like only so much fiction.
The litter came to a stop about ten feet in front of her. The slaves—muscular men with downcast eyes—slowly assumed a squat. They continued to hold that position, even after Chief Eagle disembarked. On either side of the litter stood five warriors, clad only in their palm fabric loincloths. These “cloths” hung from leather thongs slung low around their wearers’ waists. Although she tried not to look, Julia caught sight of what were surely human ears strung along the leather thongs.
In his left hand, each warrior held a bow, approximately six feet in length. In each warrior’s right hand gleamed a machete with a freshly sharpened blade. Over the right shoulder of each man was slung an animal skin quiver, filled with arrows that had been notched with the feathers of a guinea fowl.
Chief Eagle was clearly a man unto himself. He stood a head taller than any of his guards, and that wasn’t counting his headpiece—half crown, half bishop’s miter. The base of this headpiece was trimmed in leopard skin, rather than ermine, and its body was constructed of ebony and ivory, instead of gold. Also, it was studded with precious cowrie shells, and clusters of red and cobalt beads, but the idea was the same. This was a unique hat, one that was bestowed upon the wearer because of his inherited position, and everyone agreed that it was a symbol of certain overarching powers. This was a “listen to me or else” hat.
Julia had no doubt that on that particular day, Chief Eagle was wearing it to impress—and possibly intimidate—the missionaries of Mushihi Station. Well, good luck with that, she said to herself. Outwardly, she was all grace and goodness—at least she hoped as much.
“Life to you, Chief Eagle.”
At the mention of his name, Chief Eagle started. Perhaps the teensiest bit; Julia was sure of it. This gave her hope that victory would be hers.
“Mamu,” said one of the warriors, taking a single step forward, “Chief Eagle does not converse with women—even white women.”
Well, that was uncalled for. So much for grace and goodness.
“In that case, life to you,” Julia said. “What is it that you want?”
“Chief Eagle has come to retrieve his property.”
“His property?” Julia echoed shrilly. “Tell him that she has a name; it is Buakane.”
“The name of his wife is not your business, Mamu.”
“But you did not tell him,” Julia said.
“Nevertheless, for your sake, it is best that you remove yourself from this matter,” the warrior said.
For Julia the time had come to grab hold of Grandpa’s walking stick and give the monster under the bed a few vigorous pokes. While her mind reviewed her first couple of moves, her eyes took in the remainder of Chief Eagle’s royal garb.
Apparently Chief Eagle had some prowess as a hunter, for around his neck hung a necklace of leopard claws. These had been interspersed with precious cowrie shells. At the end of the leopard claw necklace dangled an uncut stone of exceptional brilliance. It was about the size of a small hen’s egg and had been encased in a delicately woven copper basket. Julia assumed it was a diamond.
&
nbsp; The chief had a powerful physique, there was no denying that. His particularly low-riding loincloth advertised that to the world. Unlike his bodyguards he carried neither bow nor quiver. Instead, he wore a complete leopard skin over his left shoulder like a cape, the preserved head of the dead animal angling down toward the small of his back. Julia thought it too bad that the big cat was incapable of biting the tyrant’s buttocks.
“Tell this man,” Julia said to the warrior as she pointed at the chief with her chin, “that in your village he is the chief, but here on the mission station it is I who am the chief.”
“Aiyee,” said the man, “I cannot tell him this.”
“Why not?” Julia said.
“Because then I will have him severely beaten,” Chief Eagle said. “I might even have him killed.”
“In that case,” Julia said, speaking to the evil man directly, “you are beneath my contempt. Now, go away.”
Even as the words were coming out of Julia’s mouth—in fact, even before the signal got from her brain to her lips and vocal cords—Julia knew that they were a mistake. But by then it was already too late. The lever releasing the trapdoor had been pulled, and she, and possibly others, were going to suffer, and all because she couldn’t keep her big fat trap shut.
What on God’s green earth was she to do now? Henry could advise her. Cripple would be delighted to weigh in with a half-dozen opinions. Heck, even the Great Distraction could probably come up with a wiser solution than anything that the newcomer, Julia, could dream up. With all her earthly options unavailable, that left only God. Please, she told her conscience, do not as much as think about the Doyers!
“Oh God,” she said aloud in English, “you know that I ask for almost nothing on my own behalf. Therefore, please help me now. Help me to get out of this jam.”