Nyumbani Tales

by Charles R. Saunders

  “Do not resent Mweyzo, Mgaru,” the rootman said solicitously. “You are his only son, and he expects much of you. One day, you will be diop in his place.”

  “I know that,” the younger man said, standing abruptly. “But this woman is no more a Silent Ghost than I am.”

  “I believe you, Mgaru.”

  Mgaru nodded once, then departed to deal with his father. Mkimba gazed thoughtfully at the sleeping stranger long after Mgaru had gone.

  WHEN ZURIYE OPENED her eyes, it was as though she had awakened from a dream already fleeing the grasp of her memory. Blurred, ominous shapes loomed high above her. She remembered the jaculi, and the hot poison pumping through her ... a sudden surge of panic accompanied the clearing of her vision.

  Three dark faces peered anxiously down at her. Beyond the faces, Zuriye discerned large wooden beams intersticed with painted thatch-work. Beneath her, she felt the prickling of the straws of a mat. A rectangular cloth lay across her. Beneath it, she could sense that she was naked. The burning in her veins was gone.

  Zuriye refocused her gaze on the three faces above her: three men – two older, one closer to her age. Their faces were black and broad-featured, not unlike those of her own people. The youngest man, who was leaning closest to her, wore a look of extreme concern on his face. Concern ... and something else. Despite the broad-bladed dagger this one wore belted to his waist, Zuriye knew she had at least one friend among these people to whom it seemed she owed her life.

  Of the older men, one was obviously a figure of authority. In his hand, he carried an ebony staff tipped with a stylized human figure. He did not bother to disguise the hostility in his eyes.

  The third face was an elderly one, lined beneath a white bush of hair. Still, his carriage was erect and his dark eyes were bright with intelligence. His face also mirrored concern, though of a different kind than that of the young man. It was the old man who spoke.

  “Do not be afraid, child,” he said slowly. “We are your friends. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  He was speaking Riverspeech, the common tongue of the many towns that flanked the Zaikumbe. It was but one of many languages Zuriye knew.

  “I understand you,” she said. “Where am I?”

  “You are in Bagara. My name is Mkimba, and I am a rootman. Your bite is healed, and the poison is gone.”

  “And I am Zuriye of the Komeh,” the stranger said. “I thank you for saving my life.”

  “I can only claim part of the credit for that,” Mkimba demurred. “Had it not been for Mgaru, here, you would now be inhabiting the belly of a nsanga. And if Mgaru hadn’t also sucked most of the jaculi-venom out of you on the riverbank, you would not have survived long enough to reach me.”

  Zuriye turned her gaze to Mgaru. His face reflected the truth of the rootman’s words. Solemnly, Zuriye reached one hand toward Mgaru. Hesitantly, he took it in his. Then Zuriye drew his hand downward and pressed the back of it to her lips.

  “For the one who saved my life,” she murmured softly after she raised her face again.

  Mgaru could not speak. But as their eyes met, something beyond words passed between them. Then Mweyzo cleared his throat, and the moment passed. Mgaru released Zuriye’s hand and glared resentfully at his father.

  “Zuriye, there is much we need to know about you,” the diop said. “Such as the whereabouts of your people – Komeh, is it? – and how we might return you to them. But first, there is something I must ask of you. When strangers come to Bagara, we all wish to greet them. And my people have been concerned about you. They wish to see that you are well. Do you feel strong enough to step outside this house for a few moments so the people may see you?”

  Zuriye noted the diop’s forced manner, and the tense way he gripped the staff that seemed to be the only sign he bore of his rank. She sensed there was something beneath Mweyzo’s words of concern.

  “Yes, I think I can do that,” she replied.

  Sitting up on the mat, she wrapped the cloth around her slender waist. Then she swayed to her feet. The sudden change in position caused a momentary dizziness. When she wavered, Mgaru came quickly to her side and supported her with his arm.

  “Again, I thank you,” Zuriye told him.

  “For you, anything,” Mgaru blurted. Then he bit his lip self-consciously.

  Leaning on Mgaru’s arm, Zuriye walked with the others through the entrance. She blinked in the sudden blaze of sunlight while the assembled Bagara stared at her. In turn, she regarded them with an appraising eye.

  The men were mostly of medium height, with stocky, well-knit bodies left mostly bare by the knee-length shuka that was their only garment. Their hair grew in tight, close caps. Some wore bronze ornaments on their arms and legs. Unlike some people of the river, the Bagara did not scarify their bodies.

  Like the men, the women went bare to the waist, though the hems of the women’s shukas touched the ground. To the Bagara, a corpulent woman was a beautiful woman, and many were the mammoth breasts and rolls of dark abdominal flesh that glistened in the sunlight. The hair of the young girls was plaited in rows across their heads. The mature women’s coiffures rose from the back of their skulls in enormous, inverted cones of hair woven into a latticed framework. Naked children of both sexes peered shyly at the stranger standing between the diop and his son.

  To the Bagara, Zuriye presented a bizarre figure: silver turban, silver-painted eyelids, lips, and shallow breasts tipped with white circles, not to mention her stick-thin body and eyes that seemed too large for her face ...

  Mweyzo opened his mouth to speak – then closed it abruptly as the silence bred from mutual curiosity was shattered by a weird, inhuman scream.

  Before the echoes of the terrible cry died away, an incredible shape appeared as if it had been conjured out of empty air. The apparition capered and shrieked like a mad thing, circling the periphery of the crowd. Zuriye stared in astonishment as Bagara men shrank fearfully from the intruder, and Bagara women ushered their children toward their homes.

  “Ajoola,” they whispered fearfully. “Ajoola, the Witch-Smeller ...”

  Mgaru’s arm reached protectively as Ajoola, after a final prodigious bound, began to creep toward them. He was a sight to frighten even the bravest. Naked save for a shuka of civet fur, his skin was pocked with suppurating sores. His body was skeletal, but wires of sinew ran taut beneath filthy skin. His face was like a skull with beady eyes burning madly in sunken sockets. Cracked lips pulled back in a grotesque rictus from blackened stumps of teeth. His nose had been cut away, leaving a huge hole gaping between his eyes and jaws.

  To Zuriye, who trembled beneath Mgaru’s grasp, Ajoola was an image from a nightmare. But to the Bagara, he was an oracle of Ngai the High God. Only the word of a diop bore more authority than the divinations of a Witch Smeller – but not always. Ajoola glared directly at the stranger. The calm and warmth Zuriye had felt since her awakening fled like a hare at the approach of a lion.

  Suddenly, Ajoola demonstrated the reason he was named Witch Smeller. He dropped to all fours, his maimed nose sucking in air as he quested along the ground. Closer and closer he crawled toward Zuriye.

  Mgaru released Zuriye and took a step toward Ajoola. Before he could advance further, Mgaru’s father caught him in a fierce grasp.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he hissed into Mgaru’s ear.

  Zuriye nearly gagged at the stench wafting from Ajoola’s sores as he shuffled his way to her feet. Then he looked up at her.

  Zuriye wanted desperately to push through the crowd and flee toward the river, the forest – anywhere, as long as it was far away from this horror. But she seemed powerless to move, powerless even to tear her eyes away from the burning orbs of the Witch Smeller.

  Without warning Ajoola straightened from his crouch and leaped backward, landing three paces away from Zuriye. Standing rigid as a tree, he chanted, his voice a high-pitched singsong:

  “This one is marked by the Devil of the River ... this
one will bring doom to the Bagara ... this one is a mganga, a witch... this one must not be among us!”

  He pointed a bony finger directly at Zuriye.

  “Slay the mganga!” he shouted.

  Then, laughing maniacally, Ajoola raced away from the Bagara, who hastily cleared space for him as he passed. No one dared to risk contact with his disease-ridden body. With unbelievable speed, he ran beyond the shambas, then disappeared into the forest.

  For a moment, the Bagara were left stunned and incapable of action. Only rarely did the Witch Smeller come among them. When he did, he brought discord and death – yet his were the words of Ngai ...

  “Why do we wait? Does not Ajoola speak with the tongue of Ngai? Why do we wait? Let us slay the mganga ... now!”

  It was Ktibi who spoke; Ktibi, the woman Mkimba had expelled from his house so that he could help Zuriye.

  “Kill the mganga!”

  The cry spread like a brushfire. Some of the people in the throng surged forward as though they meant to tear Zuriye apart with their bare hands. As fear fought with hatred on their faces, Mgaru pushed Zuriye behind him and pulled his dagger from its sheath.

  “I will wash my blade in the blood of the first person who harms this woman,” he said grimly.

  The attackers halted in the face of the bared weapon. Mgaru was the best warrior among the Bagara; few would be foolhardy enough to hurl themselves heedlessly at his blade.

  “What further proof do we need that this one is a mganga?” Ktibi screamed. “She has put a spell on Mgaru so that he raises his blade against his own people!”

  “She isn’t a witch; she’s a Silent Ghost!” cried Msumu, adding to the hysteria. The people shook their fists in frenzy, and many knives were drawn. But no one dared to be the first to face Mgaru.

  “Quiet!” Mweyzo roared, his voice carrying above the shouts of the crowd.

  “Now, listen to me ...”

  Before the diop could continue, he felt a sudden tug at the sheath of his dagger. He turned swiftly, only to discover that Zuriye had taken his weapon. All the Bagara, from the most hysterical shouter in the crowd to the diop himself, fell silent as Zuriye pushed past Mgaru and strode directly to Kitibi.

  She halted within arm’s length. Then she raised her hands: one empty and the other holding razor-sharp iron. In a quick movement, she slashed the blade across the palm of her open hand. Immediately, blood welled against her skin.

  Contempt plain on her face, Zuriye waved her bleeding hand in the faces of her tormentors. Then she spoke, each word laced with disdain.

  “Does a ghost bleed?” she demanded. “Does a witch nearly die from the bite of a jaculi? My blood flows as red as yours. And yours will flow with mine if you seek to harm me. You do not have to kill me; I’m leaving! I have no wish to remain among you.”

  Zuriye stood defiantly, blood from her hand dripping into the dust. Her eyes glared hotly as she fought the dizziness beginning to assail her yet again.

  “When was Ajoola ever wrong?” Ktibi demanded, though there was a tremor in her voice now as Zuriye confronted her.

  “The final word is not Ajoola’s,” said Mgaru, who had resumed his position at Zuriye’s side. “It is the diop’s.”

  Mgaru looked at his father, as did the rest of the Bagara. Mweyzo met his son’s gaze. Then he looked at his people ... and finally at Zuriye. He knew the decision he made now would possibly be the most important one of his life. For he hated Ajoola. Ajoola was a madman, and it angered the diop that someone like the Witch-Smeller could possess such pervasive influence over the Bagara. If he yielded to Ajoola now, Mweyzo’s own power could be permanently undermined. He knew Ajoola’s madness concealed ambition ...

  But it was Mgaru’s grim gaze that steered Mweyzo toward his decision. For Mweyzo knew that if he allowed Zuriye to be killed, he would forever lose the respect of his son.

  “I have decided,” the diop said. “Zuriye of Komeh will remain our guest as long as she desires to stay. Let no hand be raised against her. These are my words, not Ajoola’s. Obey them.”

  Mweyzo’s pronouncement had several effects. The Bagara, though they did not fully agree with him, knew the diop’s word was final. They dispersed in muttering fragmentation, returning to their fields and other enterprises. Zuriye, smiling in gratitude, returned Mweyzo’s weapon to him. The diop did not return her smile.

  Replacing his own weapon in its sheath, Mgaru asked Mkimba to minister to the slash on Zuriye’s palm. The rootman took her back into his dwelling, Mgaru following dutifully.

  Ktibi, twice humiliated by the turbaned stranger, now nurtured a hatred as large as her body. She exchanged glances with her daughter, Nyimbi, whom Ktibi had hoped to see wed to Mgaru. Neither woman had failed to notice the way the diop’s son had drawn his blade to defend the stranger ...

  DURING THE ENSUING days, Zuriye learned much about the Bagara. Hundreds of rains ago, their ancestors had come from the west, fleeing the depredations of the Mizungus of Atlan. Settling at the bend of the Zaikumbe, those ancestors cleared a large tract of forest for shambas. Soon, they established a regular network of trade with the people who already dwelt along the riverbanks.

  Though the hippopotamus, dogs and guinea-fowl were their only domesticated beasts, the Bagara hunted extensively in the forest beyond the fields. The men of the tribe were fearless hunters, braving the menace of leopard and buffalo and forest elephant. Yet they disliked warfare, a trait they shared with other river people. Battles were largely ceremonial affairs, with much bombast but little actual fighting. Sometimes, disputes were settled by single combat. In this, Mgaru excelled.

  Zuriye was determined to learn the ways of Bagara women. She adopted the shuka, as her gossamer trousers had been soiled irreparably on the riverbank. But she still wore her turban. Once, while bathing, she had unwound it – and the women with her had been shocked to discover that the stranger’s wooly hair was a fiery shade of crimson.

  “When you become women, you weave your hair in basketwork,” Zuriye explained in reply to their questions. “When Komeh women reach maturity, we dye our hair so often that the red does not wash out.”

  The “witch” talk had resurfaced then. But a few angry words from Mweyzo suppressed it. Still, Zuriye knew she was in some danger. Despite the diop’s pronouncement, she had become the cause of a schism among the Bagara. There were those who continued to believe that Ajoola had truly smelled out a mganga, and that every moment Zuriye lived brought the tribe closer to doom. Others, like Mgaru, believed a madman’s words meant nothing. In the past, such thinking would have been considered blasphemous. Then again, never before had there been a Witch-Smeller like Ajoola.

  Well aware that half the Bagara wished to see her dead, Zuriye had on several occasions pressed Mweyzo to fulfill a promise he had made to send a mtumbwi upstream to the spot where she had been found by Mgaru. From there, she was certain she could find her way back to her people. Indeed, they were probably searching the length of the Zaikumbe for her by now.

  But the diop always found a reason to delay. Zuriye knew why. Mgaru was with her constantly. In part, his presence was necessary, for it was possible some adherent to Ajoola might decide to kill her, despite Mweyzo’s injunction. Mgaru’s feelings for her, however, were much more than protective.

  Mgaru’s attentions were not unwelcome. Zuriye felt deep gratitude and affection for him. But she had no desire to live among the Bagara. It was Komeh she longed for. If Mweyzo did not soon act on his promise to send a mtumbwi, she would take one herself ...

  Such were Zuriye’s thoughts as she bathed in a shallow inlet of the Zaikumbe near a town. She had slipped away from Mgaru, for she wanted to be alone, and mute the pain of their inevitable parting.

  Tiny droplets gleamed like diamonds in the flaming bush of her hair. She poured a double handful of water between her breasts. The silver paint that had highlighted her lips and nipples had long since washed away. She would have the paint reapplied when she returned
to her people.

  A rustle from the foliage lining the riverbank startled her. Looking up, she saw Nyimbi, daughter of Ktibi, standing on the bank. Nyimbi’s presence was not unusual, for this inlet was a favorite bathing-spot for Bagara women and girls. The foliage concealed it from unwelcome observers.

  With a surly glance toward Zuriye, Nyimbi unwrapped her shuka and let it fall near Zuriye’s clothing. Zuriye did not look at her. She knew where Nyimbi stood on the question of her continued survival.

  Nyimbi entered the water and waded close to Zuriye. Annoyed, Zuriye attempted to brush past the Bagara woman and leave the inlet. But Nyimbi blocked the outlander’s path.

  “Let me by!” Zuriye said sharply.

  Nyimbi did not move.

  “It is well that you bathe so close to the shore,” Nyimbi said with an unpleasant smile. “There are deep holes further out. Why, an unwary person could drown in one of them ...”

  Nyimbi’s hands shot outward, striking Zuriye painfully on her breasts and knocking her backward. As Zuriye fell, Nyimbi was upon her immediately. She used both hands to force Zuriye’s head under the surface. Zuriye struggled in blind desperation as the water of the Zaikumbe poured into her nostrils.

  Then her hands struck something solid. It was one of Nyimbi’s legs. Zuriye grasped one thick ankle in both hands and pulled with all her strength. Nyimbi tottered and fell, her hands flying away from Zuriye’s head. Zuriye’s face breached the surface, and she gratefully gulped a lungful of air.

  Both women gained their footing. Panting and glaring spitefully at each other, they circled like rival she-cats, water swirling around their naked thighs. Nyimbi had the physical advantage: she was taller and heavier than Zuriye, and her muscles had been strengthened by toil in the shambas. But Zuriye was lithe and quick, and there was a grace to her movements that Nyimbi could never hope to match.

  Again, Nyimbi lunged at Zuriye. This time, Zuriye sidestepped, and Nyimbi flew face-first into the water. Sputtering, the Bagara struggled to rise. Then Zuriye planted one foot in the middle of Nyimbi’s broad buttocks, and shoved hard. With a tremendous splash, Nyimbi went down again.