The Uttermost Parts of the Earth

by Frederic Hunter

  “You know the kind of person I am.”

  “Do I? I have not watched you grow up. I do not know your parents, your grandparents. How do I answer when he asks about them?”

  “Will he ask about them?”

  “Of course.”

  “What else?”

  “Is there insanity in your family?”

  Kwame laughed. “You tell him, ‘Of course!’ I’m Exhibit A. Only a man of impaired intelligence would submit to this.”

  Badeka smiled and shook his head. “Ordinarily the two fathers speak together,” he said. “In this case I must refer some questions to you. This is very unusual.” Kwame swallowed. “We may have to pay more for Kalima as a result.”

  “Excuse me for a moment,” Kwame said. “I must make a stop.”

  On the way to the bathroom Kwame saw Bonanga in the hall. The man turned his back as if Kwame had broken a ritual taboo. Kalima, who was with her father, looked aghast. Kwame gestured his apologies and ducked into the bathroom. He pissed as if he had not relieved himself since before he came to Mbandaka. When he left the bathroom, he peeked out the door. He saw the coast was clear and hurried back to wait with Badeka.

  After some minutes Bonanga entered the living room. Kalima trailed behind him, her movements deferential, almost toadying, her eyes uncharacteristically lowered to the floor. “Please, sit down,” she said to the men. “You must be hungry. I will prepare food.”

  The men sat down. While the two Africans spoke in Lonkundo, Kwame heard Kalima in the kitchen, speaking in a low, strained voice. She ordered Buta out of the room, for there must be no question but that she had prepared this meal herself. Buta went onto the terrace overlooking the river where the men could see him. He set up a table with three places.

  After a time Bonanga and Badeka stopped talking. Kwame wondered if their silence portended difficulties. Perhaps, perhaps not. Kalima had told him that in social situations Africans did not feel a need always to keep talk flowing. He tried to occupy his mind by concocting correct Lonkundo praises for the meal Kalima was preparing.

  The three men ate mostly in silence. In traditional Africa women did not eat with the men for whom they prepared food—although Kalima and Kwame always ate together. Now Kalima stood nearby, ready to serve or fetch if anything were needed. Kwame recited the Lonkundo phrases he had carefully worked out to praise the meal.

  As they ate, Bonanga scrutinized his daughter’s suitor. Kwame felt nervous under his inspection. His mother’s etiquette lessons reverberated in his head. “Never eat with your fingers!” she had admonished him. Of course, she did not know that he would marry into a family where eating with one’s fingers was customary.

  When it was clear that the men would need no more food, Bonanga nodded to Kalima to leave. She disappeared into the kitchen. Bonanga surveyed Kwame once more and turned to Badeka. He posed a question in Lonkundo. Badeka turned to Kwame.

  “He wants to know: Is this young man an outcast from his own society? He says all black people in America come from slaves.”

  The question surprised Kwame. His reaction—from embarrassment—was almost to laugh, but he suppressed the urge. No, he answered. He was not an outcast. In fact, the American government took great care in choosing people who represented it overseas. They had to be well-educated, well-spoken, and possessed of dignity. He acknowledged that the forebears of virtually all black Americans had been taken to America as slaves. But, like many others, he had worked hard, taken advantage of opportunities and gotten an education. It was these very qualities of hard work, perseverance, and adaptability that qualified him to be a husband for Kalima.

  Badeka listened carefully and translated for Bonanga. The two men talked for a moment. Badeka turned back to Kwame.

  “He wants to know: Why has this young man come to live in Mbandaka so far from his own people? What kind of relationship does he have with his own people that he should live so far away?”

  He came to Zaire, Kwame said, because he wanted to know more about the people from whom his ancestors sprang.

  Badeka translated this answer to Bonanga. Bonanga posed another question.

  “Was Kwame a good son to his father and to his people?”

  “Yes.”

  “To his mother and her people?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could this be when he chose to live so far away from them?”

  His family knew it was an honor, Kwame explained, for him to serve his country, to travel the world on its behalf, and meet the people from whom his ancestors had come. He had his parents’ blessing for his time in Zaire.

  “Had he left a wife and children behind in America?”

  “No.” He had no wife, no children.

  When Badeka told him this news, Bonanga regarded Kwame carefully.

  “How could this be? Had he divorced a wife?”

  “No.”

  Bonanga’s regard became suspicious.

  “Had Kwame already deserted a family then?”

  “Why this question?” Kwame asked.

  “In our society,” explained Badeka, “a young man seeks a wife as soon as he can. Having a wife is a badge of full manhood. That’s how he enters into adult society. A man’s father helps provide the bridewealth.”

  “Our society works differently,” Kwame told him. Badeka looked perplexed. “Does he not understand that things are done differently in diff—Forget it.” Kwame tried not to let his expression or behavior show his impatience. “What’s he really asking?”

  “A man of your age should be married,” Badeka explained. “He wants to know why you are not married.”

  “Because I’m not.”

  “Is your family impoverished?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have some ailment?”

  “No.”

  “Is there a history of disease in your family that makes American women refuse to marry you?”

  “No.”

  “Insanity?”

  “No.”

  “Are you impotent? Or sexually defective?”

  Kwame tried not to laugh. “Let him ask his daughter.”

  “You are a mature man. Mature men produce children. Why have you not produced children? If you have, what kind of care do you give them?”

  “I am in the process of producing a child with Kalima right now.”

  Badeka turned to Bonanga and spoke at some length. Bonanga replied even more lengthily. Badeka turned back to Kwame.

  “He has not specifically said so, but I think he cannot believe that a man of your age, education, and wealth has not married and produced children. Since you have deserted your parents and presumably also the wives and children you choose not to speak about, he worries that you will tire of Kalima and abandon her.”

  “I have no intention of doing that.”

  “To him desertion is the practice of white men from the West,” Badeka said. “The first husband abandoned Kalima. He thinks it is logical to assume that you will eventually do the same thing. He doesn’t want his daughter to be abandoned again.”

  “I love her,” Kwame said, declaring what he did not ordinarily articulate. “It’s as simple as that. Can he understand that?”

  “No. We do not understand what you mean by love.”

  “Then tell him whatever you must to make it happen.” Bonanga and Badeka talked at some length. Then Bonanga rose from the table and left the room. “He doesn’t agree, does he?” Kwame said.

  “You are always so sure of yourself,” Badeka observed. “Now you seem as nervous as a schoolboy before exams.”

  “He didn’t go away happy, did he?”

  “He is distressed that his daughter is interested only in marrying white men. I commiserated with him.”

  “Is it over?” asked Kwame. “Does it happen or not?”

  “As according to custom, I invited him to my house. He is coming this afternoon.” Badeka paused, pondering. “I must offer him a chicken. Could you go to the market and bu
y—” Badeka stopped in midsentence. “I suppose you know nothing about buying a chicken.”

  Kwame laughed, somewhat relieved. “Don’t know how to buy one,” he said. “Or how to carry it once I’ve bought it.”

  “I will get the chicken,” Badeka said. “You can reimburse me later. Right now I have to get back to classes.”

  Kwame took Badeka back to Bomboko Congo. When they arrived there, he could no longer contain his nervousness and asked again, “Is it going to happen?”

  “This is not what he wants for his daughter,” Badeka said. “Still, she took your present. That’s a good sign. Her father accepted the preliminary gift and is coming to talk.”

  “But,” Kwame said, “I hear ‘but.’”

  “But regardless of what you think of yourself,” Badeka said, “he considers you a white man. An American. From a people who have gone to the moon and have different customs. Kalima was married once to a white man and it didn’t work. As they see it, Vandenbroucke deceived them. He entered into a legitimate Mongo marriage with Kalima. He transferred bridewealth for her, then treated her like a femme libre. He did not give her children and he was careless with her.”

  “I’m not Vandenbroucke,” Kwame said. “She’s carrying my child and I’ve made it clear to her that I don’t want her to be with other men.”

  “You’re still white,” Badeka said. “I will try to think of good things to say about you.”

  Badeka started to leave the film truck. “Don’t go just yet,” Kwame said.

  “I’ve got a class to teach.”

  Kwame put his hand on Badeka’s arm. “I’ve been thinking as we drove here. You must make Bonanga understand that if Kalima agrees to this, she must realize that the time may come when she must go with me to America.”

  Badeka closed the door of the truck, willing to arrive late for his class. “He will not agree to that.”

  “He’s not marrying me. She is. It’s her decision.”

  Badeka smiled with astonishment. Clearly Kwame did not understand how negotiations proceeded. “Is this marriage a good idea?”

  “Yes. We both want it.”

  Badeka shook his head. “Kalima is an African village girl. She knows little English. She has almost no education.”

  “I know her better than you do,” said Kwame. “She has talents that neither Bolobe nor Mbandaka have allowed her to develop. Look what she’s done with le snack.”

  Badeka continued to shake his head. “Le snack works here, but it’s nothing in America. Nothing.”

  Kwame turned pleadingly to his friend. “My father,” he said with a smile, “I don’t pretend it will be easy. But she can do it. Millions of people have done it, even from Africa.”

  “I can’t keep the class waiting any longer,” said Badeka. He opened the door of the truck again.

  “Be persuasive!” Kwame urged.

  Badeka put his hands up as if to say, “Enough!” and hurried off to his students.

  AT NIGHTFALL Kwame went to the Badekas’ home with a case of beer, a present for Badeka. He reimbursed him for the chicken and inquired about the negotiations. “Were you able to say good things about me?”

  Badeka did not smile at this banter. He reported, “Her father wants to be certain that you understand you are not buying a woman. You are negotiating a connection between two families.”

  Kwame nodded and asked, “You explained about America?”

  “I explained. He listened.”

  Kwame felt relieved. Bantering again, he inquired, “What will it cost me to connect our families together?”

  “Her father wants fifteen goats in good health.”

  “Goats!” Kwame began to laugh. “I can’t even buy him a chicken! How am I going to find him fifteen goats in good health?”

  “I palavered him down to twelve.”

  “Wonderful. Will you help me buy them?”

  “Twelve goats is not much in terms of bridewealth,” Badeka informed him. “I got you a pretty good deal on Kalima.”

  “Really?” said Kwame. He was not sure that he should be pleased to be getting a bride on the cheap.

  “Bonanga said he figured she was already your woman. But he might as well get some money for the cost of rearing her.”

  “Money too?”

  “Yes. Quite a bit of money.” Badeka mentioned the sum.

  Kwame swallowed, but nodded. “I can pay that,” he said. “But I won’t have much left. Kalima can live in a poverty that was brought upon her by her own people.”

  “He does not want it all at once. In fact, he insists that it must not be paid all at once. You pay it over time and the linkage between the families is strengthened.” Kwame nodded again. “The two of you must also marry in a ceremony that is official, legal, legitimate, in your own society. He wants to be sure that you understand—”

  “That I am marrying a woman, not buying her.”

  “Precisely,” said Badeka. “When I spoke about America, he demanded that you agree not to take Kalima or your children out of the Equateur. I said that was impossible.”

  “Good! That is impossible.”

  “I said that you were an American, after all, and the time might come when you had to visit your people.” Badeka added, “I also reminded him that it was his daughter’s decision.”

  “He did not like that.”

  Badeka grinned. “No, he did not like that.”

  “I can agree not to take her away for eighteen months. Perhaps two years.”

  “We agreed on five years,” Badeka said.

  “I cannot agree to five years,” said Kwame. “I work for people who insist I do their bidding. And there may be circumstances—”

  Badeka shrugged. “He was adamant. And he opposes this marriage.” Kwame said nothing, but this demand created an impasse. “If you want to have any rights to your child,” Badeka advised, “you better agree to his conditions.”

  “What happens in two years if this matter cannot be resolved?”

  “Perhaps it is not such a good idea to marry,” Théa Badeka said.

  “The father is a man of strong views,” Badeka reported. “Traditional views. You might call him obstinate.”

  “That word will never cross my lips.” Kwame smiled.

  “He opposes this marriage. So you must not be obstinate.”

  “Why not enjoy Kalima now,” suggested Théa, “and leave her when you must?”

  “I’ve been with women I enjoyed,” Kwame said. “I want to marry Kalima.”

  “If the marriage fails,” Badeka explained, “it is possible that some of the bridewealth would be returned.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Kwame said in English. “What am I going to do with a bunch of fucking goats?”

  Badeka waited until Kwame calmed down. “But not all of it will be returned,” he continued. “She will have presented you with a child, after all. If you leave the Equateur and desert her, you cannot expect that any bridewealth will be returned.”

  Controlling himself, Kwame nodded. He would not be another Vandenbroucke, but how could they ask him for a five-year commitment to stay in the Equateur? He wondered if not marrying Kalima would be the wiser course. “What happens next?” he asked.

  “Her father makes one more demand,” said Badeka. “He does not want her to stay in Mbandaka. He believes it’s dangerous here. He and his wife are taking her back to Bolobe tomorrow.”

  “He makes those decisions for her?”

  “Until she marries,” said Théa. Kwame did not like this arrangement, but apparently he was stuck with it. “Or until she rebels,” Théa added.

  “She rebelled once before,” remarked Kwame. Remembering that mollified him.

  “Yes, but there would be no point in rebelling this close to marriage.”

  “Is Kalima committed to this marriage?” Kwame asked.

  “She accepted your gift,” Badeka said. “And she understands about America.”

  “Thank you again for the neckl
ace,” Kwame said to Théa.

  She acknowledged his thanks with a smile. “A man’s family helps him with his bridewealth.”

  “Thank you for being my family.”

  “Are you committed to this marriage?” Badeka asked. “It seems impossible for you to stay here and it will be very difficult for her to go with you.”

  “She has amazing resources,” Kwame said. “I think she can get along almost anywhere.”

  “Do not go back to the house to be with her tonight,” Badeka advised.

  “I can’t see her again?” Badeka shook his head. “Will they know I’ve agreed to these arrangements?” Kwame asked.

  “I will tell her father tomorrow,” Badeka said. Then he added, “We go to Bolobe in eight days.”

  “To buy goats,” Kwame replied.

  “When you have transferred the goats and the first money payment to her father, then she becomes your wife. And you can return here.”

  “Consider this carefully,” Théa advised, “before you decide to do it.”

  KWAME DROVE to the hotel. He had a drink in the bar with Tombolo. The hotelier had been listening to news broadcasts from Brussels. The Kabilistes were approaching Kinshasa. Every commentator expected a pitched battle for the city. “They want blood, these commentators,” Tombolo said. “After all, it is our blood, not theirs.”

  Kwame asked Tombolo if strangers were entering the Equateur, if he thought that Mobutu and his people might make a final stand in the region, perhaps even seeking independent nationhood for it. “People are coming into the Equateur,” Tombolo acknowledged. “Unfortunately few of them have the price of a hotel room. And Mobutu is dying,” he commented. “Who fights for a dying man?”

  They talked like friends, citizens of the same town, from the same people. Finally Kwame asked, “Did you know Vandenbroucke?” Tombolo gave him a sideways glance and said nothing. Kwame smiled. “You think it’s taken me a long time to ask.” Tombolo shrugged. “You did know him.”