The Headhunter's Daughter

by Tamar Myers

  The boy—and from that point on he must remain a boy until the tribal council declared him otherwise—ran like an antelope that smells the savannah burning at its back. He did not stop to drink, he did not stop to urinate, nor did he stop to rest at any time. Had he stopped, he would not have been able to feel his feet despite the many cuts and bruises he had suffered. When he finally burst into the great compound of his village, he was swallowed by a swarm of curious dogs and children, all of which he left in his wake, so fast did he run.

  Mother’s special friend, Iron Sliver, recognized the lad first. “Your son has returned! And so soon!”

  The boy’s mother stood. She’d been pulling apart the fibers of a palm leaflet, using her toes as pegs to keep the threads separate.

  “But look,” she cried, discarding her work. “He has been successful; he cradles the thing in his arms.”

  “It is not what you think,” Iron Sliver said.

  “Kah,” Mother said sharply. “Must you always be so negative?”

  “Negative? I am not negative,” Iron Sliver said angrily. She too had been making thread and this she threw on the ground at Mother’s feet. “I think it is a pig’s head your son cradles in his arms. Will you be changing his name to Pig Killer?” She stomped off, muttering angrily over her bare shoulder.

  Mother braced herself for her son’s arrival. He fell on his knees in front of her, panting so hard that she feared he might go into convulsions. In the meantime he managed to lay at her feet a very strange bundle. The pig’s head—but it most certainly was nothing of the sort—was wrapped in a white man’s cloth. Mother had never seen anything in her life that remotely resembled this strange cloth.

  For one thing, it was fuzzy—like the stems of some highly irritating vines, ones that were capable of raising instant welts, should one be so unfortunate as to brush up against them. Another very odd characteristic of this fabric was the color; like a tincture of blood and water. What a thing to marvel at!

  “Aiyee,” Mother said, jumping back from the strange bundle. “What is that? A monkey?”

  By then a crowd had gathered, and amidst the laughter there was pushing and shoving amongst the neighbors so that this one or that one might get a better view. Then Father appeared, having walked calmly over from the palaver hut.

  “Stand back, everyone,” he said. “This is a family matter.”

  “Yes, maybe,” said the chief, who was a neighbor from two huts over as the sun sets. “But as I am your chief, anything that affects this village affects me as well.”

  “Not everything,” Father said. “Remember, Chief, that you are also a slave—and do not even belong to this tribe. You were captured as a boy so that we might present you before the Belgians, should we misbehave in their eyes. If they should say, ‘Give us your chief so that we might beat him on account of such and such a crime,’ then we can do so, and we will not be hurting one of our own. Yes, you are our chief when it comes to ceremonial purposes as well, but the real power in this tribe belongs to the men of the council who sit in the palaver hut.”

  There was a chorus of “eh,” and the chief, who hung his head in apparent contrition, stumbled off to his hut as the crowd parted to let him through. Mother anxiously tore her eyes away from the bundle before her. Although the chief was indeed a slave, he was not without some power. As a boy the chief had lived in the outside world and observed its ways; who among the villagers could claim the same thing?

  “Look,” Father said, bringing Mother’s attention back to her son and his strange gift. “Now it moves. You can see that it is not a monkey, but the child of a Bula Matadi. My son, what have you done?”

  These words Bula Matadi were used all over the Congo to refer to the white man, and literally mean “breaker of rocks,” but they were words that struck disbelief, followed by terror, in the hearts of those who heard them. Older people reflexively stepped back. Children began to cry.

  Born-With-Cord-Around-His-Neck tried to speak, but after running for so many miles his voice refused to make an appearance. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, his chest heaved dramatically, but still he remained crouched before his mother on one knee, unable to say a word. Then, while his parents looked on helplessly, the boy’s eyes bulged as he clutched the left side of his chest with both hands.

  When Mother perceived what was happening, she let out a scream that could be heard as far away as the manioc patch. Custom dictated that when she had caught her breath she should scream again and then commence rolling in the dirt to symbolize the depth of her despair. Instead Mother picked up the bundle and examined its contents closely. The Bula Matadi’s baby had not reacted negatively to her keening. To the contrary; the infant was gurgling happily, its tiny fists beating the air with excitement.

  Pick me up, it seemed to be saying. Pick me up, Mother, and put me to your breast, for finally I have come home, and I am hungry.

  Chapter Two

  1958

  Police captain Pierre Jardin was a man on the verge of falling in love. It was an electrifying, yet terrifying, place to be in. All his senses were heightened; never had he felt this much alive since the death of his parents almost eleven years ago in an automobile accident over in Kikwit. At the same time, his brain—at least that little part of it that wasn’t being controlled by his hormones—was warning him that the natural consequence of great heights was the presence of abysmal depths. Then too—more often than not—women expected something called “commitment.”

  He’d been cogitating on this the night before, when a woman came to see him at his house after dinner. This was highly irregular, especially since she came unannounced. Even someone as open-minded as the handsome Pierre Jardin might have been scandalized had it been anyone other than seventy-nine-year-old Dorcas Middleton. Pierre had known Dorcas his entire life. She’d known his parents, and since Pierre had been born in the Belgian Congo, and Dorcas was an “old-timer,” the two of them felt a special connection. He even called her Auntie Dorcas, a fact that thrilled her maiden heart to the utmost.

  “Auntie, come in,” he’d said and kissed her on both cheeks, and then immediately he’d wagged a finger in her face. “It isn’t safe for you to be driving alone at night. Please tell me there’s a chauffeur waiting outside.”

  The missionary’s eyes twinkled as she spoke. “That very nice woman who runs the guesthouse gave me a lift. She assured me that you would be kind enough to drive me back.”

  “Hmm,” Pierre said, feeling his cheeks flush. “We shall see about that.”

  “Besides, Pierre, would it be so bad if I had driven? Who’s going to harm an old woman like me?”

  He took her arm and led her to the chair he’d been sitting in. It was the only comfortable chair he had at the moment. Merde, if he was going to have a relationship, he really needed to get on top of things; maybe learn to run a proper household.

  “Auntie, would you like some tea?” He knew better than to ask her about spirits. Protestant Americans eschewed anything alcoholic to the point that even their communion “wine” was Grenadine-flavored water.

  “I’m fine, dear, and you haven’t answered my question.”

  “Surely you’ve heard the rumors, Auntie.”

  “Rumors—yes, well, I thought maybe you might know something more specific, given that law enforcement is your field. As for these rumors: I’ve heard many of them before over the years. I’m not afraid, Pierre. When it’s my time, the Lord will take me.”

  Pierre smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. “Is that what you will call it when some native—perhaps drunk on maluvu—with an authentic gripe against us Belgians decides to take a swipe at you with his machete? A white is a white, you know! No one is going to ask for your passport when the retributions begin.”

  “Yes, I know,” Dorcas said softly. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Pierre fell to one knee and put his arm around the old woman’s thin shoulders. Over the years he’d taught the reserved Am
erican not to recoil from physical contact.

  “What is it, Auntie?”

  “Pierre, what I tell you must remain a secret—well, at least as few people as possible should know.”

  “Of course, Auntie; you have my word.”

  She took a deep breath. “This year we have some new students in the secondary school from up north. Two of them—a pair of brothers—are Bashilele.”

  “They are your first Bashilele students?”

  “No, we’ve had some in the past, but they didn’t stay long. It was our fault though; we didn’t take a strong enough stand on tribal discrimination. But with these two, I think we have a chance. They’re living in the student village, and seem to be getting along with everyone. One of them is a pretty fair soccer player. Excuse me—football player.”

  “What’s the problem then?” Pierre immediately regretted sounding so impatient.

  “Oh, there’s no problem with the students. But the younger brother—Born Crouching—I’ve decided to train as a table boy. He’s a personable lad—”

  “Excuse me, Auntie, what is this ‘personable’?”

  “He’s pleasant. And very talkative—we talked in Tshiluba, of course, since I scarcely speak a word of Bushilele. Anyway, we were conversing one day—engaged in what we Americans would call ‘small talk’—when he casually mentioned that he knew of a white girl living in a village to the west of his. A white girl, I asked, or an albino?”

  Pierre nodded vigorously. It was a curious fact that there were many albinos amongst the local people, the Baluba, and they were held in high regard. Perhaps the same phenomenon occurred amongst the Bashilele.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Dorcas said, “but Born Crouching insisted that this girl was white—a European—and that her parents were Bashilele. When I told him that this was impossible, he got huffy—angry—and said that I was calling him a liar. Then he quit his job!”

  “That’s it?” Pierre cried. “That is all the information you were able to get?”

  Dorcas took Pierre’s right hand and held it in both of hers. “My dear boy, you are like a son to me.”

  “And you are like a mother to me, Auntie Dorcas.”

  “Good. Then you should know that you have taught me better than that; of course I was able to get more information. So on second thought, I’ll have that cup of tea now. I’ll need it to keep my whistle wet while I tell you everything that Born Crouching told me.”

  The Headhunter’s Daughter poked the fire into life with a new piece of wood before continuing on her way to relieve herself. Three of the family’s five dogs roused themselves and trotted dutifully along with her. It was always a relief when they did so without having to be prodded. Although none of the five dogs could bark—this feature had not been bred into their kind—they could, and would, growl ferociously if disturbed while sleeping.

  Leaving the safety of the hut at night was always risky, and for that reason Mother kept a gourd inside that was emptied and cleaned every morning. Tonight, however, the Headhunter’s Daughter needed fresh air and the perspective that gazing up at a star-filled sky was sure to give her. Since basenji dogs were fearless creatures, and they considered the girl to be a member of their pack, they would protect her to the death from an attack by hyenas or even a leopard.

  With her business complete, the Headhunter’s Daughter sat on the log bench next to the family’s outdoor hearth. Even though her father’s sling-back chair was vacant, she had no desire to upset the rightful order of things and try it out for comfort; she wished only to think. And there was so much to think about that it made her head ache. Her stomach churned as well.

  This same afternoon an old man by the name of Gizzard had arrived from the neighboring village of Musoko. He’d come unannounced, heading straight to her father’s compound. The old man was disgusting to behold: he had no teeth; no hair except for what was on his back; his limbs were spindly and yet his belly was just as round as that of a woman who is about to give birth. The old man reeked of decay, and when he spoke, spittle flew in all directions.

  “I have heard that your daughter is approaching marriageable age,” he said.

  “She has yet to bleed,” Father had said, as he motioned to his wife and daughter to go elsewhere.

  Mother had scurried off to visit her friend Iron Sliver in the next hut, but Headhunter’s Daughter ducked into the family hut to make sure she could hear what was being said. In truth, the voices were so loud that afternoon that the girl couldn’t help but think that she was supposed to hear what was being said.

  “What is it that you offer, friend?” Father had asked, without as much as ordering refreshments for the visitor.

  Gizzard was quick to answer. “I have three female goats and a male. True, one of the females is blind and perhaps sterile as well, one is definitely past the age of bearing, but the third goat has only recently borne her fifth kid.”

  “How recently?”

  “Eiyee, so many questions!”

  “And yet I must repeat the question: How recently has this third goat given birth?”

  “Please friend, do not be angry with me when I tell you that this third goat is the mother of the second.”

  As horrified as she was by the conversation, it was all the Headhunter’s Daughter could do to suppress a laugh. So far she was worth three sterile female goats and one male goat.

  “And what about the male goat?” Father said, as if reading her thoughts. “Does he show interest in the act?”

  “Oh yes, friend,” Gizzard gushed. “All the time. And it is my firm belief that with some training you will be able to get him to show this interest in a female goat.”

  “Go home you son of a jackal,” Father said angrily. “You are wasting my time.”

  “But friend, I have at least ten healthy chickens and a white man’s duck. I will confess right now that the duck has only one leg, and thus cannot walk—but it can swim.”

  “I suppose that it swims only in circles,” Father said.

  “Tch, friend, now you make jokes at a poor man’s expense.”

  There followed a long silence, one so profound that the Headhunter’s Daughter could hear the lizards scurrying up and down inside the walls of the palm thatch hut in pursuit of termites. In the distance the laughter of little children at play suddenly made the girl feel sad.

  “Do you have any cloth?” Father had finally asked.

  “Cloth?”

  “European cloth—not our palm-fiber cloth. The kind woven with many colors. My wife is very fond of that. Perhaps if you have some cloth we can come to an agreement. But you must find a replacement for the duck. I know in advance that she will accept only two-legged ducks as dowry payment.”

  “I will find some cloth,” the man named Gizzard said.

  “Then off with you,” Father said rudely.

  The Headhunter’s Daughter had thrown herself across the sleeping platform as she’d choked back the tears. But when Father entered the hut a short time later in search of her, the girl presented him with a placid face. To do anything other than that was simply not in her ken.

  “You heard?” Father asked.

  She nodded.

  “And you believed this?”

  “Father?”

  Father’s laugh began as a rumble in his belly and worked its way up. But soon he was laughing so hard that he had to hold his chest or it might explode. And suddenly Mother was in the hut as well, along with Iron Sliver, and the two of them were rolling on the floor at Father’s feet. The women shrieked with laughter.

  “What is so funny?” Headhunter’s Daughter demanded. “Why do you act like hyenas when I am to be married to that?”

  “That,” Father said, as he gasped for breath, “is your mother’s oldest brother, and he does not truly seek your hand in marriage. Believe me, daughter, I would have insisted upon a better dowry than this.”

  “Much better,” Mother said, finally coming to her senses.

&nb
sp; “Perhaps that male goat and my husband could find happiness together,” Iron Sliver said.

  That brought gales of laughter from everyone, and even Headhunter’s Daughter couldn’t help but join in the fun. But after that male goat had been paired up with a number of people in the village, and even the duck had found an unlikely mate, it was time to move on.

  “Enough,” Father said. “This was but a joke, daughter, but the time is coming very soon when I will pick a real husband for you. When that time comes, you must abide by my decision. You must go to live with him. Do you understand?”

  “But Father, I do not want a husband; I want to stay here. I am still just a girl.”

  Iron Sliver was not able to help herself. “You have breasts!”

  “Kah, they are but little buds,” Mother said. “Still, daughter, it is time.”

  “Go!” Father said. “Both of you. Let my daughter be.”

  As the Headhunter’s Daughter sat on the log bench and thought about her day, a heavy sadness settled over her. No matter how long it took for Father to choose a husband, her childhood was officially over. Now it was a matter of waiting for the day when she would sleep in another man’s hut and let him have her as one dog has another. Then along would come pain, babies, death, more pain, and then more babies.

  At her feet one of the dogs snarled and looked pointedly toward the bush, as if it had heard some threatening sound. The Headhunter’s Daughter knew exactly what the threatening sound was; it was the dread she felt of having to leave the only home she’d ever known. It was coalescing. It was coming together, taking on the shape of a great beast, coming to carry her off to some distant place.

  Amanda Brown preferred to take her breakfasts on the east side of the guesthouse. That way she could hear the sounds from the village as it woke up; the laughter of women, the cries of babies, the thud of heavy wooden pestles in heavy wooden mortars, the bleating of glassy-eyed goats, and the latent crowing of cocks—in fact, Congo cocks never knew when to shut up. Amanda especially enjoyed hearing the call of the solitary francolins, a wild fowl-like bird that lived in the strip of savannah that separated the guesthouse from the village. What tasty birds they were too; much better than chicken.