by Tamar Myers
There was a third approach, one that Pierre knew would work, and which wouldn’t be held against him. He began by greeting everyone in atrociously accented Tshiluba, even though he was quite capable of speaking fluently and sounding like a native.
“Muoyo wenu,” he shouted over the din. Life to you.
It was immediately clear to everyone within earshot that a white man had joined their ranks. The throng parted like the Red Sea in the Bible story, giving Pierre unimpeded access to the bizarre scene at hand. What he saw was undeniably African, yet totally preposterous.
Even though the young white man had been raised in the Congo, Captain Pierre Jardin had never, ever, seen anything like this before. Nothing like it had even come close.
Chapter 5
The Belgian Congo, 1935
S’il vous plaît,” the dark-haired man said to them. Pleading. He said more words in rapid French, which neither boy could understand. Then the dark-haired man tried Kipende. “ . . . big mistake . . .” He repeated these words over and over again, growing louder each time. Meanwhile the man with flaming hair was whimpering like a hungry puppy.
Although the boys were young, with not even the hair of a man, they instinctively knew that neither of the white men was behaving in his own best interest. If the men were to put up a brave front, there was a slim chance that the chief would respect them and grant them a reprieve. If one, or both of them, were to suddenly exhibit lunatic behavior—hooting like monkeys, growling like lions, flopping about in their bonds like stranded fish—there existed an even higher likelihood that they would gain their freedom. After all, to kill someone possessed by an evil spirit is to then invite that spirit to take up residence inside you or your abode.
Despite the fact that the younger of the twins had been unspeakably wronged—for it was not just hitting that the other priest was guilty of—the boy felt sorry for the men. The boy grieved to see a goat slaughtered, or even a chicken. This way of feeling was unnatural—he knew that instinctively as well, and so he kept it hidden. The boy lived entirely within himself, and it was this ability that would help him survive to adulthood. His brother, on the hand, was a fighter who struggled always to keep some measure of control; it was this characteristic that would see him survive to adulthood.
Chapter 6
The Belgian Congo, 1958
Being a witch doctor is an honorable profession. It is an occupation passed down from uncle to sister’s son. In many tribes, the eldest brother of one’s mother takes precedence over the mother’s husband when it comes to rearing the children. After all, how can one know that the offspring are really her husband’s? But the mother and her brother did emerge from the same bisuna, of that one can be sure.
Many whites dismiss the witch doctor’s craft as so much hocus-pocus, or collusion with the devil, but those attitudes are the result of ignorance. It takes years of intense study to become a practitioner of tribal medicine, and a special personality. Cripple’s husband, whose given name was Their Death, certainly had the intelligence to absorb the vast amount of jungle lore concerning herbs, barks, fungi, and insects. Some of these ingredients aided in healing a patient, while others contained lethal amounts of poison, and still others put one in a comatose state that resembled death, but from which one could spontaneously emerge relatively unscathed.
However, despite his wealth of knowledge, Their Death lacked the most crucial component required to be a successful witch doctor. Their Death lacked salesmanship. Even the best herbs produce only modest results on their own. To be truly effective, the healing power of the herbs must be accompanied by the patient’s power of belief in them.
But healing is only a small part of any witch doctor’s practice. It is the placing on of curses and countercurses that one depends on for a livelihood. Their Death was well aware of this fact, but he was a man with a kind heart; he was born with a twinkle in his eye. How can such a man place a curse of death upon another and have it seem true, much less have it actually come to pass?
The answer is that one cannot. Therefore, Their Death was a failure as a witch doctor. Never before in the history of the Baluba tribe—and it is a very large tribe of many millions—had there ever been a hereditary witch doctor who was such a failure at his profession as Their Death, nephew of the great Many Deaths, at whose memory people still quake.
In truth, Their Death was an educated man. He had attended the Roman Catholic mission school and was a graduate of the sixth form. In addition to that, his former boss at the post office had lent him many books on a variety of subjects. And one of the things that Their Death took away from his education was the notion that it was disgraceful for a man to be supported by his wife—even if that man was as incompetent in his craft as Their Death was. This was especially true if the wife was a semi-invalid like Cripple.
It was because of his high moral principles that Their Death risked his life in his second career: that of maker and seller of palm beer, maluvu. To make the beer one simply needed to find an oil palm tree that was flowing, cut off the inflorescence, capture the sap that oozed forth thereafter, and then let nature run its course. There were always enough airborne yeast spores to immediately start the process of fermentation in the sugary liquid. In fact, so quickly did the sap ferment that often by the day’s end it would be rank, having turned to vinegar unless the liquid was tightly sealed in a gourd.
As for selling the brew, that was never a problem. Although Captain Pierre and his soldiers kept a watchful eye on the citizenry—for their protection—they pretended not to notice the consumption of the maluvu, so long as the imbibers did not harm one another or unduly disturb the peace. In 1958, life for an African was short and often brutal; if the edge could be taken off with a sip or two of palm wine, then Their Death, who was after all in the business of healing, felt obligated to do his part.
So it was that every day he went into the forest and searched for an oil palm (Elaeis guineensis) that was in flower. Having located one, he fastened a special rope called a luku around his waist and around the trunk of the palm. Next he tied his ankles together so that they wouldn’t slip apart, in order that his legs might function as a brace. Then, while leaning back into the rope, he scooted his feet up the trunk, inches at a time. After that it was the rope’s turn. Next it was his feet. Now so on, until he was fifty feet into the air.
At any moment the rope could break, or his feet could slip, but the real danger awaited him when he got to the crown of the tree. Up among the fronds lurked the possibility of a wide variety of poisonous snakes, but most especially feared was the green mamba. If he was bitten by nyoka wa ntoka, then death was certain to occur within minutes. Rather than face the agony of asphyxiation as his organs shut down, he was prepared to hurl himself to the forest floor, and hopefully in such a way as to break his neck.
As he neared the crown, Their Death slowed his ascent, his eyes furiously scanning the canopy of ferns and frond bases. Mercifully, it felt much cooler up out of the sun; at the same time the air was heavy and stagnant with mold. Bees and flies were buzzing around the inflorescence and Their Death foolishly swatted himself several times before tying safety ropes around the petioles of two sturdy fronds that forked above his head. At last he set to work cutting a gash in the base of the flower stalk itself.
There it was, for all Belle Vue—black and white—to see: the largest muma ever to be killed in the history of any of its beholders. Surely this was the case. African rock pythons can grow to be twenty feet long, but this one was closer to thirty feet in length. And its girth! It was as big around as a man’s thigh, except for its extremities, and of course where the goat lodged; at that point the snake was as big around as a goat!
Chigger Mite laughed happily and reenacted the moment of truth for the ever-expan
ding crowd. “I was returning from the bush,” he said, “having completed my needs, when I heard the sound of thrashing nearby. I took only a few steps off the trail and there it was—this monster. Protruding from its mouth was the rear half of a goat. Clever man that I am, I prayed to the Roman Catholic gods—Jesus Christ and his baba, Saint Mary—and they directed me to a tree overgrown with lukodi vines. These I cut and tied securely around the hind legs of the goat, and the other ends around that tree. You see?” He pointed to a sturdy young tshinkunku tree, and then he paused to let the villagers murmur their appreciation of his bravery and resourcefulness.
Not until the crowd grew restless did Chigger Mite draw a deep breath before continuing his monologue. “I knew at once that the goat belonged to my friend here, Jonathan Pimple, because it was white, and only Jonathan Pimple had a white goat. That is why I immediately sought his help in killing this muma. However, Mister Pimple did not respect the laws of the forest, so together we sought a ruling from the little wise woman known as Cripple. It was she who gave the following verdict. The goat belongs to the snake, and the snake belongs to me.”
Then, for the first time, Chigger Mite noticed the headman’s presence. Suddenly the day had taken a turn for the worse. The workers’ village was not a traditional African village; the people represented many tribes. Although they were all black skinned—with the exception of the Flemish mulatto and his children—at least half a dozen families came from other African countries. Because of the potential problems this ethnic mix presented, the headman was appointed by the OP on a rotating basis. Because the headman ultimately had the police and the army to back him up, he had a great deal of power—indeed, even more so than the traditional chief of a very large village.
The current man in charge of overseeing the village was from the Bakongo tribe. He came from the capital city, Léopoldville, and he was supposed to be an expert on generators. It was also said that Belle Vue was to be only a temporary posting for him. What was for certain was that he loathed living in the provinces and that he disdained everyone not belonging to his tribe. He disliked the citizens of Kasai Province in general, but he particularly loathed members of the Bapende tribe. At least these were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lazarus Chigger Mite on that hot Sunday morning in the suicide month of 1958.
Indeed, Lazarus Chigger Mite did not as much as glance at the snake before waving his arms expansively at the crowd. “E, I shall keep what remains of the white goat—for believe me, my brothers, its flesh will be foul both to your eyes and to your taste. But to all of you, I give this muma, the meat of which is said to be among the tastiest in all of the Kasai.”
“Kah!” the headman bellowed. “We do not eat snakes in the city where I come from. We are not uncivilized like Bena Kasai. However, we do eat goat—especially goat that has been properly tenderized.”
The crowd roared with laughter at Lazarus Chigger Mite’s expense.
“Therefore,” the headman continued, obviously quite pleased with himself, “you will deliver a pot of goat stew and a fresh ball of fufu to my dwelling tonight for the evening meal. Shala bimpe.” Stay well. After delivering the traditional Tshiluba salutation, the headman—who was not even a Muluba—turned and stalked imperiously away.
The crowd hushed. Even the babies stopped whimpering while Lazarus Chigger Mite approached the great African rock python with his sharpened machete raised high over his head. With one swift downward motion, he intended to sever the serpent’s spinal cord at the base of the skull. With two or three more vicious whacks, the body and head would be forever parted and Lazarus Chigger Mite would be the stuff of legends.
But wait. Now Lazarus Chigger Mite emitted a wail that was both louder and more aggrieved sounding than that of any bereaved person that Pierre Jardin had ever heard—and in the Belgian Congo he had heard many piercing cries of mourning.
“Who killed my snake?” Lazarus Chigger Mite eventually managed to say. He dropped his machete and held up the head for all to see.
A python does not need a large head in order to swallow a goat; its jaws dislocate and the mouth stretches to accommodate the prey. In the back of the mouth a pair of backward-pointing teeth prevents the prey from escaping, but these teeth also make it impossible for the snake to disgorge the victim once the process has begun.
In at least one case, two pythons attempted to swallow the same antelope, starting at opposite ends. When the reptiles met in the “middle,” the larger snake had to continue swallowing the antelope and the smaller snake—either that, or else starve to death!
At any rate, the head that Lazarus Chigger Mite held up was the size of three fists—no more.
“Wa kafue, mene mene!” he said.
“Truly it is dead,” the crowd chorused.
Lazarus Chigger Mite tossed the head up the embankment. Whether he meant to toss it at the Belgian woman, Madame Cabochon, even he could not say. Although it landed right at her feet, it did not stay, but rolled back down the steep gulley.
“We laugh and we cry,” Madame Cabochon said, which is the proper way of expressing one’s thanks.
“Tangila, muana etu!” Lazarus Chigger Mite said. Behold, one of our own!
“E,” some said, although many said nothing.
“Our own do not oppress us,” a bold young man said.
“Friend,” Madame Cabochon said, “I oppress no one. As a woman, I neither possess power, nor do I wish to have it.”
The young man snorted derisively. “And yet you speak such words openly. Do you think that an African woman could speak thusly? If so, you know nothing about our culture.”
Madame Cabochon did not appear to be intimidated by the stranger. “Friend, you are wrong, for I am not stupid; I know that it is ignorant men such as yourself who keep the intelligent women of this country from speaking openly about their thoughts. But there are countries where women sit in judgment on men. And did you not know that in even in Africa—in Kenya to the east, and Rhodesia to the south—a woman is the queen?”
“Ah yes, Elizabeta!” the young man said. “She is a white woman—an oppressor. But listen to me, people of Belle Vue; the Prophet Kibangu came to show us the way to rid us of tyranny. We must begin by killing all the whites—even the unborn, who sleep in their mothers’ wombs. For like this muma, they too will grow up to be dangerous snakes.”
“You speak treason,” Madame Cabochon said. Each word cut through the heavy wet air like a sharpened knife. “Captain Jardin,” she called the police captain across the gulley, “you should arrest this man.”
Captain Jardin shrugged, but did nothing to apprehend the stranger. Apparently, like men everywhere, he did not appreciate being given directives by a woman.
“Yours is a false prophet,” Madame Cabochon shouted recklessly. “I have heard those silly tales of the Prophet Kibangu’s death and resurrection, and they are lies. Just made-up stories that mimic Christianity. There is not a shred of truth to them. I have heard also that Kibanguists believe that they will not have to plant crops in the year of independence, for then all that the European has will be theirs. Well, I am telling you; those that believe this are fools! For you will get nothing of mine but a bullet in the forehead!”
Never, in all the history of Belle Vue—in all the history of the Belgian Congo—had a white woman spoken thusly to a throng of Africans. It was truly a moment of such importance that Lazarus Chigger Mite temporarily forgot about the great muma that someone else had slain in his absence.
Perhaps he would encounter another enormous snake someday, but never, ever, would he be able to arrange for a white woman to stand up and tell everyone within earshot that they were a fool for believing in Joseph Kibangu. This was something that had to be savored—like the freshest palm beer. In fact, he could practically smell freshly collected palm sap at that very moment.
Then just when he thought it could not happen, th
e moment got even sweeter for Lazarus Chigger Mite. The young stranger leaped through the crowd with the agility of a colobus monkey until he was face-to-face with Madame Cabochon.
“I am a true follower of the great Prophet Kibangu,” the stranger said. He spat each word as if it were a bit of gristle, a hazard to choking. “He is the Great Prophet; I am but a lesser prophet—a seer of near events, but not of great truths. Still, I tell you people gathered here—all of you, whether African or European—that this wonder of a bridge that my African people have built to span the mighty Kasai River over the waterfall—just in order that the white man might have his view—this bridge will the great Prophet Kibangu strike down in the next great storm. Then will the village with its African inhabitants—its human beings—be severed from the white colonialists in their town that they have arrogantly named Belle Vue.”
“Kah! What nonsense,” Madame Cabochon said. She laughed right in the face of the so-called lesser prophet, causing Lazarus Chigger Mite to cringe inside, for he bore her no ill will, and had no wish to see her die—either then or later, when all the whites were to be massacred.
And then—oh, this truly cannot be believed unless one sits in the palaver hut with a gourd full of palm wine, of the strongest sort, and hears the same story repeated by more than three friends. For then Madame Cabochon reached into her pocket and removed the severed head of a nyoka wa ntoka—the head of a deadly green mamba! This she practically jammed into the stranger’s mouth, causing him to scream and fall over backward.
“I pronounce a curse on you,” she said. “I call upon the spirits of all the whites who are buried in the Belle Vue cemetery. I ask them to weave a net of death that will ensnare you and pull you down to them in their underworld before the rains bring forth new grass.”