by Tamar Myers
“It is the sin of being Catholic. But, mukelenge, this I find very confusing as I can see that Jesus Christ and his mother, Mary, live there”—Jonathan Pimple pointed to a pair of statues flanking the dais—“and they would not do so if this was truly as evil a place as the Protestants claim it is.”
“Nein, nein,” Father Reutner shouted. “That is not true! Jesus was not a Protestant; he was a Catholic!”
“I am sorry, muambi. You see, I truly am an ignorant man in the ways of your church.”
Father Reutner took some deep, calming breaths. It would be a grave sin indeed if he let his temper get in the way of snaring this lost sheep and returning it to Christ’s fold—especially since, just by looking at the man’s mouth, he could tell that the man was a Mupende. Around Belle Vue, they were like the Samaritans of the New Testament: despised.
“Monsieur Pimple,” he finally said, “we all make mistakes. That is how we learn. Fortunately Mother Church has given us a process through which we can be forgiven of our mistakes. You recite your mistakes to me, and I will give you spiritual advice on how not to repeat such and such a mistake. In addition, I will give you a small punishment that will help you to remember. This is called confession.”
“Muambi, if it pleases you, could you give me an example?”
The old man nodded. Indeed, he was quite pleased to do so.
“Let us say that you tell me that you beat your wife too hard upon occasion—”
“Aiyee, this I do not do!”
“No?”
“I have yet to take a wife, muambi.”
“This is not good, for a man without a wife is a man who will entertain impure thoughts. He will then search out the village prostitutes, or he will ditongesha.” Masturbate.
“Muambi, never has a white man spoken to me so directly!”
“E, but that is the nature of this ritual called confession.”
“Mukelenge,” said Jonathan Pimple—Lord, “are these things—these mistakes that I have made—do they stay with you? For I am told that they do.”
The old priest was shocked. “So someone has already been speaking to you about conversion?”
“Absolutely not! Except for this matter of confidentiality. As a Mupende, I had reason to be concerned.”
It was truly like a lightbulb went on inside the cleric’s head. “Ah! You were perhaps a cannibal in your youth?”
“Eyo. But I was just a small boy, you see, son of the powerful chief Nyanga-Yanga.”
Father Reutner rubbed his hands together, as if washing them. “Cannibalism is a grave sin, my son.”
“Even for you who are a Catholic?”
The priest raised one of those leathery hands. He wished to strike the impudent Mupende. He had heard this sacrilege more times than he cared to remember: What was so wrong about Africans eating other Africans, if once they converted, they would actually be eating Jesus Christ? Perhaps their question wouldn’t be quite so infuriating, if Father Reutner had a pat answer he could give them, something that their simple minds could grasp.
When Jonathan Pimple didn’t even have the decency to flinch, Father Reutner resumed symbolically washing away the blood of some anonymous Mupende victim. “Tell me about the man you ate. What do you remember?”
“Mukelenge, I remember very little.”
There were certain questions about the practice of cannibalism that Father Reutner had always wanted to ask a Mupende tribesman, someone old enough to remember that barbaric custom. Someday when he retired, if his mind still held up, and the termites hadn’t succeeded in eating his copious notes, Father Reutner intended to write a book. It would be a sociological profile of the Congolese tribes among whom he had served. His working title was Bringing Light to the Heathen Lands, although during the process of collecting this valuable information, the good priest discovered that very disturbing thoughts had arisen in his own head.
“But the person you ate—it was a man, yes, and not a woman?” Father Reutner was ashamed of himself for thinking thus, but it seemed to him that eating a man was a worse sin than eating a woman.
“E, it was a man; of that I am sure.”
“How can you be sure after so many years?”
“Because there is no reason to eat a woman unless one is very hungry, even starving. The flesh of a woman does not bestow special powers upon one; to the contrary, by consuming a woman one might even take on those characteristics that are female. Tell me, Mukelenge, would you wish to develop breasts and the place from which babies emerge?”
“Silence! You are in the house of God. Tell me, do the Protestants show no respect for God?”
The savage was quiet a moment. “They do not,” he said at last. “Not in the least. This is yet another reason why I must convert to your way as soon as possible; those wicked Protestants have corrupted me and set me on the broad and winding road to hell.”
“And yet you have the nerve to sit here and quote that Calvinist John Bunyan to me.”
“Aiyee! I do not know this John of which you speak. Does he live in the workers’ village?”
Father Reutner took a deep breath and tried to visualize the cover of his book. The photo would depict a traditional Mupende tribesman, one who still wore mud in his hair and filed all his teeth into sharp little points—like a fish! Or a kitten. Yah, a cover like this was guaranteed to make the book a bestseller.
“Monsieur Pimple, I am told that the most tender—and flavorful—part of a person is the hand. That part of the palm which is at the base of the thumb. Is that not the piece traditionally reserved for the chief?”
“Yes, Lord, that is so. But I remember neither the taste, nor the texture of this piece, for the morsel my father shared with me, his heir, was strictly symbolic. It was so small that a mouse would scarcely have noticed this sample of flesh passing down its gullet.”
“What a shame,” Father Reutner cried, “that a mortal sin of such weightiness left so faint a memory. Can you remember nothing else concerning this horrific event? Nothing at all? Did the victim cry out in pain? Was he boiled alive in a large pot? Did he beg for mercy? Please, you must remember more details.”
The silly Mupende shook his head. “We were merely cannibals, Lord, not savages. We did not boil anyone alive. The man was first decapitated with a machete and then chopped into pieces. Five pots were filled with the offering of his meat.”
“Did you say offering?”
“Eyo. If this man did not intend for us to eat him, then he and his friend would not have first appeared to our women as they bathed along the banks of our river.”
Father Reutner had heard enough. It wasn’t just enough of that conversation; it was enough African conversation ever. It was exactly this kind of logic that was going to keep Africa—Congo, in particular—perpetually locked in the Dark Ages. The savages bathed naked, were spotted by outsiders, so the outsiders were eaten!
“Ya biebe,” he screamed, his gravelly voice rising two octaves. Go!
The man named Jonathan Pimple rose, with his chin jutting out defiantly. “It was a white man,” he said. “That much, I remember. He was a Catholic priest just like you.”
In Amanda’s mind, the words murder and village immediately conjured up the image of Cripple. Today was only Thursday; it wasn’t laundry day, so the tiny Muluba woman should already have checked in with her. In a panic she spoke her thoughts aloud.
“Oh God, please don’t let it be Cripple!”
Pierre pulled her close to him, wrapping his strong tanned arms tightly around her neck. “Amanda, no! The murder victim was not Cripple!”
Amanda pulled free. “Then who? And how dare you scare me like that?”
His look of bewilderment restored her equilibrium.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. It’s just that I care a great deal about Cripple.”
/> He took her in his arms; gently this time, and she went softly, willingly. “The victim of this horrible crime is the same man who laid claim to killing the python last week. His name is—”
“Lazarus Chigger Mite.”
“You knew him?”
“No, but he and another fellow were here seeking arbitration from Cripple. I don’t normally watch her play magistrate, but it was Sunday morning, and I was at loose ends.”
Pierre released Amanda from his embrace and sat rather heavily across the table from where they’d been standing. He shook his handsome blond head.
“That Cripple! Sooner by later she is going to get herself into much trouble.”
“Or,” Amanda said, feeling surprisingly defensive.
“Pardon?”
“The idiom is ‘sooner or later.’ You said ‘by.’ ”
Pierre, bless his heart, was so annoyed by the impromptu language lesson that his growled response was something that Amanda would have found quite embarrassing at a dinner party back home in Rock Hill. Surely Mama and her book club friends would have been scandalized.
“Forgive me,” Pierre said, raking his strong brown hands through his thick mane of hair. “My boys—my sergeant—woke me at a little past three. Do you have any coffee left?”
“I thought you didn’t like the way we Americans make coffee.”
“Ah, but there is an old saying: a wise man would do well to eat turnips rather than starve to death.”
Amanda laughed. “Is that saying African or Belgian?”
“It is neither; I just now made it up.”
She rang the little brass bell that she kept near her at all times while she ate. “One cup of black turnips coming up. Protruding Navel,” she said, without raising her voice a single decibel, “I know that you are listening, so please bring Captain Pierre a cup of coffee.”
“I am not listening, Mamu.” His emphatic words were followed by a great deal of inexplicable clattering in the kitchen, but by and by he appeared bearing a mahogany and ivory inlaid tray, upon which was a blue enamel mug, filled to the brim with steaming, freshly brewed coffee.
Amanda and Pierre waited for several minutes after he disappeared again before resuming any serious conversation. It was Amanda who spoke first.
“That man is impossible,” she said wearily.
Pierre nodded silently.
“I would fire him if I didn’t have a hundred guests scheduled to arrive next week.”
Pierre’s eyes widened, but then narrowed when he saw that Amanda was smiling and shaking her head. “Back to Cripple,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. And, of course, to see you.”
“Of course.”
“There are rumors circulating about the village that the night the python was killed—and for the following day—Cripple and her husband feasted on goat stew.”
“So? I mean, I pay her a competitive salary, don’t I? And it’s only goat; it’s not like it’s filet mignon.”
Pierre chuckled. “I love how you Americans pronounce that word. Like you are putting gas in your car, no?”
Amanda flushed. “Perhaps it is just I who mispronounces it; I haven’t had a lot of practice ordering that particular cut of steak, mind you.”
“And permit me to remind you, Miss Brown, that I was raised in this country, where good beef is a rarity—no pun intended, yes—but please, permit me once again to apologize. I do not mean for us to get sidetracked. I wish only to convey the information that some of the villagers suspect Cripple and her husband of—well, of stealing the goat from under the nose of Lazarus Chigger Mite.”
“But that is ridiculous! You saw for yourself: Cripple arrived riding on my shoulders, and as for her husband—why, he was off in the forest collecting sap for palm beer.”
“That is his story, and c’est vrai, I did not see him in the crowd. But the rumors have it that he extricted”—he paused and shrugged—“is that how you say the word?
“I don’t know,” Amanda said. She wasn’t being difficult; she really couldn’t tell what he was driving at.
“To remove. The snake’s belly was filled with bushes, no? This means that someone extricted the goat and replaced it with the bushes.”
“Extracted!”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind. Listen, Pierre, the fact that the python’s belly was filled with branches doesn’t mean anything. For all we know, Chigger Mite could well have put them in there himself before summoning an audience. How do we know he didn’t take his precious goat to another village the day before and sell it? To pin this on Cripple’s husband is nothing but superstition.”
“Oui, but it is very good for his business, no?”
“Come again?”
“Then you have not heard; those same people who believe that Cripple’s husband can magically transfer a goat from a snake’s belly to a cooking pot are now flocking to him to buy potions and pay to have spells cast on their behalf. It seems that Their Death’s career as a witch doctor has been revived.”
“Lord have mercy!” Amanda said. It was surprising how much she felt betrayed—but by whom?
Perhaps it was by Their Death, whose career might make it unnecessary for Cripple to work, and then she would seldom see her friend—her only friend in Belle Vue—again. On the other hand, maybe it was simply the fact that Cripple had been holding back from her. Friends are supposed to share news. Then again, what hubris to think that she and Cripple were such good buddies. Given the world they inhabited, where they occupied opposite sides of such an uneven power structure, true friendship wasn’t even possible.
Yes, she’d carried Cripple in the wheelbarrow through the cassava field, all the way to the forest’s edge, to where the great muma lay slain, a modern-day dragon. However, just a few months ago she’d witnessed Cripple being carried on the shoulders of angry young men shouting “Independence!” at the top of their lungs, when what they really meant was “Kill the whites!”
Chapter 13
The Belgian Congo, 1935
The chief beckoned to one of his younger warriors. This was a man who knew the Bula Matadi quite well, having been caught by soldiers and pressed into physical labor for building a road. During this time—which was almost double the time it takes a woman to grow a baby—this man had learned a great deal of the French, for he was a clever man, and skilled as a mimic as well. The chief bade this man speak to the remaining captive, and so he did. Although the words were those of the great Mupende chief, the voice was that of a white man—a Belgian overseer of low social rank.
“Look at me, you stupid monkey,” the clever Mupende said, “for I am about to make you a very attractive offer.”
The white man turned his head slowly. “Mon Dieu,” he said quietly. “I thought you were—”
“A white? Like you?” The clever man laughed. Few among the assembled cannibals understood what was being said; nonetheless, many other men laughed as well.
“You have no accent,” said the white man.
“Oui, I am like a parrot. Now listen up, you filthy bastard, here is our offer: the chief has decided to let you go.”
“Go?”
“Yes, go! What an ignorant bunch of savages you are; jungle bunnies, really, not understanding even any basic French.”
The white man with the dark hair lowered his dark eyes. “I never called your people those names. Not ever.”
At this point the chief started waving his staff and speaking in rapid Kipende. “He says I should get on with my offer,” the clever man said. “So anyway, you must surely be aware—even a baboon like you—that this offer comes with a condition.”
“This baboon understands,” the white man with the dark eyes said. He spoke calmly and without fear.
Chapter 14
The Belgian Congo, 1958
When the drums a
nnounced that Lazarus Chigger Mite was dead—murdered, in fact—Their Death forbade Cripple to leave the family compound. Even to use the communal privy, he said; for the time being, the night gourd would have to do for her needs.
“Their Death,” Cripple said, not fully awake, and thus not fully comprehending the complexity of the situation, “what does Lazarus Chigger Mite’s unfortunate death have to do with me? Or with you, for that matter?”
Their Death looked lovingly into his wife’s eyes, and then down at the growing belly that contained their ripening child. “Wife,” he said, “the headman has been here twice to see me since the day that Lazarus Chigger Mite killed the great muma. Both times were to purchase my services.
“The first time he wished to buy a spell to be put on a relative in Léopoldville who was healthy but who does not work. This man lives in the family compound of the headman and has been a financial drain for many years. The spell is only to cause this young man to seek employment.”
“And the second spell?”
Their Death shook his head. “Tch,” he said, and spat just outside the door of the hut. “He asked me—no, he ordered me—to cast a spell on the dead man, Lazarus Chigger Mite. For that one, he said he would pay me nothing until the man was four days dead in his grave. Longer even than Jesus Christ—those were his very words!”
Cripple was as fully awake as she had been the night savannah fires burned right up to the eastern edge of the workers’ village and ignited their huts with wayward sparks.
“Aiyee!” she exclaimed. “Those were awful words; and this I say as a heathen. Tell me, Their Death, why would a powerful man from Léopoldville, a member of the elite, want Lazarus Chigger Mite dead? The muma slayer was but a lowly Mupende. When the headman’s ancestors, the Bakongo, were kings, feted by the king of Portugal, Lazarus Chigger Mite’s ancestors were serving up their enemies for dinner.”
Their Death laughed heartily. “Wife, you joke, but it is the truth. As for what his motive could be, think back to the first murder in Mukanda wa Nzambi.” The Holy Bible.