The Healer's Warrior (5 page)

Finally
Kibwe
accompanied her to see their parents. Jem’ya was nervous to see them. When she left
Tikso
two years ago her parents were very upset. She stayed in contact with them through letters and they expressed that they loved her, but still there was underlying tension. She had shattered the dreams they had for their first daughter to marry young and start a family within the tribe.
Kibwe
led Jem’ya to Mama and Papa’s hut.

“Is it really you!” her mother cried upon seeing her face. Mama jumped up from her cushion and embraced Jem’ya. It was a long while before Mama let her go. They stepped back and they wiped the tears from each other’s faces. Mama was still beautiful, with small bright eyes, high cheekbones, a small waist and youthful skin. Mama was Papa’s first wife. Jem’ya and
Kibwe
were the only children they had together. They were Papa’s first two children of the eleven he’d fathered with his three other wives. 

Papa stepped towards her. He was a tall man and it was from him that she got her round eyes and dark eyebrows. There were wrinkles under his eyes that made him seem tired and he wore a short, thick beard. “Jem’ya, my first daughter,
are
you here to stay?”

Her eyes began to brim with tears of remorse. She shook her hanging head. She had fought her conscience repeatedly during her journey to
Tikso
, refusing the urge to turn back to be of assistance to her patrons. “There are people that need me,” she explained.

Papa nodded. “I will not give up hope, because it pleases me greatly when you are home.” He held her face and kissed her damp cheeks. She began to cry again at the fond childhood memories evoked by the feeling of his beard tickling her face.

Jem’ya reached into the black sack and gave Mama an ivory hand mirror and gave Papa a small shiny dagger. Jem’ya had been surprised and frightened by it when Tareq gave the dagger to her. He even spent a few hours teaching her how to use it to protect herself. She’d been charmed by Tareq’s concern and delighted that he was willing to teach her to fight even though she was a woman.

Her parents fawned over the gifts and they chatted for a while to catch up. Mama gave Jem’ya a tribal outfit she’d left behind. She changed into the sarong and necklace and went with Mama and Papa to the courtyard while
Kibwe
left to check on his wife and children. The courtyard was at the center of the village, under the shade of two old trees. It was the place that everyone came to talk and relax after the day’s work was done and where ceremonies and celebrations were held. Jem’ya sat on a straw mat and relaxed, watching children play with their new toys and listening to her father’s youngest wife gossip about one of her cousins.

Suddenly a man sat beside her on the mat. “
ZeeZee
,” he grinned. It was
Jakenzo
, the most handsome man in the village, the man she almost married. Their failed relationship was the impetus for her leaving
Tikso
as fast and as far away as she could two years ago.

Jakenzo
was not very tall, but his swagger and confidence made him seem bigger. He had naturally light brown hair, a rare feature among her tribe. His eyebrows were the same brown. His eyes were seductive and angular like a cat’s and his jaw line was masculine, strong. His body was lean and powerful. You could see every muscle in his abdomen. Looking at his body now, Jem’ya was not as impressed as she once was. She chuckled inwardly, imagining
Jakenzo’s
ego deflating with the knowledge that she appreciated much more the physique of her patient, a white-skinned Arab man, a wealthy one on top of that.

Jakenzo’s
ego was in the end what ruined their engagement. He had to flaunt his masculinity every chance he could get. She used to be flattered by his competitive nature, his jealousy, and his lust. She used to love his rough, possessive kisses. Jem’ya used to be in love with him, accepting his insecurities for what they were. She thought that the years of patiently supporting him and humbly surviving on the scraps of sensitivity and half interest he threw her way would encourage him to be appreciative of her, the perfect virgin bride.

It didn’t. She was still not enough for him. He finally admitted that his ultimate goal was to have seven wives. It was his right as a man, he’d told her. As a woman, she shouldn’t be so jealous and selfish, he’d said. She gave the beloved
Kenzo
a black eye that day and the whole village, especially her parents, rebuked her. Except
Kibwe
; he laughed uncontrollably, pat her on the back, and gave her a big cup of honey mead.

After that day, she made up her mind to never trust or rely on a man for anything. Not for food, security, support or company, and certainly not for happiness. She left
Tikso
to be her own person and to prove what a woman could do without a man directing her. By the grace of God she made it to the North Coast safely. She was very happy for a while on the Coast, but after a year her verdict on men began to change. Perhaps she didn’t need a man, but she wanted one. And she wouldn’t need to rely on her mate completely, just once in a while.

Looking into
Jakenzo’s
smiling eyes now, two years after the fact, Jem’ya still had no regrets about striking him in the face.

Jakenzo
leaned forward and reached his hands to cup her face so they could touch foreheads, as close friends and family do, but she intercepted his hands and held them between them.  
Jakenzo
blinked at their hands and frowned, but hurriedly put the grin back on his face.

“Jem’ya
Okobi
,” he smiled.

“
Kenzo
,” she nodded and released his hands.

“You look well.”

“I am well. You look…the same.”

“Thank you.”

Of course you would take that as a compliment.

“You’ve finally returned to
Tikso
. Did it get too hard for you, too lonely on the Coast?”

“I’ll be going back in three days,” she corrected him. “I just felt it was time to come home and visit the family that I love and who truly love me.”

He nodded.

“How is your wife?” Jem’ya had learned the news from her father’s last letter a few months ago.

He sighed, mildly annoyed by the question.
“Fine.
She is a good cook and we are expecting a child,” he dismissed.

“Congratulations. Give her my blessing.”

Then
Jakenzo
gazed into her eyes, smiling still. “The truth is…I missed you.”

Jem’ya laughed. Before she had a chance to insult him in front of everyone,
Kibwe
appeared.

“Just the man I was looking for,”
Kibwe
announced. “Come,
Kenzo
. We must build a new hut for Jem’ya.” He pulled
Jakenzo
to his feet.
Kibwe
chuckled and winked at Jem’ya as he led
Jakenzo
beyond the village to gather the materials.
Kibwe
always had perfect timing and the right words for any situation. He’d saved her from numerous awkward circumstances. Sometimes he saved her from herself. He did it all complaisantly, never holding it against her. Jem’ya loved her brother endlessly and couldn’t imagine she would have had the courage to be herself without him.

Papa stood from his mat. “Tonight we will have a welcoming ceremony for Jem’ya, my first daughter,” he announced to everyone in the courtyard. “There will be dancing and feasting, for which I will slaughter eight goats from my own herd,” he grinned.

Ah’s and whistles came from the crowd at the prospect of good food and fun.

“Celebration!
Yehyehyehyehyeh
!”
Papa shouted. The crowd returned the call with excitement. Jem’ya waved shyly at everyone and thanked them. A few stood up and began to show off the dances they would perform. Mama went with her aunts to plan the meal. Jem’ya couldn’t wait for sundown.

The drums started off slow.
Boom
boom
boomboom
boom.
The tribe got dressed in their costumes, grass skirts, woven headdresses, rows and rows of bracelets and anklets made of wood and bone and metal that rattled and jingled when they moved. They took turns painting Jem’ya’s face with white and black paint. Those who weren’t dancing stood swaying in a circle around those that performed. A small fire burned in the center and the light flickered against their dark skin. The fire illuminated their bright smiles and their vibrant, busy arms and legs. 

They clapped, whistled and trilled as the drummers sped up the tempo and the volume.

Boom-boom-
boomboomboom
!
Clap-clap-
clapclapclap
!

The swaying turned into stomping and bouncing. Sweat began to bead on Jem’ya’s skin as she moved. Her own heartbeat began to match the feverish pounding of the drums. When a group of six young men, including
Kibwe
, holding decorated spears went to the center of the circle and started her favorite dance, she was delighted.

 A memory from the Coast entered her thoughts. One morning after his session, Tareq woke up in a particularly good mood and came out of the healing room dancing, which amused Jem’ya immensely. At the time she’d been his healer only a month. It was the first moment she began to see him as more than her patient. It was a dance that Jem’ya had seen other North African men do, a kind of hopping and stepping from foot to foot while waving your hands above your head and twisting your hips.  She stood up from the table and clapped and whistled for him as he danced. Then she joined him, copying his moves.

Tareq seemed surprised.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked.

“In my country the men do not dance with the women.”

“Well, in my country they do,” she chuckled and continued dancing. He was impressed that she learned the dance so quickly. Then he wondered if she could teach him a dance from her culture, so she taught him some steps from the dance the young men were dancing now.

The young men stood in a line, side by side. Their lean legs sprang up as they kicked up their feet, moving four steps forward and then four steps back, stirring up clouds of brown dust and shaking the spear in their right hands. Together they spun suddenly around and then converged on one side of the circle, stamping the butt of their wooden spears hard against the ground as they shuffled forward. Using their deepest, most menacing voices, but with amusement in their brown eyes, they shouted in unison “Yah!
Yah!” at one side of the crowd.
The men then moved back to the center to spin around and charge towards the other side of the circle the same way.

After Jem’ya taught the dance to Tareq that day, he sometimes would burst from the healing room doing it, to commend her for how much better he felt. The memory of his black curls shaking, his handsome white smile and bright hazel eyes, and his lightly tanned, strong and agile body moving to the drumbeat of her hands against the dining table faded away into an empty, needy feeling she didn’t welcome. To push it from her mind, Jem’ya broke from the crowd and entered the circle. Her friends and family cheered as she began to dance with all her spirit. Her brother and the other young men pulled back into the edge of the circle and let her have her solo.

After everyone danced and ate well, Jem’ya said goodnight and went to her hut. She washed her face and body and turned to her bags to find the oil. As she pulled out the bottle of Shea oil, a small metal box fell from the bag to the ground. For a silent moment she stared at it. She exhaled a tired breath and continued preparing for bed. She oiled her skin and dressed in a long blue nightdress. Then she sat down on her bed mat and picked up the metal box. It was the last thing left, the only item from Tareq that she hadn’t given away.