The Witch Doctor's Wife (4 page)

S
moke and dust painted the African skies in sepia tones, as the great dry season came to an end. In a week or two, before the rains came, the women of the workers’ village still had much to do in the manioc fields. Although weeds and brush had made little progress infiltrating the plots, what little there was had to be carefully chopped out, so that when the harvest days arrived, there would be no place for snakes to hide. Harvesting required all of one’s attention.

The green mamba, known locally as
nyoka wa ntoka
, is one of the deadliest animals on the planet. It is also exceptionally aggres
sive, even for a reptile. The number-one cause of death amongst the villagers was infant mortality, the second was snakebite, and the victims were primarily women. When a green mamba released its full load of venom, the victim had approximately three minutes to settle her affairs with whichever god she prayed to.

Second Wife had taken her two youngest daughters, who were not yet in school like their older sister and brothers, and her infant son with her to the fields. They were joined by a dozen or so other women and their children, each family with its own little plot of manioc bushes to cultivate. Normally, Second Wife kept the baby strapped securely to her back with a strip of cloth, but fearing that the action of her short-handled hoe might cause a snake to strike, she left the children in the shade of an acacia tree at the edge of the forest. It was too early in the day for mammalian predators to attack humans. Besides, there was safety in numbers, even if only from a statistical standpoint.

More dangerous than predators were the heavy seedpods of a massive baobab tree not thirty meters away. These pods were the size of ten fists, each with a shell as hard as wood. Just last year, at another nearby field, a baby girl had been killed when struck on the head by a falling pod. Such trees were tolerated in the landscape because the pods contained edible pulp and seeds. Did this not prove that to everything there was both a good and a bad side? Only Cripple was the exception; Second Wife could think of nothing to merit her sister wife’s existence.

Ten children in all were stashed beneath the low, spreading limbs of the more benign acacia. To occupy the little mouths and hands, one of the wealthier mothers had chopped a length of sugar cane into manageable pieces and distributed them to each child, even the babies.

As the women chopped, bent at the waist, the sun toiled to break through the haze, never quite making it. The children, for the most part, behaved themselves. For much of the time they
were kept amused by giant flying locusts, the size of sparrows, that were sent into the air by the advancing hoes. Every now and then a locust would land within reach of the children, who eagerly pounced upon it. A locust that size was more protein than many of them had eaten in a month. The lucky child had the privilege of devouring the insect; crunchy head and thorax, tickling legs, squishy belly, everything but the wings, which were generously distributed to the others to play with.

With all this commotion, it was inevitable that Second Wife’s infant son, known for the time being as Baby Boy, would be knocked over, perhaps even trampled by little bare feet. And indeed, it did happen. But the boy, still not a year old, appeared not to mind. And why should he? He was perfectly happy, playing with the large, shiny stone he had found lying half-buried at the base of the acacia tree.

Husband walked Cripple down the hill as far as the lane that led toward the missionary guesthouse. He didn’t think Cripple would get the job as housekeeper, but if she did, that was all right with him. They could always use the money.

Everyone Husband knew wanted more money. Even Monsieur Dupree, his Belgian boss, wanted more money. But it wasn’t always this way, not according to the old-timers. Once there had been a time when everything one needed was either hunted, cultivated, or made by hand. If there was a shortage, then one either did without or found an honest means of acquiring the necessity. In those days stealing was unknown.

Of course the old-timers spoke only of conditions within their own tribes. Stealing from another’s tribe was not—well, it was not really stealing. The concept of stealing came with the Belgians, along with money. To raid other tribes for food, wives, or slaves was merely survival. Those days were in the long ago, and could never be reprised, so they were best forgotten.

Today there was money. And there were things one did not need but nonetheless regarded as necessary. Did one
need
brightly colored cotton cloth, when cloth could be made from the fibers of palm leaves? Never mind that palm cloth was more durable than cotton. Did one
need
a lantern that burned kerosene, when the forest still contained plenty of wood? Never mind that kerosene was dangerous, and many people had been scarred by the mishandling of it. Did one
need
the white man’s medicine, when traditional cures prescribed by witch doctors were just as effective, if not more so? Never mind that many hereditary healers and diviners, like Husband, now had to support themselves with outside jobs.

True, from time to time villagers would approach Husband, seeking to acquire a protective amulet or some healing potion—even the occasional curse was requested—but few thought to bring with them a hindquarter of antelope as payment, or some sharp arrowheads, or at the very least a stalk of bananas.

Thus it was that Husband, whose personal name was Their Death, had been forced to seek income from the Belgians, whose very arrival had precipitated the decline of his profession. Now, Cripple would work for the white man as well—
if
she got the job.

Amanda Brown stayed in her room far longer than she suspected was appropriate for her as mistress of the guesthouse. Just because there were no guests to deal with didn’t give her license to lollygag about like a lazy teenager. A teenager—that’s exactly how she’d been acting, and thanks to the roar of the falls, she even slept like an adolescent. If it was up to her, she’d continue sleeping for the next several weeks, at least until the Singletons returned from their trip.

It wasn’t even the plane crash, or losing all her possessions, that was getting her down; it was that man—Extended Bellybut
ton, or whatever his name was. Why did there always have to be a fly in the ointment? A cross to bear? This should have been one of the most exciting days of her life, and could have been, despite the fact that Mrs. Singleton was two sizes larger than Amanda, and her clothing had not been updated since the Dark Ages.

Well, at least it had been fun—sort of—to speak Tshiluba with him. Although he hadn’t let on, he had to have been surprised. After all, surely not everyone could speak a native language that expertly upon just arriving in the country.

Amanda had excelled in language school. Her primary instructor, a Belgian nun who had been born in the Congo, had said that Amanda’s ability to mimic accents was unparalleled, in her experience. Her grammar was flawless as well, and she’d learned twice the number of vocabulary words required to pass the course. This effusive praise did not surprise Amanda; it was not in her nature to do less than extraordinary work.

The only daughter of two physicians, Amanda’s high marks throughout her school years, and her wide range of interests, had insured her a position at any top university that accepted women. When she announced to her parents that God had called her to spend her life bettering the people of Africa, her parents’ keen disappointment was almost unbearable. Both agnostics, they tried to persuade Amanda that the best way to “better” anyone was to do so within the framework of academia.
American
academia.

But Amanda, who had been converted while still in high school as a result of visiting a classmate’s church, could not be dissuaded. To her, bettering meant not only improving the living standards of those around her, but also ensuring that those people had the opportunity to accept Jesus Christ as their savior, and thus secure for themselves a place in heaven.

And now this. Amanda stared morosely at the raging water in front of her. Yes, the view of the falls was dramatic—in the States it might even be a million-dollar view—but sightseeing wasn’t the
reason she’d come to Africa. Well, at least she was on the African side of the river, and not the Belgian. Rising sharply behind the guesthouse was a large hill, and atop it was the native village. Later on, if she could slip past the housekeeper, she would take a hike up there.

A soft rap on the door made Amanda feel both guilty and annoyed. “Yes?” she called.

“
Mamu
, I must speak with you.”

“Very well.”

She didn’t dawdle, but neither did she hurry to cinch tight Mrs. Singleton’s robe, and smooth the hair from her face with Mrs. Singleton’s hog-bristle brush. Yet, when she opened the door, there was nobody there.

“Protruding Navel,” she shouted down the corridor.

He slowly materialized from around the corner, grinning from ear to ear. “Yes,
mamu?
”

“Why didn’t you wait until I opened the door?”

“
Mamu
, my time also is valuable. Would you have
me
waste it doing nothing?”

“Protruding Navel, what is it you wish to speak with me about?”

“There is a woman here to see you,
mamu
.”

“A white woman?”

“No. Shall I send her away?”

“What does she want?”

He shrugged. “That is for you to ask her. But at any rate, she is waiting for you at the front door, instead of the back. They are a pushy people, those Baluba.”

“
What
did you say?”

“Only the truth,
mamu
. Can you deny that the Baluba are a pushy people?”

Amanda had heard that the Baluba were a motivated people, which is not the same as pushy. Besides, she hadn’t met all the
Baluba, had she? Just as she refused to harbor thoughts of racial superiority back in her home state of South Carolina, Amanda would not tolerate ethnic remarks such as this.

“What is your tribal affiliation again, Protruding Navel?”

“My people are the Lulua. I am a Bena Lulua.”

“I am quite sure,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “that the Baluba have their own generalizations about the Lulua. But in this house, Protruding Navel, we will either speak kindly of others, or not at all.”

“Then there will be much silence,
mamu
.”

A
manda had been warned about Africans who appear at the door uninvited. The instructor of her orientation course, a
white
missionary, had said that these people wanted one of two things: to sell you something or to ask for a favor, and
favor
was a euphemism for money. If they are selling, and you have use for their merchandise, then by all means, buy it. But stay clear of favors of any kind. One favor begets two, which begets a million. And whatever you do, don’t stare at them; they’ll think you’re giving them the evil eye. But don’t break eye contact with them first, either. In order to gain their respect, you need to show them who’s boss. In this case, however, the small, frail handicapped woman standing on the verandah made Amanda feel protective, not domineering.

“Mamu,”
Cripple said, “you do not look very well.”

“I’m fine,” Amanda said. “What is it you want?”

“I have come to work for you.”

“What did you say?”

“I am to be your new housekeeper.”

“I don’t understand. I already have a housekeeper. Did Mamu Singleton send you?” Please God, please let it be so.

Cripple shook her head. “I am here because news of your arrival has spread to the village. The white
mamu
will need someone to look after her, and it cannot be Protruding Navel. He has a vile temper and is very prejudiced against others not of his tribe.”

Amanda couldn’t help but smile. “Please, tell me your name.”

“Cripple.”

“
Kah!
I cannot call you that.”

“Why not? It is my name.”

“Yes, but it is…well, you can’t help being that way—crippled, I mean—can you? It would not be polite for me to call you that. Don’t you have a Christian name?”

“
Mamu
, I am not a Christian.”

The calmness with which the African woman confessed her soul’s peril stunned Amanda. Perhaps she hadn’t understood the woman.

“Are you a Catholic?” she asked. It was sad, but true, that in the Belgian Congo the Protestant missionaries and the Roman Catholic priests were adversaries. If only the Catholics would stop worshipping Mary and be truly born again, then they could work together to save souls.

Cripple didn’t even flinch. “No, I am not a Catholic. I am what you call a heathen.”

Amanda was stunned. “A
heathen?
”

“I am aware,
mamu
, that this is a bad word to you. Perhaps
traditional
might be more acceptable.”

Amanda smiled, despite the seriousness of the moment. “And your family? What are they?”

“They are mostly heathens as well,
mamu
. I would be quite worried if they were not. After all, my husband is a witch doctor.”

“Why I declare!” Amanda said, slipping into English.

“
Mamu?
”

“Never mind. Help me understand this, please. You, and your family, worship all kinds of spirits?”

“
Eyo
. But my sister wife is somewhat of a Christian, so she worships mainly the spirit you call
Yehowa
. And what does the
mamu
worship?”

“I worship the true God,
Yehowa
.”

“Is he not also a spirit?”

“Baba,”
Amanda said, and paused to collect her thoughts. Although the word translates as “mother,” and is used to show respect, it is applied only to Africans. Even this distinction between races made Amanda uncomfortable. “Look, I am very sorry, but I cannot employ a heathen—even if I were looking for someone to hire, which I am not.”

“Then you do not wish to save my soul?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then what better solution is there? I will work for you, and you will tell me about your invisible God.”

“Yes, but you see, we already have a housekeeper.”

“Like I said,
mamu
, Protruding Navel has a violent temper. Even those of his own tribe attest to that. I have heard that he beats his wife. Perhaps he will beat you.”

“Me? That’s foolishness.”

“Why? Because you are white?”

“I find that I like you,
baba
, even though you’re a heathen. You don’t spare your words, which is refreshing. But even if I agree to give you work, what will I call you? I can’t agree to Cripple.”

“It is my name.” The African’s dark eyes flashed. “My mother
gave birth to three others before I was born. Each was a cripple, and each died while still an infant. When I was growing in my mother’s belly, she asked the witch doctor for special medicine to ward off the evil spirits and to make sure that I was born healthy. The witch doctor gave her a brew to drink, and told her that I should be named Cripple in advance of my birth. The spirits, he said, would be confused, thinking that they had already done their job, and would leave me alone.” Cripple refrained from adding that this same witch doctor, the man whom she called Husband, had contracted her into marriage when she was fourteen.

“Yes, but—”

“But I am still a cripple?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“Ah, but you see,
mamu
, I am not as badly crippled as the others were, and among all my mother’s children, I alone have survived. Believe me, it would have been much worse, had I not been called Cripple. This name is my protection.”

Amanda shook her head, clucking softly to herself. She liked the feisty woman, but hiring a heathen for a housekeeper would surely be the talk of the mission field. Besides, Protruding Navel would be outraged by having to train her as his replacement—

“When can you start?”

“I am here now,
mamu
, am I not?”

“You will have to be trained.”

“I did not expect less.”

“And it will be Protruding Navel who will do most of the training.”

“So be it.”

Amanda smiled. “Good. By the way, do you speak French?”

“Rarely. Sometimes at the market I encounter vendors from other provinces who don’t speak our local languages, nor I theirs. Then, and only then, do I speak French. After all, it’s the language of our oppressors.”

It took Amanda a second or two to realize that Cripple had just answered her in perfect French. Truth be told, her accent was even better than Amanda’s.

“Where did you learn to speak like that?”

“When I was a girl,
mamu
,” Cripple said, still in French, “I wasn’t allowed to attend school. So I sat every day outside my brother’s classroom and listened to his teachers lecture.”

“Do you know math as well?”

“Only through the sixth form. That’s as far the mission school went in those days.”

“What about English?” she asked.

Cripple shook her head. “I wouldn’t mind learning it, if
mamu
is willing to teach. But frankly, it sounds like just so much gibberish to me. Monkey talk, some in the village call it.”

Amanda tried in vain to keep a straight face. “Well, now that you are hired,” she said, switching back to Tshiluba, “you will want to know what to call me. In language school I was given the name Mamu Hurry Up, because I was always rushing through the lessons. Frankly, I do not care for that name. Can you think of a better name?”

Cripple nodded thoughtfully. “
Eyo
. I think Ugly Eyes would be more appropriate.”

“Appropriate for what?”

“Your name, of course. Mamu Ugly Eyes—yes, that is a good name.”

“Are my eyes
that
ugly?”

“You must admit,
mamu
, that they are very pale, almost like water. They really are not in the least bit attractive.”

“Cripple,” Amanda said, allowing herself to use the word for the first time, “in America, where I come from, Ugly Eyes would be an offensive name.”

“But we are not in America, are we?”

No, Amanda thought, not by a long shot. And we aren’t in
Kansas anymore, are we, Dorothy? We aren’t even in South Carolina. You could study about Africa until the cows came home, but without actually spending time there, you didn’t know a thing. Not one bloody thing.

Unless it was raining or he was experiencing another bout of malaria, Husband loved the walk home from the post office. Although it was an uphill walk most of the way, the thought of home and hearth—the embrace of little arms, a proper supper, and above all Cripple—supplied him with the necessary energy.

Although his days were long, they were quite tolerable when compared to those of Husband’s friends. The mine workers were locked away behind brick walls for three months at a stretch, cut off entirely from their families for the duration. Those not skilled enough to be sorters had backbreaking jobs such as shoveling gravel onto conveyor belts. Husband was lucky to have an easygoing boss like Monsieur Dupree. Every day between the hours of twelve and two in the afternoon, the post office was shut down so that the M. Dupree could have his main meal of the day at his house, perhaps even take a nap.

The two-hour hiatus was not long enough to accommodate a trip home for Husband, so he spent his time snacking on bananas and mangoes (fruit did not count as food), and napping on a
malala
mat in the shade of a mango grove. More often than not, he skipped the nap in favor of reading one of the books M. Dupree was forever giving him.

These strange books were called novels and written in French. Unlike the Bible or the geography and history books he’d studied in school, each novel was entirely the product of someone’s mind. “Works of fiction,” M. Dupree called them, “meant only to entertain.” But without a religious doctrine to impart, or a science lesson to be taught, they were books without a purpose. They spoke of luxuries almost unfathomable, and of people so
untouched by everyday problems that they had the time to do foolish things, such as squander their goods or commit indecent acts with, or upon, their neighbors. Yet Husband could not wait to share the stories with Cripple around the evening fire, while Second Wife muttered to herself across the flames.

Second Wife had no tolerance for foolishness, which was a very good thing in its own way, as she kept everything running. If not exactly smoothly, at least on course. If Second Wife had been one of the characters in these books—well, then it could not have been written.

Tonight Husband paused on the bridge, as he often did, to admire the view. To his right was the broad, red-brown Kasai River. It was an important river, one that formed a region and shaped its people. To his left was a gorge into which the river plunged, and with so much hydraulic force that it kept the European part of the city perpetually supplied with electricity.

Belle Vue Falls was the Belgian name for this geological feature, and from it they had taken the name for their town. The bridge had been built by forced labor, and although seventy-eight African lives were lost, as well as three European, the result was an architectural marvel. It was intentionally constructed as near to the lip of the gorge as possible, so that whoever crossed it might take full advantage of the view. But critics of the bridge—Europeans from other towns and cities, and engineers who hadn’t been included in its construction—said that it was only a matter of time before erosion sent it toppling into the gorge.

Tonight, as Husband stood on the bridge, facing the gorge, he thought about the men who had died in the pounding waters below. The Africans had been expendable, their names of no significance to the colonialists. The three whites, however—two Belgian, one Greek—had their names carved into a rock pillar that stood as a memorial on the European side of the river.

Then Husband remembered, for the millionth time, that
Cripple had said she was going to work for the American
mamu
. If Cripple said it—well, it was almost as good as done. Husband couldn’t wait to hear the news. When he arrived at his family compound, he was panting heavily.

His oldest son, Brings Happiness, ran to greet him. “
Tatu
, what has happened?”

“Happened?” Husband panted for a while before continuing. “Your foolish
tatu
just ran up the hill. That is what happened.”

“Eh,” Second Wife grunted, as she poked the slumbering fire back to life. “You will wear your heart out if you persist in doing such foolish things. Then who will feed and clothe the children?”

“Maybe Cripple,” Husband said. “Has she returned from her job?”

“Job? What Job? Forgive me, Husband, but who would give a woman such as First Wife a job?”

“Wait, and you will see.” Husband was well aware that there was no love lost between the woman he lived for and the woman who lived to serve him. It was the stuff of French novels, except that his family was not rich beyond dreams. Besides, it was the lot of the African to endure. Surely to ask more of life was to anger the spirits.

Husband knew that Second Wife would be happy to say more on the subject, so he turned his full attention to the children. Satisfied with his father’s answer, Brings Happiness was playfully teasing a young sister, much to the amusement of the other children. Only Baby Boy seemed left out of the action, sitting quietly in the doorway of the house, sucking on something—something as large as a mango seed, but clearly not that. What could that be?

Husband walked over and scooped the child into his arms. “What do you have there?” he asked gently.

Baby boy was too young to speak, but he generously removed
the wet object from his mouth and held it out, as if offering it to his father.

“Second Wife,” Husband called, trying not let the excitement show in his voice, “what is this our son chews on, as if it were a piece of sugarcane?”

“Just a stone he found in the manioc field. He is growing a new tooth, and the coldness of it is soothing. But do not worry, Husband, it is so large he cannot put it all into his mouth at one time.”

“Then I will not worry,” Husband said, but his heart was pounding.