The Witch Doctor's Wife (9 page)

A
manda felt like she’d waited her entire life for this moment. She’d wanted to see Africa ever since she was eight years old, when a missionary had described her experiences to Amanda’s Sunday-school class. To be truthful, she hadn’t ever really wanted to be a missionary herself—maybe an adventuress—but after the accident she’d set her own desires. The middle of the Belgian Congo was where God wanted her to be; it was the hardest life she could imagine.

Except that it wasn’t so hard after all. She’d decided to take a walk before breakfast to experience the real Africa, and was having a wonderful time. The air was crisp and clean, the scenery stunning, and the people—the vast majority of them—couldn’t be any friendlier.

There was a steady stream of villagers, mostly men, headed
toward the Belgian side of the river. They greeted Amanda with cheery
bonjour
s, until she answered in Tshiluba. Then, more often than not they laughed before greeting her in kind. A very few refused to make eye contact, and only one was openly hostile.

As she neared the village, children seemed to pop out of nowhere. They seemed as surprised as she. Some gasped, some cried, others laughed, but invariably they ran away or simply disappeared again. Then one small boy, naked except for a string of tiny blue beads around his waist, stood his ground.

“
Muoyo webe
,” Amanda said softly.

The child stared up at her, his brown eyes wide but serious. After a few seconds, he removed a wet finger from his mouth, tottered over to Amanda, and touched her arm. Amanda smiled and squatted. This time the child touched her hair. Then he grinned.

Amanda didn’t see it happen; the children swarmed around her, almost knocking her on her backside. They touched her arms, felt her clothing, tugged at her hair, all the while jabbering a blue streak. Although they spoke a variety of languages, Amanda caught words like “ugly” and “ghost woman.” One precocious girl demanded to know if the missionary was white all over—even “down there?”

“
Eyo
,” Amanda said, as she struggled to her feet.

The children gasped in astonishment, and then burst into giggles and fits of whispering. The precocious girl was pushed at Amanda.

“They want me to ask how many children you have.”

“I have no children.”

“Surely you must,
mamu
. Because you are already an old woman.”

“I am not an old woman; I am only twenty-three.” Then Amanda remembered that for many Africans life was so tenuous that chronological age was simply not important. In fact, it was
probable that none of the children surrounding her even knew their own ages, much less had a basis for comparison.

“Ask her,” another girl said, “how many children her sister wives have.”

Amanda turned and smiled. “Ask me yourself.”

“But I do not speak your language,
mamu
,” the dear child said, completely without guile.

“Yes, but I am speaking to you in
your
language.”

The children murmured amongst themselves as they took this bit of information under consideration. Amanda surmised she was perhaps the first white woman they had ever talked with, and since it was well known that the Belgians did not bother to learn local languages, it would seem logical to these children that she didn’t either.

“
Mamu
,” a boy said, tugging on her sleeve, “please say something else in our language.”

“Very well. The river below is very loud.”

“No,
mamu
, it is not the river that is loud; it is the waterfalls.”

“
Toh
, she is right,” a taller, and presumably older, boy said. “The river is still the river when it falls over the rocks.”

The girl who’d asked the very personal question grabbed Amanda’s left hand. “Truly, it is so.”

Another girl grabbed her right hand. “Truly, truly. What is your name,
mamu?
”

“Her name is Ugly Eyes,” the older boy said.

Amanda stiffened. “Why do you say that?”

“Because it is your name,
mamu
. There is much talk of you in the village. But these girls”—he spat to the side, narrowly missing another child—“are hardly more than babies. They know nothing.”

“Aiyee,” the girl on her right cried. “
Mamu
, will you let him speak like this about us?”

“Boys can be very mean,” the girl on left said, and began to pull on Amanda. “
Mamu
, will you come to my house? I want to show you to my mother. She has never seen a white woman close up.”

The little girl who’d initially raised the language issue pushed her way to the front of the pack. “But Mamu Ugly Eyes, we still do not know if you speak our language.”

Amanda laughed inside. Never had she felt happier.

Cripple was a keen observer, which made her an apt student. Nonetheless, the American followed some strange customs, the rational for which eluded her. Second Wife either carried the family’s water supply up from the river or fetched it from the village’s one communal tap. No one ever questioned its drinkability. Mamu Ugly Eyes, on the other hand, insisted that her water (she had her very own tap!) be boiled for twenty minutes before being strained through a white cloth. It was then cooled in a machine that produced air colder than even the coldest dry-season morning, which invariably came in July. Although it had another name, Cripple decided to henceforth refer to this machine as “July Morning.”

July Morning also produced “ice,” which Cripple recognized as a cousin to hail. Ice was put into drinking containers and then the cooled water poured over it. The result was a liquid so cold it stung the tongue and set one’s teeth on edge. What was the point of such a cruel ritual?

“Cripple,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said, “what’s wrong with the water?”

“Nothing,
mamu
.”

“Then why aren’t you drinking it? You said you were thirsty.”

“Yes,
mamu
.” From having spent years living with Second Wife, who could be very critical, Cripple knew the value of dissembling. “
Mamu
, today you wear a different dress. Is it true, as
I have heard, that white women own enough dresses to wear a different one each day of the week?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Is it also true, as I have heard, that you do not bathe?”

The young white woman had a pleasant laugh. “What? Of course we bathe.”

“But
mamu
, then why so many dresses—unless it is to cover the stench.”

“We stink?”

“Not too bad,
mamu
, I assure you. No worse than a wet dog.”

The stranger laughed even harder. “But a wet dog stinks!”

“Perhaps, but not to another wet dog. So you see,
mamu
, it is possible you may still be able to find a man willing to marry you. But of course he would have to be white.”

“Cripple, I refuse to be offended by your words because I know you mean no harm. But for your information, most white people—at least we Americans—bathe every week.”

“Perhaps it is unwise for me to disagree, Mamu Ugly Eyes, but I do not think this is the case.”

“What? How can you possibly say that?”

“Because there are many of your kind living in Belle Vue, and not once have we seen a white person naked at the river’s edge. As a result there is much debate about a certain matter. It would please me,
mamu
, if I could be the one to inform the others of the truth.”

“What matter? What truth?”

“Does the color of your skin extend beneath your clothing?”

“
What?
”

“Are you white all over,
mamu?
”

“Of course!”

“Even the men?”

The
mamu
laughed now. “Yes. Although I have never seen a naked man—of any color—I assure you. But I am positive that everything about them is white.”

Cripple shook her head in wonder. “What a strange sight it must be to see a white
lubolo
on a man. There will be many people who do not believe me.”

The ugly eyes sparkled, rendering them almost attractive to behold. “I’m glad to be of service, Cripple.”

“But
mamu
, if we do not see you bathe, then when do you? In the dark of the night?”

“No, Cripple. You do not see us bathe because we do so inside our houses.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, truly,” the white
mamu
said. “Come, I will show you.”

Cripple followed her employee into a little room she had not seen. It was a crowded space with bizarre furnishings. Cripple recognized the sink, for she had seen a similar device in the kitchen.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing to a large white object that she thought might be a chair of some sort.

“We call that a toilet. One sits upon it to do their—well, I am not sure of the Tshiluba words for what one does.”

Cripple thought hard, but for the life of her couldn’t come up with a reason to sit on such an uncomfortable-looking piece of furniture. “Is it a white custom?” she asked.

“Not just for whites!” The
mamu
’s ugly eyes were sparkling with mirth. “It is where one makes—uh, water. And the other thing.”

Cripple felt a wave of nausea, for at last she understood. “You save
that?
”

“No, no!” The
mamu
was laughing so hard she could barely speak. “It goes into a large hole. Deep into the ground.”

Cripple shook her head. It never ceased to amaze her how people with such strange, and often backward, customs had been able to subjugate her people—and not just her people, but almost two hundred other tribes. It must be the guns they brought with
them. Machetes and bows and arrows were no match for guns, which could fire their ammunition a long, long way. Yes, it was the guns, coupled with deceit. One could not fully trust a white person—not fully. Not ever.

“But there,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said, pointing to a giant white cooking pot, “is where we bathe.”

“Who carries the water, Mamu? Is that to be my job?”

“No, it is no one’s job. For there is a faucet here too, similar to the one in the kitchen. We fill this—uh, I shall call it a pot—with water, and then we sit in it and wash with soap. That is how we bathe.”

“Forgive me,
mamu
, but you sit in your own filth?”

“Yes, but—come along, Cripple. I will show you where I sleep. Perhaps you will approve of that.”

But when Cripple saw the bed, she did not approve. “Who sleeps with you,
mamu
?”

“What sort of question is that? I am a Christian. Until I am married, I will sleep alone.”

“Then there is much wasted space,
mamu
. You will get very lonely. And with so much emptiness, it will be quite tempting for snakes and scorpions to join you. Then you will roll over—and well, let us hope you are not stung.”

“Cripple!”

“Yes,
mamu?
”

“Do you always speak so directly?”

Cripple was about to tell the white woman what was really on her mind, when she sensed the presence of another. She turned just in time to see the sneer before it disappeared from Protruding Navel’s face.

Protruding Navel was the second son of a Lulua chief. His birth name was He Who Grabs, because he was born with the grip of an infant baboon. The midwife had to pinch him in order to pry
open his tiny hand, which had curled around her finger. His name was changed to Protruding Navel for obvious reasons, when he developed a serious infection in an already herniated navel. Fortunately, there was a Protestant mission nearby with an American doctor who was not only able to get the infection under control, but also to diminish the appearance of the infant’s navel. Somewhat.

Grateful for his son’s life, the chief returned the doctor’s kindness by allowing the male children of his village to attend the mission school. Protruding Navel proved to be an excellent student, capable of becoming a civilized person, an
évolué
, if the right circumstances presented themselves—which they did in the persons of Muambi and Mamu Singleton.

But for Protruding Navel, being a housekeeper was not the end of the road. Someday he would realize his dream of moving to the capital city of Leopoldville, where he would earn a degree from Louvanium University. He would become a doctor, of course, so that he could help others, just as he had been helped. But he would also be rich, and maybe someday he would even have his own housekeeper.

There was just one glitch; Protruding Navel was a member of the Lulua tribe, not the Baluba. It was the Baluba who were Belgium’s golden boys. They were perceived to be more intelligent, more industrious—in other words, more European. The Belgians even noted that the facial features of the Baluba were more like their own. The irony was, in Protruding Navel’s opinion, that the tribes spoke the same language—although the Baluba did slaughter the pronunciation of some words. And yes, at one time the Lulua did oppress the Baluba, although perhaps that was too strong a word for benign slavery. Still, none of that should have given the Baluba favor in the Belgians’ eyes. And surely Protruding Navel, as an individual, had done nothing to deserve the burden of being doubly discriminated against.

“Protruding Navel!” the white
mamu
practically shouted. “Why do you spy on us?”

“I do not spy on anyone, Mamu Ugly Eyes. I have merely come to inquire what it is you desire for today’s big meal. There is chicken in the freezer, and I have a pineapple that has ripened to perfection. Mamu Singleton has taught me how to make a Chinese dish that is both sweet and sour. Will the new
mamu
be wanting that?”

“Yes, that sounds very good.”

“Would you like me to teach her to prepare this meal?” Protruding Navel used his chin to point at the irritating little Muluba woman.

“That’s a wonderful idea!”

“And shall I also teach her how to kill the snakes?”

“What snakes?”

“Every morning I search the house for snakes. In this season, when everything is dry, the toads come in where it is cool and damp. In the privy room, in the kitchen, and elsewhere. Do you not see them under the bathing tub?”