A Girl Named Disaster (13 page)

One day she didn’t have the strength to return to shore. She turned over on her back to catch her breath. The lake roared in her ears, and sunlight jagged off the waves. When she eventually regained the island, she was so overcome with dizziness, she had to lie half out of the water for a long time until her strength returned.

Nhamo couldn’t hide the facts from herself anymore. She had gone past hunger to real starvation, where the body no longer struggled against its fate. She would become progressively weaker until her arms and legs refused to move at all, and then she would die.

N
hamo slowly dragged the boat down to the water. She rested frequently, having no desire to reach her destination, but she couldn’t postpone the journey any longer. “It seems you insist on me visiting you,
Va-njuzu
,” she said bitterly as she wrestled the heavy boat over the rocks. It was early morning, when the water was generally calm. Nhamo floated the boat and walked it out of the shallows. On one side of the island was a field of dangerous rocks; on the other, as far as she could tell, was a deep, clear area.

Nhamo didn’t allow herself to think. She clambered into the boat, waited for it to stop rocking, and started out. She didn’t allow herself to look back at the island. A pinch of the precious salt and a few bean sprouts filled her with energy for a while, but it wore off.

For once, the waves remained small. Unfortunately, the still air brought a heat haze that covered the water and made it difficult to see very far. Midday came and passed. Nhamo rested and ate more beans. They rumbled inside her stomach. Long before sunset, Nhamo was too exhausted to row, so she brought the oar inside and stretched out with Aunt Chipo’s scarf over her head.

“Mother, how will my spirit return to the village if my body is at the bottom of the lake?” she asked.

Mother smiled at her over the white tablecloth, where she was spreading bread with margarine. “I got home, didn’t I? The paths of the body are long, but the paths of the spirit are short.”

“Don’t worry, little Disaster,” said Crocodile Guts, who was lounging in a chair. “You’ve got my boat. It’s made out of
mukwa
wood. Even the termites won’t touch it.” He scratched his head, and ghost lice crept over his fingers.

Two
njuzu
girls coiled up the table legs and bent gracefully over cups of tea that Mother had poured. They lapped at them with forked tongues.

Nhamo woke in the middle of the night. Mwari’s country spread out above her. It was a region of which she knew little. Nighttime was too full of danger to encourage anyone to relax and study stars. Mwari, of course, was everywhere, but his special place was the sky.

The air was still, and the boat drifted gently. Nhamo thought about the dream. She knew that her spirit wandered with the ancestors when she was asleep. It made perfect sense that Mother would speak to her, but the presence of Crocodile Guts was puzzling. He wasn’t a relative. Perhaps he was attracted by the boat.

As for the snake-girls, Nhamo would have preferred them to slither off to someone else’s dream.

Dawn came. She continued to rest. It seemed too much trouble to sit up and row. Where could she go, anyhow? The sunlight crept up behind Nhamo’s head and finally bathed her in uncomfortable heat. The air was motionless. She covered her eyes with Aunt Chipo’s scarf. Slowly, the sun rose until it shone directly on her face. She could see beads of brilliant light through the weave of the scarf.

She attempted to paddle in the afternoon, but the oar threatened to slip out of her fingers. Nhamo gave herself up to the inevitable. Now and then she drank water and nibbled the rest of the beans and salt. At night she fell into confused dreams. How long had she been out here? How many times had the sun passed overhead? It was just peeping over the rim of the boat now, although she had no memory of a dawn.

And then it came to her that the boat had been drifting in the same direction all that time. It was moving toward the rising sun, which meant the current was flowing east. All she had to do was paddle west, and eventually she would reach Zimbabwe.

Nhamo sat up. Lights flashed before her eyes and her head swam. Oh, yes! I’m going to row to Zimbabwe. I can barely move, she thought. It took a while for the fit of dizziness to pass, and then her eyes couldn’t focus. A dark smudge floated over the water.

Nhamo rubbed her eyes; the smudge didn’t go away. In fact, it became clearer as the boat floated toward it. A strip of sky separated it from the lake, but it was most definitely a patch of land with trees. A thrill of terror shot through Nhamo. Whoever heard of land floating? It had to be connected to the spirit world.

As the boat approached, the strip of sky wavered and melted away. Suddenly, Nhamo realized she was looking at an island. She grasped the oar and was swept with another fit of dizziness. No matter! She began paddling anyhow, trying to make out the island through the haze of light blurring her vision. The shoreline rose up steeply. Here was another problem! This island didn’t slope gradually into the water. She couldn’t see anywhere to tie up.

On she went, bumping now and then against rocks. Even if she did manage to tie up, she didn’t think she had the strength to climb any cliffs. Nhamo prayed to her ancestors and then, to be on the safe side, asked the
njuzu
for help, too. She hadn’t forgotten the strip of sky. This land might very well belong to supernatural creatures.

As she was almost past the island, she spied a giant fig tree with long roots snaking down to the water. Nhamo made for it and secured the boat. She lay down to rest.

The roots twisted and interlocked above her. They made a natural ladder and even provided places to sit and catch her breath. It was perfect. I can build a fire, Nhamo thought. I can eat. Thank you, Mother and Grandfather. Thank you,
Great-grandparents. And of course you, too,
Va-njuzu.
And Va-Crocodile Guts. I couldn’t have done it without your boat.

Nhamo thought about what she should do to express her gratitude. Beer was what one generally offered the ancestors, but she hadn’t learned how to make it yet. She did know how to make
maheu
, though. She could use some of the cooked mealie meal and have it ready tomorrow.

What would the
njuzu
like? Here, Nhamo was completely stymied. They seemed to have plenty of food and drink in her dream. They had houses and livestock, too. Really, it was difficult to know what such powerful spirits lacked. Then she had it: They liked jewelry. The snake-girls had been covered with beads.

Nhamo hunted in her stores until she found the beads from Aunt Shuvai’s bracelet. She looked at them sadly, remembering when she had gathered them up long ago after her aunt had thrown them away. They were one of her few remaining links to the village. But she must not be cowardly. The
njuzu
had brought her to this island, and it would be extremely ungrateful not to repay them.

Nhamo closed her eyes and flung the beads into the lake. She heard a light patter as they struck the water. “I hope you like them,” she whispered. “They were very beautiful.”

Nhamo made ready to climb the fig-tree roots to the top of the island. She packed a cooking pot, mealie meal, and matches into the fish trap. This she tied to her back. Then she filled the calabash with water and began her journey.

Step by step, with many rests, she worked her way to the top. The most difficult job was keeping the water in the calabash. She would have to work out a better method for transporting it. Nhamo fought against dizziness, but the promise of cooked food kept her going. She finally hauled herself over the top of the cliff and stopped.

And stared, open-mouthed.

The island was covered with greenery as far as she could see—not with ordinary forest plants, but with tomatoes, mealies, and bananas. Nhamo’s eyes grew wider and wider as she took in the unbelievable scene.

“Oh! Oh! Thank you!” she cried. She fell to her knees by a banana tree and began cramming the ripe fruit into her mouth. Then she forced herself to eat more slowly.
Ambuya
said it was dangerous to eat too much after starving. Nhamo nibbled and waited and nibbled again. She ate some tomatoes next. They were little and egg-shaped, not like the tomatoes they grew in the village, but she had seen ones like them in the Portuguese trader’s garden.

After a while Nhamo curled up in the shade of a tree and went to sleep. She knew this was foolish—after all, she hadn’t explored the island—but she was so weak she couldn’t help herself. And besides, she thought as she snuggled into the grass, this place must belong to supernatural beings who wouldn’t allow wicked things to stay. Hadn’t it floated over the water?

She awoke shortly before sunset, found a rocky area to build a fire on, and prepared dinner. She added tomatoes for flavor. Before it got dark, she boiled water and added it to the leftover mealie meal. “I am preparing
maheu
for you, O
vadzimu.
Please understand that I am very, very grateful for your help,” she said.

Nhamo climbed down the fig roots and spent the night in the boat. The wind came up and tossed it around, but she barely noticed.

Most of the island’s trees were fairly small; the fig was the main exception. They were scattered here and there among untidy stands of mealies, rioting pumpkin vines, and sweet potatoes. Nhamo found papayas, okra, chilies, onions, and peanuts as well. They were at all stages of development. The mealies grew in clumps as though they had sprouted from entire ears dropped from unharvested plants. In some places, though, she could see evidence of systematic farming. In the center of the island was a ruined house, behind which stood a lemon tree.

Nhamo walked around the structure. It was a square, Portuguese house, not as grand as Joao and Rosa’s, but not small either. The windows were boarded up, and the remnants
of iron grillwork hung from the frames. A door stood slightly open, showing a dark and forbidding interior. Nhamo wasn’t tempted to go inside. She fetched the
maheu
pot and sat under the lemon tree to think.

Grandmother said this area had once been dry land, except for the Zambezi. The Portuguese dammed up the river and flooded the whole valley. Only the high hills poked out above the water now.

The villagers who had lived in the Zambezi Valley dug up the bones of their ancestors and carried them to new places beyond the edge of the lake. It would have been unthinkable to leave the bones behind. The ancestors were as much a part of the family as the children, and to abandon them would have been wicked beyond belief.

The mud huts of the villagers would perish after several rainy seasons, but a Portuguese house was made of stronger materials and would survive. As this one had.

The island was part of an abandoned village, much like the place where Nhamo used to have tea with Mother. There were no baboons or porcupines or wild pigs to ravage it, as there had been at the other place. As far as Nhamo knew, it contained no animals larger than mice, and the shore was too steep for hippos to invade. That was why food still abounded.

The place was part of the real world, then, and not a supernatural realm. Nhamo was relieved to find a logical explanation. It didn’t mean her ancestors weren’t responsible for
finding
it, though. She had no doubt that spirit hands had directed the boat when she was too weak to row.

The
maheu
smelled delicious, but she wasn’t even slightly tempted to drink it. This food was for the ancestors. She knelt under the lemon tree and clapped her hands respectfully. “I have prepared this for you, O
vadzimu.
When I get to Zimbabwe, I’ll go to an
nganga
and ask him to make a better offering with real beer and snuff. I hope you don’t mind waiting. Please understand how very grateful I am for your help.”

As Nhamo spoke these words, she slowly poured the
maheu
onto the earth. It soaked in quickly. When she was
finished, she sat back and smiled at the beautiful green island. The lonely-sickness seemed far away at that moment. It was as though the place was filled with the presence of her ancestors. The paths of the body were long, but the paths of the spirit were short, and the
vadzimu
had gathered to witness her gift, and to protect their wandering child.

A
nd yet she couldn’t bring herself to spend the night on the island. Nhamo had been over every part of it now. She was sure there weren’t any dangerous animals. It was unreasonable to return to the damp boat except to bail it out, but she felt safer there. The ruined house gave her a bad feeling. She knew that in the middle of the night, she would think about the door and what might push it the rest of the way open.

She wedged the boat between the fig-tree roots that snaked down into the water, to keep it from battering against the rocks. Even so, the waves tossed her around, sometimes violently.

Nhamo brought everything from the boat to her cooking area. She made a frame from branches and tied bundles of grass across it. This she leaned against two small trees to form a kind of shelter. With her belongings arranged at one end, she could curl up in the shade and feel almost as if she had a home.

She reserved the mealie meal for her eventual trip to Zimbabwe. Instead, she feasted on the riches the island provided. With careful management, she could live there for years, planting at the beginning of the rainy season and harvesting at its end. But of course she didn’t want to stay for years. Father’s family was in Zimbabwe. The thought of aunts and uncles and grandparents waiting for her there was cheering.

Nhamo dried chilies and roasted peanuts. Sweet potatoes and pumpkins would store for weeks or even months. She had ample food for a journey, and her supplies were limited only by the size of the boat. She made herself a grass ring for the top of her head. Now it was much easier to transport water from the lake. She had only to wedge a pot into the grass ring and climb the fig roots. Her hands were free to hold on. Years of practice kept her from spilling so much as a drop.

In the heat of the day, Nhamo sat under the lemon tree at the highest point of the island and made twine. She found young
mupfuti
trees, broke away the outer covering with a rock, and pulled the inner bark off in long strips. These she alternately chewed and rolled between the palm of her hand and her thigh. Her twine wasn’t as strong as Crocodile Guts’s thick rope, but it had more uses. She could make animal snares and lash together tools or thatching grass.

In the meantime, she thought about the people who had lived here. Once this had been the top of a hill where the owners of the ruined house could catch an afternoon breeze. At the front were traces of a wooden porch. Behind, near the lemon tree, Nhamo had discovered a variety of unfamiliar flowers. Rosa, too, had had a flower garden.

Nhamo closed her eyes and imagined the scene. The parents sat at a table with three—no,
six
—children. She felt kindly toward them, so she gave them enough offspring to be happy. They ate fish out of cans and used knives and forks. They had a nice, loud radio and a cage with a parrot.

And now they were gone.

Nhamo opened her eyes. The afternoon breeze whistled through the partly open door with a mournful, far-off sound. “They went back to Portugal,” Nhamo said firmly. The civil war had gone on for ten years, with many deaths on both sides. When it was over, many of the Portuguese had returned home. She tried to imagine the inhabitants of the ruined house in their new country, but she knew too little about it.

Sometimes the afternoon breeze turned into a real wind. The trees shook and the waves dashed against the rocks.
Nhamo inched the boat out of the water. She had regained her strength, but the craft was still too heavy for her to lift. She wrestled it into the tangle of fig roots. It was safe there, but far too unstable to sleep in. At night she had to let it down again. One evening the weather was too wild to permit this.

“Now what,” said Nhamo, perched in a curl of tree root. “
Hezvo!
That was a big wave!” The spray blew across her face; she rubbed her eyes. Twilight didn’t last long, and already the lake had turned dark blue. The first stars were appearing in the fading light of the sunset.

Nhamo checked Crocodile Guts’s rope again and the smaller rope she had made. The boat was tied as well as she could manage, but it wouldn’t take her weight. “I’d better find a bed before it gets completely dark,” she sighed. She climbed back to the place where she did her cooking. The fire was never allowed to completely die, and it took only a moment to blow the coals into flame. The wind threatened to scatter the fire. Nhamo rolled rocks around it for a windbreak and tucked her jars, a half box of matches, and supplies into a crevice between two boulders.

She hated being so exposed! She tied the grass shelter more firmly to the trees and crept as far inside as she could manage. It was still unpleasant. The wind seemed like a live thing determined to drag her out of her hiding place. She remembered that
njuzu
sometimes traveled as whirlwinds.

“Please don’t carry me off,” she prayed. Far off she could hear the waves splashing and, if she concentrated, the voices of the
njuzu
as they went about their business in the water. Nhamo lay wakeful and nervous for a long time. After a while, she dragged another log onto the fire and retreated to her shelter to sleep.

She was in the girls’ hut. Tazviona had lit an oil lamp, and she could see everyone’s faces by its feeble light. Masvita, Ruva, and the others sat in a circle, waiting expectantly. “Go on, Nhamo. Tell us a story,” whispered Masvita.

“A
scary
one,” said Tazviona.

Nhamo held up her hand for silence. “In the forest, in the deep, deep forest lived an old, old woman.”

“Go on,” whispered the girls.

“She wore no clothes. She didn’t need to.”

“Go on.”

“Her breasts were so long, she could wrap them around herself, round and round like a blanket!”

“Hhhuuuhh,” murmured the girls.

“Her name was Long Teats. When she got pregnant, she didn’t give birth to babies, but to swarms of locusts!”

“Go on.”

“They ate everything: the plants, the houses, the stored grain. They even fastened onto the cattle and drank their milk.”

“Horrible! Horrible!” responded the girls.

Nhamo went on with the tale of Long Teats, who, when she wasn’t giving birth to locusts, was finding children to devour. Ruva hid her face in Masvita’s lap.

Afterward, Nhamo had to go outside. To her surprise, she didn’t see the village at all. She was in a strange place where the trees tossed in a high wind.
Hhhuuuhhh
went the wind, moaning over the rocks. She tried to return to the girls’ hut, but it had vanished. In its place was the black outline of a square house, a Portuguese house. Its door creaked on rusty hinges,
eeeee, eeeee.

Inside the house something moved. Something put its hand on the rusty door and flung it open. It was Long Teats! She sprang outside, wielding a giant knife, a
panga.
“Whhhooo’s going to be my next meal?” she cackled. “Whhhooo’s going to sweeten my cooking pot?”

Nhamo screamed and ran down to the lake, where the boat lay smashed to bits and the
njuzu
girls swam among the pieces in the pounding waves.

“Yiiii!” screamed Nhamo. The wind had torn away the grass shelter, and she was exposed. She grabbed a burning branch from the fire and backed into the crevice where she had stored her belongings. The flames danced; the trees groaned.

“Oh, Mother, protect me!” Nhamo cried. “Oh, Grandfather, help!” She trembled like a calf confronted with a leopard.

Whhhooo’s there?
whistled the wind over the trees and rocks.

“I didn’t know this was your island,” whimpered Nhamo. “I’m sorry I ate your vegetables. Please don’t eat me,
Va
-Long Teats.”

She crouched down—and remembered the
zango
, the charm against witchcraft that Masvita had tied around her arm so long ago. She always removed it to bathe or swim, but carefully replaced it when her skin was dry. Now she felt it beneath her fingers. The
zango
bristled with tiny bones and feathers, a comforting shape that spoke of powerful charms.

“I am Nhamo, your child,” she whispered to her ancestors. “I gave you
maheu
when you brought me here. Please tell Long Teats to leave me alone.”

The wind gusted in a new direction, blowing from the jumbled saplings on the far side of the island. She smelled
mutarara
, the wild gardenia. What was it Grandmother had said about the
mutarara?
Its branches were very thick and complicated. It was used to keep away leopards and—and—she almost had it—to keep witches from plundering graves! That was it! Uncle Kufa had put gardenia branches on
Vatete
’s grave.

Ah! Her ancestors were sending the scent of
mutarara
to confuse Long Teats. The old witch would stumble into the sapling grove and fall over a cliff—Nhamo hoped.

Sometimes the wind blew away from the grove and sometimes toward it. And gradually, the wind’s fury died down. The sky changed from black to a wash of deep blue. Nhamo was wedged so far into the rock crevice, her hips were bruised. She wriggled out when dawn was near and rubbed her body to get the stiffness out.

The sky brightened rapidly. Soon she was able to see the green of trees and brown of bark. Nhamo huddled next to the fire with her hand on the
zango.
Finally, when the sun
cast blue shadows through the trees, she carefully made her way to the fig tree.

The boat was unharmed. It had tipped sideways, but since it was empty, nothing was lost. “So that part of the dream wasn’t true,” she said. “Maybe Long Teats wasn’t real either.” But Nhamo knew that dreams always had some significance. The ancestors were telling her something was wrong, or perhaps they merely wanted her to stop putting off her trip to Zimbabwe.

Nhamo climbed down and checked the ropes holding the boat. The waves were higher than she liked, but safe enough. Holding on to a fig root, she got into the water and refreshed herself with a quick swim.