The Witch Doctor's Wife (3 page)

A
manda was in love. Despite the stressfulness of her arrival in Belle Vue, Africa had managed to capture her heart. And just as a lover might be introduced to her senses—first through sight, then sound, followed by touch, and finally scent—so did Africa reveal herself to the young American.

On the flight down from Leopoldville she’d seen a huge chunk of Africa, and this morning during breakfast she heard the call of a francolin. The bird had barely been audible above the roar of the falls, which unfortunately could not be seen from the captain’s patio. But when Amanda slipped past the orange trees and looked over the garden wall, there was a mother and her four striped chicks.

Upon returning to breakfast she discovered that someone had placed a single blossom next to her place. Instinctively she picked it up and inhaled its fragrance. The petals themselves were as soft as Chinese silk, but the scent—it was the most intoxicating thing she’d ever smelled.

“Frangipani,” Pierre said. “
Plumeria
in Latin. It’s originally from Southeast Asia, but it does very well here.”

“It’s wonderful! It’s like—well, I don’t know. Maybe like a cross between gardenias and water lilies.”

“They were my mother’s favorite flowers.”

“I wonder if I could grow these back home.”

“Probably not; they’re very frost sensitive. But this is your home—for now—yes?”

“Yes, for now.”

He laid his napkin on the table. “Come, I’ll drive you to the guesthouse. You can plant as many frangipani trees as you want there.”

Amanda soon went on sensory overload. Pierre kept up a running monologue all the way to the guesthouse. That was great, but at the same time there was so much to see that she was torn between listening to his explanations and paying close attention to what was outside her window. When they reached the river, the window won.

Never in all her born days had Amanda seen such a dramatic sight. The Kasai River, which was impressive by itself, suddenly dropped several hundred feet into a narrow gorge, only to boil out at the other end. Adding to the thrill was the fact that the bridge, which connected the two halves of Belle Vue, the white and black, was built almost directly over the falls. Surely there was nothing else like it in the world.

Amanda saw Pierre pointing and leaned in closer. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Let’s get out.’”

She was happy to comply. She was even happier when he took her hand, telling her that mist from the falls sometimes made the bridge slippery.

“Amanda,” he said, “do you see the black hillside above the gorge?”

“Yes.”

“That’s from your plane. Fortunately the wind was blowing towards the river, and not away from it.”

“The explosion did that?”

“In a way, yes. The dry-season grass caught on fire. Now look to the left; see how that house barely escaped the flames?”

She saw what he meant; a sprawling house, with an even larger, meandering patio, perched high above the gorge. The fire line came with a few hundred feet.

“Who lives there?”

“A Portuguese couple—Cezar and Branca Nunez. You will undoubtedly meet them. He runs the store.”

She then looked at the opposite hillside. The dead elephant grass was tan, as she supposed it should be at this time of the year. But it stopped abruptly along the edge of the precipice, where another house clung, like a barn swallow, to the black granite cliff.

“Whose house is that?”

“That is yours.”

“
Mine?
”

He laughed. “Didn’t the Singletons tell you the guesthouse had a view?”

“A view, yes, but—”

She laughed with him. Had she known Africa was going to be like this, she would have pushed to come earlier. But then with a pang she remembered why she’d really come, and it had nothing to do with any of this.

Captain Pierre Jardin did not have a key to the guesthouse, but it was unlocked. He opened the door with a flourish, as if he was very much at home there.

“You’ll be quite safe here, and there is no need to worry about stealing.”

“I’d really feely better if I could lock it—especially at night.”

“Do you lock your doors in America?”

“No. Not unless we’re going on long trips.”

“Perhaps the housekeeper has a key.”

Amanda nodded, suddenly distracted by the details of the decor. In essence the house was a much larger version of Pierre’s house: same concrete floors brought to life with scatter rugs; same handmade wooden chairs with woven backs and seats, made comfortable with brightly colored cushions; same tribal masks and artwork on the walls. Were all colonial houses decorated like this?

“Mademoiselle Brown,” Pierre said, breaking through her reverie, “this is your housekeeper, Protruding Navel.”

Amanda jumped. She hadn’t seen the man enter the room. She also hadn’t heard right. It sounded like Pierre had introduced the man as “Protruding Navel.”

Quickly she proffered her hand, but he didn’t reciprocate. “
Muoyo webe
,” she said, speaking her very first Tshiluba words to an African. Although she’d spent six months in Brussels studying this major trade language, along with French, her instructors had been Belgian.

The housekeeper bowed, but almost imperceptibly.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

Amanda was deeply disappointed. She had so looked forward to her first conversation in an African language. She’d worked hard and finished the course at the top of her class.

“Do you speak Tshiluba?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, speaking French. “I am an educated man; I speak four languages.”

Pierre put his hand gently on Amanda’s shoulder, while giving the housekeeper a somewhat disapproving look. “Protruding Navel is not a Muluba, so Tshiluba is not his native tongue.”

“Monsieur, as you well know, I am a Bena Lulua. We also speak Tshiluba.”

“Then you will speak it to Mademoiselle Brown, won’t you?”

“If you insist, Monsieur Captain.”

“I do.” Pierre cleared his throat. “Well, I think I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted.”

As the door closed behind him, Amanda felt panic setting in. Perhaps the Singletons couldn’t help their delay, but if only they knew what a lurch they’d left her in. She tried to smile.

“
Tatu
Protruding Navel, do you have any questions?”

“You should not address me as ‘father,’ mademoiselle. I am your servant.”

“Should I say
muambi?
”

“That is even worse. Nor should you call me
mukelenge
. To address me with such respect will fill my foolish native head with too much pride. How then will I remember my station in life?”

Amanda was too shocked to respond.

“Tell me,
mamu
, what does this name—Brown—mean?” At least he’d switched from French.

“This color,” she said, and tapped the wooden arm of a chair. Unfortunately there was no precise word for brown in his language;
kunze
meant red, yellow, brown, and even purple. Context was everything.

“Why is your name Brown,
mamu
, when you are not?”

“Well—I don’t know. It was my father’s name, and his father’s before him.”

“Were they brown?”

“No.”

“Than it is a silly custom.”

“Tell me about your name,” she said, trying to remain pleasant.

Without taking his eyes off Amanda, the housekeeper calmly rolled up his shirt. And there it was—a navel the size of a loblolly pinecone!

“When my mother was with child, she looked upon two white people—a man and a woman—who were bathing in the river. She saw them, but they did not see her. Of course, the evil spirits who resided in the white people saw everything. Mamu Brown, it is a fact that evil spirits do not like water. When the woman plunged beneath the water, the spirit within her fled and entered my mother. It is because of this that I have been cursed with this protruding navel.”

“You are occupied by the evil spirit of a white woman?”

“Tsch!
Mamu
, do you mock me?”

“No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

“Because only an idiot, or a missionary, would refrain from visiting a witch doctor to have the evil spirit removed.”

“But I thought they hated water. Why not just go and bath in the river?”

He recoiled in surprise. “The other
mamu
does not challenge what I say. It is a pity that she must return to the land of her ancestors.”

“On that we are agreed. Protruding Navel”—she forced herself to use the awful name—“would you care to sit down? We could have a cup of tea together. Or whatever else is in the house.”

Surprise turned to disdain. “
Mamu!
Do you not respect me?”

“But, of course. I merely meant that we could talk, get to know each other better—like the captain said.”

“You have deeply offended me,
mamu
. I am not the common sort of servant who is too ignorant to know his place; I am a
housekeeper
, a man of distinction. I run the household and supervise the other servants. Only a common table boy, one untrained in the art of dealing with the white man, could possible entertain such a suggestion.”

“I am sorry, Protruding Navel. It was not my intent to insult you.”

“Aiyee! And now you do so again.”

“What do you mean?”

“You apologize to me, an African, and for what? Have you committed such a grave offense against me that you must seek forgiveness from your God? Have you run over my pigs or insulted my wife?”

“No.”

“Then do not apologize,
mamu
. It is not fitting for someone of your superior position.”

Amanda swallowed her words of anger. “Go get me a cup of tea,” she ordered.

“Yes,
mamu
.”

The Nigerian crouched like an animal all day, unable to move lest he catch the attention of the people above as they gaped down at the falls. Meanwhile the monstrous crocodile remained at its post. Being a cold-blooded animal, it had to regulate its body temperature by immersing itself in water in order to cool down, followed by periods of lying in the sun to warm up again. But all told it never moved more then ten meters from the spot where the Nigerian first spotted it. Perhaps it was guarding a nest of eggs, or perhaps, as the Nigerian was truly beginning to believe, the giant reptile was patiently waiting for a delicious West African feast.

At least now the sun was setting and swallows were darting about in search of their meal of mosquitoes. Soon the Nigerian would be able to stretch and get a drink of water. And even eat something!

Earlier that afternoon a large fish had fared badly going over the falls. It flopped about on the rocks, trying to get back into the river, but instead it became stuck in a fissure at the water’s edge.
Although the Nigerian had never eaten raw fish, he was hungry enough to eat almost anything.

Then, after he’d satisfied his basic needs, there was something he needed to investigate before it grew totally dark. During the day something had caught his eye; something that might make all this suffering worthwhile.

F
irst Wife, whose given name was Cripple, sat up on the sleeping mat and rubbed her left leg, which was almost two inches shorter than the right. It was something she did every morning to alleviate the pain, and it was as natural as yawning. It was still dark out and Second Wife’s bothersome children were sleeping. Husband was sleeping as well.

But Second Wife could be heard outside, huffing as she blew on glowing embers to bring them back to life. Once the fire was started, Second Wife, using a broom made of palm fibers, would sweep the sitting area in front of the hut. When everything was tidy, she would balance a pot of cornmeal and water on three
blackened rocks, and stir the bubbling mixture until it was thick and about to scorch. After that she would use two sticks to remove the pot from the flames before stirring into the porridge enough manioc flour to make it stiff enough to form a ball. It was the manioc flour which gave the
bidia
—sometimes known as
fufu
—its distinctive taste. Second Wife was famous for the texture of her
bidia
, which some said was as smooth as the surface of the banana leaves upon which it was served.

Good for Second Wife. She was the one who did the bulk of the fieldwork, chopped the wood, and had borne seven perfectly formed children. Praise be dumped on Second Wife, not only because she deserved it, but because Husband would never love her as much as he loved Cripple. Never mind that Second Wife perpetually reminded Cripple that it was she, and not Cripple, who had given Husband all the things that were expected of a normal wife. And as for the perfectly formed, bothersome children, praise be dumped on their heads too, for it was not their fault that Second Wife had set a bad example for them. In their defense, they called Cripple
baba
—mother—as was the custom, and never made fun of her in Husband’s presence.

Having rubbed the stiffness from her shorter leg, Cripple stood and adjusted her brightly colored wrap cloth. At night she covered herself with it like a sheet, but during the day she wore the long cloth wrapped securely around her waist. A matching blouse, sewn by the village tailor, and a coordinating headscarf, purchased from the Portuguese store, completed her outfit.

“Where are you going, Cripple?” Husband asked, startling her.

“Today I am getting a job,” Cripple said.

Husband laughed softly. “They do not accept women workers in the diamond mine. You know that.”

“I am not going to the mine. I will be working for the new
mamu
.”

“The young white woman? The American?”

“Yes.”

Husband, whose name was really Their Death, sat up with interest. “You have spoken to this woman?”

“No.”

“Then she has asked about you, yes?”

“No.”

“Then what is this nonsense about a job?”

“It is not nonsense, Husband. I have figured it all out. As soon as the old Americans return to the land of their births, their housekeeper—he with the vile temper—will surely quit. There is no doubt that this horrible man will refuse to take orders from a woman alone. And even if this does not come to pass, the new
mamu
will want a woman’s presence. Why should I not be the one to fill that position?”

“Why not, indeed,” Husband said. He thought for a moment. “But who will chop her firewood, and sweep her floors?”

“Husband, everyone says that the Americans are very rich, almost as rich as the Belgians. There are already many boys to do the chores. I will be replacing only the housekeeper. It will be me who gives the orders. Am I not good at giving orders, Husband?”

“Truly, you are. But Cripple, you do not know the ways of the white people. Trust me, their ways are very complicated, and frankly, do not make a lot of sense. They eat three times a day, not two, because their food is insubstantial. They must drink only water that has been boiled, and they cannot tolerate even one small chili in their food. Did you know that they sit on a chair to relieve themselves?”

Cripple giggled. “Husband, you joke.”

“No, I speak the truth.”

Husband knew of which he spoke. He worked for the post office, in the Belgian city across the river. Although he had
graduated from the sixth form at the Catholic mission school and spoke passable French, he did not work inside the post office, but outside. Monsieur Dupree, an exuberant Belgian of the Walloon tribe, did the actual handling of the mail. Meanwhile Husband kept the grounds in order. Once a week during the growing season he hacked at the grass with a scythe, and all year long he kept the stones along the path freshly whitewashed. He also whitewashed the trunks of the two mango trees that shaded the small brick building. Oh yes, every now and then he was called inside to kill a snake. But the task that Husband enjoyed the most was that he got to raise the Belgian flag every morning and lower it again at the day’s end. “Each day I imagine that this is the last day the Belgian flag will fly over our country,” Husband once told her, “and each evening I pretend that it is coming down to stay.”

“Cripple,” Husband said, “do you want me to walk with you to the foreigner’s house?”

Cripple was surprised by the offer. How unlike a man to offer such a thing, even a man as kind as Husband. She took her time to answer, savoring the look she imagined Second Wife would have on her face if she knew what Husband had just proposed.

“No,” Cripple said. “You will be late for work. Besides, if you come with me, maybe the white woman will catch your eye, and then there will be a Third Wife.”

At that Husband laughed so hard he woke up the bothersome children.