load with Masvita, even though she suspected the heavy basket would make her neck ache. Nothing worse could happen to a woman than sterility. She felt terribly sorry for her cousin.
She hoped they would find a cure for Masvita on this journey, although it was filled with potential danger for everyone. Someone—probably a witch—was responsible for the deaths and Masvita’s condition. They were about to find out who that person was.
Masvita tied Aunt Shuvai’s baby to her back and lifted a much smaller basket to her own head. The baby had been weaned far too early and was unhappy with a diet of watery porridge and weak, sweetened beer. He cried continuously, adding to Nhamo’s gloom.
Would she ever see the village again? Nhamo had been quite wrong about Uncle Kufa’s willingness to pay the muvuki. Masvita’s condition worried him too much. She had been wrong about the specialist coming to the village as well. Common ngangas could be coaxed into making house calls, but not the muvuki. He was far too important. People hadto travel to him , and they might have to wait a long time to attract his attention.
Uncle Kufa, Aunt Chipo, Ambuya , Masvita, and Nhamo waited for the others to show up. At least half the families had lost someone. The rest of the villagers would remain behind to care for the children, although Aunt Shuvai’s baby was being taken along in hopes that they could buy milk at the trading post.
Eventually, a crowd of twenty gathered, and they started off down the trail. Nhamo’s neck began to hurt after a few minutes, but she gritted her teeth and endured it. They rested frequently because Ambuya and Masvita were unable to keep up the pace.
By early afternoon they arrived at the next village, where Vatete had lived. “What kept you so long?” complained Vatete ’s husband. He would be joining them on their trip to the muvuki.
“Masvita,” Uncle Kufa replied in a low voice. Vatete ’s husband glanced at the wasted girl as she tottered to a log and sat down.
“That’s her? I didn’t recognize her,” he whispered to Uncle Kufa.
Nhamo took the baby from her cousin and dribbled porridge into his mouth with her hand. His skin was loose and he seemed to have already given up the battle to live.
“I suppose I should see Vatete ’s children,” Masvita said in a dull voice.
“We can do that on the way back,” said Nhamo. She didn’t want her cousin to start crying. “Tell me about the trading post. It sounds so exciting.”
So Masvita described the tractor and the bolts of cloth again. She said that the Portuguese trader had a yellow-and-blue parrot in a cage. It could talk, but only in Portuguese, and it bit anyone who stuck his fingers through the bars.
They spent the night at Vatete ’s village, and early the next day they moved on. Nhamo noticed that quite a few people had zangos , or charms against witchcraft. Everyone, of course, already wore the bark cords of mourning, the menaround their heads and the women around their necks. The men’s faces, too, were covered with stubble because they would not be allowed to shave until the period of mourning was over. What Nhamo saw now was the sudden appearance of small red-and-blue packages containing magic roots or feathers. Aunt Chipo and Uncle Kufa each had one tied around an arm, and even Aunt Shuvai’s baby wore one around his waist.
They must have visited the nganga last night, Nhamo thought. But who are they protecting themselves against? A thrill of terror ran through her. No one had given her a charm. The sunlight grew dark before her eyes. She stumbled along with the heavy basket on her head, but she couldn’t feel the ache in her neck anymore. She couldn’t feel anything. She was the one they were worried about! She was the one they thought rode hyenas in the middle of the night.
Nhamo was so distracted, she banged into a tree. The bark cut her forehead, but she didn’t react. She stood still, dazed by her
She hoped they would find a cure for Masvita on this journey, although it was filled with potential danger for everyone. Someone—probably a witch—was responsible for the deaths and Masvita’s condition. They were about to find out who that person was.
Masvita tied Aunt Shuvai’s baby to her back and lifted a much smaller basket to her own head. The baby had been weaned far too early and was unhappy with a diet of watery porridge and weak, sweetened beer. He cried continuously, adding to Nhamo’s gloom.
Would she ever see the village again? Nhamo had been quite wrong about Uncle Kufa’s willingness to pay the muvuki. Masvita’s condition worried him too much. She had been wrong about the specialist coming to the village as well. Common ngangas could be coaxed into making house calls, but not the muvuki. He was far too important. People hadto travel to him , and they might have to wait a long time to attract his attention.
Uncle Kufa, Aunt Chipo, Ambuya , Masvita, and Nhamo waited for the others to show up. At least half the families had lost someone. The rest of the villagers would remain behind to care for the children, although Aunt Shuvai’s baby was being taken along in hopes that they could buy milk at the trading post.
Eventually, a crowd of twenty gathered, and they started off down the trail. Nhamo’s neck began to hurt after a few minutes, but she gritted her teeth and endured it. They rested frequently because Ambuya and Masvita were unable to keep up the pace.
By early afternoon they arrived at the next village, where Vatete had lived. “What kept you so long?” complained Vatete ’s husband. He would be joining them on their trip to the muvuki.
“Masvita,” Uncle Kufa replied in a low voice. Vatete ’s husband glanced at the wasted girl as she tottered to a log and sat down.
“That’s her? I didn’t recognize her,” he whispered to Uncle Kufa.
Nhamo took the baby from her cousin and dribbled porridge into his mouth with her hand. His skin was loose and he seemed to have already given up the battle to live.
“I suppose I should see Vatete ’s children,” Masvita said in a dull voice.
“We can do that on the way back,” said Nhamo. She didn’t want her cousin to start crying. “Tell me about the trading post. It sounds so exciting.”
So Masvita described the tractor and the bolts of cloth again. She said that the Portuguese trader had a yellow-and-blue parrot in a cage. It could talk, but only in Portuguese, and it bit anyone who stuck his fingers through the bars.
They spent the night at Vatete ’s village, and early the next day they moved on. Nhamo noticed that quite a few people had zangos , or charms against witchcraft. Everyone, of course, already wore the bark cords of mourning, the menaround their heads and the women around their necks. The men’s faces, too, were covered with stubble because they would not be allowed to shave until the period of mourning was over. What Nhamo saw now was the sudden appearance of small red-and-blue packages containing magic roots or feathers. Aunt Chipo and Uncle Kufa each had one tied around an arm, and even Aunt Shuvai’s baby wore one around his waist.
They must have visited the nganga last night, Nhamo thought. But who are they protecting themselves against? A thrill of terror ran through her. No one had given her a charm. The sunlight grew dark before her eyes. She stumbled along with the heavy basket on her head, but she couldn’t feel the ache in her neck anymore. She couldn’t feel anything. She was the one they were worried about! She was the one they thought rode hyenas in the middle of the night.
Nhamo was so distracted, she banged into a tree. The bark cut her forehead, but she didn’t react. She stood still, dazed by her
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