thoughts.
“Please let me take some of that,” came Masvita’s gentle voice. “Mother is carrying the baby now. I can help out.”
Nhamo didn’t protest as her cousin took some of the heavy packets of mealie meal from the basket and transferred them to the sling on her back.
“If they keep loading you like that, you’re going to grow up crooked. Here, let me tie a zango on your arm. I have more than I need.”
Hypnotized, Nhamo watched Masvita fasten a blue charm around her arm. She wiped the cut on her head with some leaves and smiled in a glassy way at her cousin.
“I think the heat’s bothering you,” said Masvita, worried.
“No, no. I’m fine.” Nhamo forced herself to continue walking. It took a while for the shock to wear off, but presently she found an explanation for what had happened. Uncle Kufa had given the zangos to Masvita, expecting her to share them with the younger girls. It made perfect sense to protect everyone from sorcery. They were visiting the muvuki , who had killed his own son to gain power. Uncle Kufa wanted tobe sure they didn’t go home with more witchcraft than they arrived with.
Late in the afternoon, they came to the trading post. In spite of the somber reason for the journey, everyone cheered up. The trading post was so lively! Dozens of little camps surrounded it. Dozens of campfires threaded blue smoke through the musasa trees. Large women in bright head scarves sat behind heaps of vegetables outside the Portuguese store. Their faces shone with butterfat.
Men wove baskets out of reeds. Fishermen laid out bags of dried fish. Food sellers roasted mealies and peanuts—the smell almost drove Nhamo mad. She turned this way and that, eager to see everything.
A farmer played a one-stringed harp like a hunter’s bow and sang to himself as he waited for someone to buy his chickens. The chickens lay in a mournful row with their legs tied together. A man sat on the steps of the trading post and tootled a lively tune on a pakila , or panpipes. He was joined by another man with a Portuguese guitar. Nhamo had never seen a guitar, and the music took her breath away. She stood perfectly still, hardly believing the beauty of the sound, until Aunt Chipo yelled at her to move on.
They made camp along a stream. Nhamo found stones for a cook-fire. She swept the ground to prepare sleeping areas, hauled water from the stream, and began the long process of preparing food. It made no difference that she was tired. The work still had to be done.
But when all was finished, she was too excited to rest. She ran back to the trading post. The guitarist was gone, but something equally interesting had appeared. The Portuguese trader had brought out his radio. It was loud, so loud! No mere human could have made so much noise. Nhamo discovered that if she leaned against it, her ribs quivered. She seemed to be made all of music. It was wonderful!
She stayed there until someone grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away. Nhamo stumbled off—the music still made her ears ring—and squatted in the shadows nearby.
“Go home, picanin !” shouted the Portuguese trader in bad Shona. “You no old enough for here!”
Gradually, she understood what the man was trying to tell her. Kerosene lamps—another amazing thing—hissed as they hung from hooks over the porch. Beneath sat a mob of men and women with buckets of beer. Each person had his or her own bucket, and it was clear the group had settled down for a night of serious drinking.
A vague sense of danger hung over the gathering, although Nhamo wasn’t sure why. Regretfully, she returned to her camp.
“The muvuki can’t see us for weeks! He wouldn’t even talk to me!” Uncle Kufa was shouting as she arrived. “How are we supposed to wait—with all of you eating like starving hyenas? I suppose he plans to push up the price, the dirty child murderer!”
“Please don’t shout. You don’t know who’s listening,” begged Aunt Chipo.
Uncle
“Please let me take some of that,” came Masvita’s gentle voice. “Mother is carrying the baby now. I can help out.”
Nhamo didn’t protest as her cousin took some of the heavy packets of mealie meal from the basket and transferred them to the sling on her back.
“If they keep loading you like that, you’re going to grow up crooked. Here, let me tie a zango on your arm. I have more than I need.”
Hypnotized, Nhamo watched Masvita fasten a blue charm around her arm. She wiped the cut on her head with some leaves and smiled in a glassy way at her cousin.
“I think the heat’s bothering you,” said Masvita, worried.
“No, no. I’m fine.” Nhamo forced herself to continue walking. It took a while for the shock to wear off, but presently she found an explanation for what had happened. Uncle Kufa had given the zangos to Masvita, expecting her to share them with the younger girls. It made perfect sense to protect everyone from sorcery. They were visiting the muvuki , who had killed his own son to gain power. Uncle Kufa wanted tobe sure they didn’t go home with more witchcraft than they arrived with.
Late in the afternoon, they came to the trading post. In spite of the somber reason for the journey, everyone cheered up. The trading post was so lively! Dozens of little camps surrounded it. Dozens of campfires threaded blue smoke through the musasa trees. Large women in bright head scarves sat behind heaps of vegetables outside the Portuguese store. Their faces shone with butterfat.
Men wove baskets out of reeds. Fishermen laid out bags of dried fish. Food sellers roasted mealies and peanuts—the smell almost drove Nhamo mad. She turned this way and that, eager to see everything.
A farmer played a one-stringed harp like a hunter’s bow and sang to himself as he waited for someone to buy his chickens. The chickens lay in a mournful row with their legs tied together. A man sat on the steps of the trading post and tootled a lively tune on a pakila , or panpipes. He was joined by another man with a Portuguese guitar. Nhamo had never seen a guitar, and the music took her breath away. She stood perfectly still, hardly believing the beauty of the sound, until Aunt Chipo yelled at her to move on.
They made camp along a stream. Nhamo found stones for a cook-fire. She swept the ground to prepare sleeping areas, hauled water from the stream, and began the long process of preparing food. It made no difference that she was tired. The work still had to be done.
But when all was finished, she was too excited to rest. She ran back to the trading post. The guitarist was gone, but something equally interesting had appeared. The Portuguese trader had brought out his radio. It was loud, so loud! No mere human could have made so much noise. Nhamo discovered that if she leaned against it, her ribs quivered. She seemed to be made all of music. It was wonderful!
She stayed there until someone grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away. Nhamo stumbled off—the music still made her ears ring—and squatted in the shadows nearby.
“Go home, picanin !” shouted the Portuguese trader in bad Shona. “You no old enough for here!”
Gradually, she understood what the man was trying to tell her. Kerosene lamps—another amazing thing—hissed as they hung from hooks over the porch. Beneath sat a mob of men and women with buckets of beer. Each person had his or her own bucket, and it was clear the group had settled down for a night of serious drinking.
A vague sense of danger hung over the gathering, although Nhamo wasn’t sure why. Regretfully, she returned to her camp.
“The muvuki can’t see us for weeks! He wouldn’t even talk to me!” Uncle Kufa was shouting as she arrived. “How are we supposed to wait—with all of you eating like starving hyenas? I suppose he plans to push up the price, the dirty child murderer!”
“Please don’t shout. You don’t know who’s listening,” begged Aunt Chipo.
Uncle
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