The track to the village wound up a hillside between trees and outcrops of rock. Annah walked slowly along, weighed down by her luggage. It would have made sense, she knew, to leave at least some of it behind at Kiki’s house. But the small collection of things was now all that she possessed and she felt unwilling to be parted from it.
As she laboured uphill, she focussed on the pain of her strained muscles, and the handle of the suitcase biting into her fingers; then she studied the ground, searching for insects and thorn-spikes – anything to avoid letting herself begin to think about the choice that she had made.
News of the white woman’s approach travelled before her. When she reached the first huts, villagers were already gathered outside their doorways. Annah knew many of them well – some had been her patients. But today, the people offered none of the friendly greetings that she’d come to expect. They just watched her pass, saying nothing and offering no help. Annah guessed that they didn’t know whether to welcome her or not – or, indeed, how to welcome her. She had been the missionary lady who ran the hospital. What was she now? Entering their village, carrying her possessions with her. All alone.
Annah kept her eyes lowered as she walked on between the huts, heading towards the huge old tree that formed the central meeting place of the village. Now that she was here, there was only one thought in her head, one aim. To see Mtemi, again. To speak, perhaps. To touch … After that, there was no plan, no future that she could see.
A sharp stone caused her to stumble. As she regained her balance, she glanced up. Ahead, near the tree, stood a group of warriors. They were examining an antelope hide, feeling its quality between their hands as they passed it around. One of the men looked across and saw Annah. A second later, the rest turned to face her. Their bodies froze, caught mid movement in awkward poses. A long moment passed. Then from their midst, a figure stepped forward.
Annah stopped in her tracks. A flash of joy and panic ran through her as she recognised Mtemi. Fixing her eyes on his distant face, she slowly laid down her luggage.
The Chief walked towards her, tentatively, as if unable to believe what he could see. A frown marked his forehead. Annah swallowed on a dry throat.
He doesn’t want me.
But then a look of delight and amazement broke over Mtemi’s face, transforming his features with a sudden brightness, like raw sunshine. He began to run, taking great leaps through the air.
An arm’s length away from Annah, he stopped, staring at the bags and cases that stood on the ground beside her.
‘You have come!’ he said, his voice soft with wonder.
Annah nodded. Words formed in her head.
I am come.
She moved her lips, but no sound came out.
Mtemi looked into her eyes. His gaze was intense – but at the same time, tender and warm. Yet he didn’t move. His arms were held at his sides, his body rigid. Annah could feel the space between them, charged by the absence of contact. Her hands longed to breach the gulf, to seek reassurance from the touch of the firm, dark skin. But she remained still, mirroring Mtemi’s stance. It had taken all her strength and courage to bring herself here. Now she felt drained, a puppet with no will of her own.
A large crowd of villagers gathered around. Old men and women, parents, youths, children, babies, dogs – all staring wide-eyed at their Chief and the white woman.
Mtemi’s warriors hurried to stand with him. Though they, too, looked surprised by what was happening, they took a supportive stance, closing in around their Chief and his companion. Annah breathed the smell of their ochred bodies and the raw taint of untanned animal hide. Her view of the crowd was criss-crossed by the angled shafts of the warriors’ long spears.
Mtemi spoke quietly to one of his men. He used the tribal tongue, but Annah recognised the name of the Old Queen.
Within a few moments, the Chief’s mother had arrived, borne on her litter by four of Kitamu’s warriors. Mtemi’s men opened their ranks to let the party in. Beside the Old Queen walked the Regent. He moved stiffly, his mouth pressed into a grim line that curved down at each corner.
Mtemi ignored him and addressed his mother. He spoke in Swahili so that Annah could understand.
‘Welcome this woman who has arrived. She is going to stay in our village.’
The Old Queen’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded politely to Annah. ‘Welcome to our village.’ Then she turned back to the Chief. ‘Who will provide this nurse with a hut?’
‘She will live in my hut.’
Mtemi’s words fell into a stunned quiet. Annah did not dare look around her.
‘What is the meaning of such words?’ the Old Queen demanded, her brow knotted with suspicion.
‘This white woman,’ Mtemi responded, speaking first in Swahili and then in the local language, ‘will be the wife of your Chief.’
A gasp spread over the crowd, a long ragged whisper.
Annah stared at Mtemi. She tried to process his words. Wife. White woman. Chief.
Wife …
She floundered, lost in the shape, the sound, the meaning of the words. She felt herself being swept along by a tide, helpless, thoughtless. Dimly, in the midst of her confusion, she asked herself what she had expected – what she had chosen – in coming here. But the truth was, she had made no plan. She had just stepped out.
Mtemi smiled at her. His face was a vision of strength, certainty, love. There was no doubt there, none at all.
Annah smiled back, her gaze locked to his. A warmth stirred within her, a sudden hope that the unimaginable could be made real. That she and this man could somehow stay together.
Mtemi took Annah’s hand. His fingers covered the white bandage that he had placed there in Kiki’s kitchen. Such a short time ago, and yet in another world.
As the news spread, more people hurried to the meeting tree. Soon, the whole village had gathered. The women pressed forward, amazed and enthralled by this changed picture of the nurse from Kiki’s mansion. Children, too, clustered around the newcomer. Glad of a focus for her attention, Annah stroked the curly head of a toddler who clung to her leg.
When she looked up, she found herself facing the Old Queen. The woman’s eyes were deepset and intense, holding Annah’s gaze in a steely grip.
Suddenly the Regent strode forward to confront Mtemi, his face twisted with barely concealed anger.
‘What you propose is impossible.’ He spat the words out. Like Mtemi, he used Swahili. Annah assumed, therefore, that she was meant to listen. ‘The Chief of the Waganga may not marry without the agreement of the tribe. It is the law.’
Mtemi nodded, his face grave. ‘Do I not know this?’ he said. ‘I am going to call a meeting of the tribe, so that my marriage may be discussed.’
The Regent laughed bitterly. ‘We will never agree.’
Mtemi did not react. He simply stood there beside Annah. His warriors moved in even closer. Annah studied their impassive faces, wondering what they thought of their Chief’s plan. She knew that they would not question him – they were the warriors of his age group, his childhood friends. They would die for Mtemi, as he would for them. As the villagers hovered uncertainly, awaiting direction, Annah stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the ground. She could feel the gentle pressure of the hand that held hers – black skin encasing her paleness, calm containing her panic.
The Old Queen’s hut was spacious, but dimly lit; the air tinged with woodsmoke and the musky fragrance of frankincense. Annah sat on a low bed, gazing out through the narrow doorway. A steady stream of men passed by outside, each person carrying a simple three-legged stool carved from wood. They were heading for the central tree, where hundreds of other tribesmen were waiting, ready for the meeting.
Annah glanced across at the Old Queen. She sat propped up on another bed, made of animal hides. The expression on the wrinkled face was blank, giving nothing away. In the time that the two women had been alone together in the hut, the African had not said a word. Annah didn’t know why. She wondered if the Old Queen preferred to avoid speaking in Swahili, or whether she had some other reason for remaining silent. Annah recalled Mtemi saying that his mother had been in favour of him marrying the Regent’s daughter. If that were so, no doubt the Old Queen disapproved of the change of plan. Or perhaps, Annah thought, Mtemi’s mother simply resented her hut – her life – being invaded by a white woman in this way. Annah turned back to face the doorway. As she did, a thought came to her, a realisation that this may not have been the first time the Queen had found herself in such a position. If the rumours were true, she’d once had to share her husband – Mtemi’s father – with another white woman. Kiki. Annah imagined the dead woman smiling mischievously as she contemplated the scene inside the hut. Missionary nurse and African mother-in-law to be.
‘Who are your people?’
Annah jumped in surprise as the Old Queen addressed her in perfect Swahili.
She was unsure how to respond.
‘Where do they come from?’ the Old Queen pressed her. ‘Are they respected in their area? What kind of bride price will they demand?’
Annah frowned as she searched for a reply. But after a few moments, the old woman waved one hand dismissively.
‘I am looking too far ahead,’ she said. ‘First, we will see what the men decide.’
It was not long before the meeting of the Waganga commenced. The royal dwellings were ranged close to the central tree and the tribesmen’s voices carried clearly through the walls of the Old Queen’s hut to where the two women sat listening.
Annah looked down at her feet as words were tossed back and forth, foreign words that she could not understand and yet which would determine her future. Many of those who spoke raised voices shrill with anger. Now and then, she heard Mtemi speak. His voice stood out, calm and firm.
Finally Annah could stand the suspense no longer. She turned to the Old Queen. ‘What is happening?’
The African woman’s head was tilted towards the wall as she listened intently. ‘Do you want to be told?’ she asked.
Annah nodded.
The Old Queen shrugged. ‘Very well.’
She began translating snatches of dialogue into Swahili. Her son, the Chief, she explained, was being accused of having deliberately chosen a wife who would give him an excuse to leave his people – a white woman who would want things that she could never have in the village.
‘Is that so?’ the Old Queen asked, fixing Annah with a keen gaze.
‘It is not so,’ Annah replied. She pictured the village as it had looked when she’d first approached it – green, clean, natural. A place alive with busy family life, yet peaceful, idyllic. ‘The things I value are here.’
Mtemi is here.
She recognised the next speaker’s voice. It was the Regent. He gave a long, passionate speech which elicited murmurs of approval from the crowd.
‘What did he say?’ Annah asked anxiously.
‘It can be cut down to one thing,’ the old woman replied. ‘He is asking, “Where would we be if everyone was to disregard law and talk of love?” ’ Falling silent, she raised her eyebrows as if the question came from her, too.
Annah shook her head. Such an approach to life seemed strange, bold – dangerous – to her, as well. And yet, it was what she had chosen.
‘Here is a new speaker,’ the Old Queen said. ‘He is saying that the son of the Old Chief left the village and travelled far away to study the white man’s laws. This was done so that he could govern his people better, but instead he wishes to pour scorn on the statutes of the Waganga by insisting on taking a wife of his own choice.’
Annah heard Mtemi responding. The Old Queen’s eyes widened as she listened. Then she flinched, as if struck by a sudden blow.
‘What is it?’ Annah demanded.
The African woman shook her head mutely.
‘Tell me.’ Annah leaned forward, her hands gripping the sides of the bed.
‘My son says he will not bring a wife into the tribe unless he gains approval.’ The Old Queen stumbled painfully over her words. ‘But he will not give you up. He says he will leave the tribe, if necessary.’
Annah stared at the old woman, hunting desperately for something to say in reply. ‘Have I not already done this?’ she said finally, in a small voice. ‘Left my own people, on his account?’
The Old Queen nodded slowly. ‘That is so. But you are a white woman. Who can say what your people mean to you?’
Silence fell between the two women. Annah studied the carved bed posts, tracing the long lines etched deep into the wood. Many voices came and went before the Old Queen resumed her translations.
The arguments went on into the night. As time passed, the considerations became more practical. Could the white woman carry out the duties of the Chief’s wife? Could she cook, and tend animals, and work in the gardens? Some men pointed out that she had already shown that she could work hard, and that she was strong. Annah’s pedigree was discussed. How could the tribe verify that she came from a family with a good reputation? Then the subject of children arose. Someone asked how the tribe could consider having a half-white Chief in the future. Mtemi pointed out that the Government had decreed that there would be no more succession of Chiefs. This sent the discussion off in a new direction, but the Regent stepped in to re-focus it on the question of Mtemi’s proposal that he be allowed to marry a white woman.
‘She is old,’ he said. ‘Over twenty, for certain.’
Someone broke in. Annah recognised Zania’s voice.
‘Age will be an advantage to the wife of this Chief,’ he argued. ‘Has he not travelled and learned much of the world? Will he be content with a young woman from the village who cannot understand his stories?’
The voices wound on and on. Annah grew tired with the effort of straining her ears to follow the foreign words, trying to guess at their intent.
‘The safety doctor is supporting you,’ the Old Queen told Annah after some time had passed. She sounded both surprised and impressed. ‘And also my second son – Kitamu.’
Slowly the last of the daylight faded from the doorway, to be replaced by the diffuse glow of many small fires. A young woman came in carrying two steaming cooking pots, her hands protected from the heat by wads of folded leaves.
‘This is Patamisha,’ the Old Queen said. ‘Wife of Kitamu.’
Patamisha turned to Annah and smiled warmly. ‘Welcome, my sister.’ She moved closer. The aroma of chicken stew drifted across, arousing in Annah a sudden hunger. She had not eaten since dawn.
The food was offered first to the Old Queen. Annah watched her take a small mound of cornmeal in one hand, form it into a tiny bowl, then use it to scoop stew from the other pot. Though Annah had seen the procedure many times before, she always found it fascinating. The movements were so minimal, so neat and effective. There was never any mess.
‘You are watching me,’ the Old Queen commented. Her voice was sharp. ‘You want to know if there is a risk of poisoning. As you see, there is not. We are sharing the same pot.’
‘Thank you,’ Annah said. ‘Thank you very much.’ She was unsure exactly what it was that she was giving thanks for. Being fed? Not being poisoned? Or something more, perhaps: the spirit of acceptance – grudging and wary though it was – that she’d begun to sense in the Old Queen’s attitude towards her.
After eating, Annah felt suddenly exhausted. Worn out by the strangeness and the sheer scale of all that had happened, her body wanted to escape into sleep. The Old Queen motioned for her to lie down where she was, on the bed made of hides stretched over a wooden frame. It was surprisingly comfortable, Annah found, furry soft on top, with a firmness underneath.
As she lay there on the edge of sleep, Annah heard the tribesmen’s voices rising and falling outside. And, from further away, the night birds calling from the forest down by the lake.
As Annah opened her eyes the next morning, an apparition appeared before her – a blanched, pale presence, blond hair backlit by the sun that shone in through the doorway. Reality penetrated slowly. Then Annah sprang up, suddenly wide awake.
‘Michael!’
‘Annah.’ The voice was gentle, concerned, and faintly condescending.
Annah stared, wordless, for a long moment. ‘You drove through the night!’ she said. It was obvious from the man’s face – he was haggard with exhaustion.
‘I’ve come to take you home,’ Michael said. Annah opened her mouth to speak, but he ignored her. ‘I understand,’ he said calmly. ‘You’ve been under too much pressure. For too long.’ He broke off. His eyes travelled from Annah to the hut, to the bed, and back to Annah. A look of incredulity grew on his face as if, in spite of his sympathetic words, he could not comprehend how she had managed to get herself into such a situation.
‘I blame myself, really,’ he said. ‘I should have seen what was happening. Anyway,’ he smiled, ‘here I am. If we leave now we’ll be back at Langali by dark. Sarah will look after you.’ He stopped, appearing to notice that Annah was not responding – that she was not making any sign of standing up and going with him. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m not coming,’ Annah said. ‘I’m staying here.’
Michael frowned, frustration growing on his face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Annah – I’ve driven all night. I’m not in the mood for games.’
Annah stood up, facing him. ‘I’m going to marry Mtemi. The Chief.’ Even as she said the words, Annah scarcely believed them herself. But she held her gaze firm, betraying nothing.
Michael’s face froze. Then his mouth moved, but no sound came out. Finally, he laughed.
‘You can’t be serious. You know that’s impossible.’
Annah was silent.
Michael drew a deep breath as the gravity of the situation dawned on him. ‘There would be no turning back,’ he warned. ‘You’d be burning your bridges behind you.’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ Annah responded. Suddenly she felt small, young – back in her father’s study giving explanations for school clothes lost, homework uncompleted, her messy room.
‘Come with me now,’ Michael pleaded, ‘and all will be forgotten. Or …’ A harshness sharpened his tone. ‘You will be on your own for good.’
‘I won’t be on my own,’ Annah said. ‘I’ll be with Mtemi.’ This time the words sounded right and true, as if the more Michael tried to undermine her, the stronger she became.
Michael stared at her, still uncomprehending. Annah could see him struggling to be calm and reasonable, to find another approach to the crisis.
‘Look, Annah,’ he said. ‘You aren’t the first missionary woman to have decided to marry an African. There have been others. But the … men … have at least been pastors or mission workers. And even then it’s impossibly hard for them. How many Africans are there in Australia? How will this man fit in?’
‘We’ll be staying here, in the village,’ Annah said. She covered a tremor in her voice.
Michael shook his head, aghast. He closed his eyes. ‘I just don’t understand why you’re doing this. You’re an attractive woman. Sooner or later, you’ll meet someone else. Someone more …’ His words trailed off.
‘More white?’ Mtemi’s voice came from the doorway.
Annah’s heart jumped at the sight of the tall African entering the hut. A sudden warmth began to glow inside her.
Moving towards him, she found herself placed between the two men. One was white-skinned and dressed in shorts and a shirt. The other was dark and barely clothed at all. Annah could feel a current of raw emotion running between them – antagonism, jealousy, or something similar to both.
‘He’s not a Christian,’ Michael said, focussing only on Annah. ‘That is the real issue.’ He quoted the Bible verse. ‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.’
Annah stared down at the earthen floor. She knew the passage well. It had been the theme of many of the Christian romance novels she’d read at youth group. In the standard storyline, the girl would have to give up her non-Christian boyfriend for the sake of her beliefs. But by the end of the book, she’d always acquired a much kinder, more handsome – and Christian – replacement. Annah had thought the stories reasonable enough back then. But now, faced with a real man, a real love, she weighed the dilemma differently.
‘Well,’ Michael sighed, ‘if you are really committed to this path, I’ll have to ask for your resignation from the Mission. In writing.’
Annah swallowed on a lurch of panic. She glanced at Mtemi. He returned her look with steady eyes, but said nothing.
‘All right.’ Annah was surprised at the sound of her voice, so calm and firm. ‘But you’ll have to give me some paper and a pen.’
Michael checked his pockets. ‘I’ve only got a pen,’ he said.
Annah opened her suitcase. Feeling quickly through her clothes she found the flat hard shape of Eleanor’s novel. Out of Africa. She tore out the title page and wrote on the back. Her hand moved quickly, fingers grasping the pen tightly to avoid shaking.
I, Annah Mason, hereby resign from the Tanganyika Inland Mission.
Annah looked at the brief note before handing it over. The words seemed too small, too ordinary to carry a meaning so huge and permanent. ‘Just a minute.’ Reaching back into the case, Annah produced a folded piece of paper. It was her ‘Instructions’ document, the treasured proof of her status. Her hand trembled as she offered it to Michael.
The man looked into her eyes as he took it. Annah felt the moment when the paper passed from her grasp to his – when the loss was fixed, made final.
‘You can still change your mind,’ Michael said.
Annah shook her head.
A hardness entered the white man’s eyes. ‘Then I want you to understand that our friendship is over, Annah. And that includes my family.’ He turned abruptly and walked out of the hut.
Annah ran to a small window. She saw Michael striding away through the village, children and dogs at his heels. His words circled in her head.
Our friendship is over. And that includes my family.
Mtemi moved to stand behind her, not touching her, but so near that Annah could feel the aura of warmth surrounding his body.
The two waited there in silence, watching the pale figure of the doctor move into the distance.
When, at last, he disappeared, Annah let out a long slow breath. Now she was no longer a missionary. It seemed impossible that something which had taken so long to achieve could be ended so abruptly. She was still trying to grasp this reality, when another thought came to her – sudden and chilling. Perhaps she could no longer call herself a Christian, either. She who had chosen to live in a pagan village, and was planning to marry its chief. For a moment she felt herself poised on the edge of an abyss, overlooking darkness. She fought to push the vision away. There was, after all, more to the picture than this, she told herself. Mtemi was no ordinary African. He had lived in Oxford, the city of ancient Christian churches and famous pulpits. Somehow the man seemed able to stand firmly, touching two worlds that were completely different. Annah clung to the hope that by being beside him, she could inhabit the same – unimaginable – space. That she could gain, without losing.
Mtemi’s hand settled on Annah’s shoulder – it was a light gesture, but one that seemed to connect with every nerve in her body. She turned around. Face to face, the two were so close that Annah could feel Mtemi’s breath on her face. Sense the throb of his heartbeat, matching her own.
‘Hodi!’ a voice called out in greeting as soft footsteps approached outside. Mtemi stepped quickly away from Annah. A moment later, a woman appeared in the doorway, her body stiffening with surprise at the sight of the two standing by the window.
‘Elia …’ Annah smiled, recognising the ageing mother whose last childbirth she had attended.
The African ignored her completely. She turned pointedly towards the Chief, bowing her head respectfully, while at the same time managing to give him a sharp look.
‘Is it not time to eat?’ she demanded.
‘Indeed. We are ready,’ Mtemi answered hurriedly.
Standing beside him, Annah felt like a schoolgirl caught flouting the rules. She had a sudden impulse to laugh. As she struggled to keep a straight face, Mtemi glanced at her. He appeared taken aback for a moment, then his own mouth began twitching at the corners. Elia’s frown deepened.
Mtemi smiled placatingly at the African woman as he turned towards the doorway. ‘Let us go.’
Elia stood aside as the Chief left the hut. But before Annah could follow, the woman pushed in behind him.
Annah and Mtemi shared breakfast with the Old Queen and other members of her immediate family. Annah recognised Kitamu, Patamisha and several of the young children as they all sat down outside the royal huts. A young girl walked round the circle with a gourd pouring a little water over each person’s hands. Meanwhile, Elia delivered a large clay pot of ugali.
‘Would you like a bowl and spoon?’ Mtemi asked Annah.
Annah felt several pairs of eyes fixed on her, awaiting her response.
‘No, no,’ the Old Queen brushed her son’s question aside. ‘She is happy to eat in the African way. We have already shared the common pot.’ She turned to Annah. ‘Is that not so?’
Annah smiled gratefully, sensing that the woman was making a gesture of inclusion that would carry weight with all who looked on. ‘It is so.’
Mtemi took the first scoop of ugali from the pot which had been set in the middle of the circle. After that, everyone took turns to follow suit – children along with adults, and women with men. This was unusual, Annah knew. Traditionally, African men ate first and the women and children made do with anything that might be left over. Annah wondered if the Waganga had always been different in their ways, or if a change had been brought. The influence of Mtemi – or Kiki, perhaps.
After breakfast, there was another meeting of the clan. Again, Annah listened tensely from inside the hut, with the Old Queen making intermittent translations. This time, Mtemi did more of the talking.
‘He is arguing that it will be a good thing for the Waganga to have a white Queen,’ his mother explained. ‘When the Chief stands beside her, it will prove to all that the old and new, the past and the future, black and white, can be brought together.’ As the old woman relayed these words, Annah wondered what she thought of them. If the African had doubts of any kind, they were well hidden. Whenever she referred to her son’s words there was nothing but confidence in her voice.
Before long, the Regent took over from Mtemi. He raged long and loud, his harsh voice cutting through the air.
‘What is going to happen?’ Annah asked anxiously.
‘My son is the Chief,’ the Old Queen replied. Her words were simple, but clear. My son is the Chief. He can do anything. Don’t worry.
It was near dusk before a decision was reached. When the last speaker had made his comment, some of the warriors began to chant – a single word called out over and over.
‘Maji! Maji! Maji!’
Others joined in until it was an overwhelming cry.
The Old Queen smiled at Annah. ‘They are saying one thing. Rain! Rain! Rain! It means they approve.’ She lifted her chin proudly. ‘Mtemi has won. You will be his wife.’
Almost before Annah had the chance to take in the meaning of the words, one of the Chief’s warriors appeared in the doorway, beckoning for the women to join him. He led them towards the meeting tree – Annah walking, and the Old Queen reclining on her litter. The ranks of tribesmen parted to let them through. Annah could feel the gaze of many eyes following her as she approached the central place where the Chief stood.
Mtemi’s face lit up at the sight of Annah coming towards him. He watched her closely, as if wanting to memorise every detail of her face and body. A look of deep joy dawned in his eyes.
As Annah came to stand beside him, the people began to cheer again.
‘Maji! Maji!’ Rain. Rain.
This time the chant was directed at her. A blessing, offered in the name of the thing the Waganga valued most. Rain. The sustainer of the land. Hatcher of seeds. Feeder of rivers. Life-giver …
As the chorus of voices rose around her, Annah noticed the Regent standing nearby, staring at her in stony silence. The final swing in favour of the marriage was, she knew, a costly defeat for him. A public insult. The thought of his animosity sent a shiver down her spine. She turned quickly away, trying to forget his presence.
The cries began to diminish. Mtemi took a string of amber trading beads from around his own neck and lowered it over Annah’s head. Her skin tingled at the lingering touch of his fingers on her hair, her ears, the nape of her neck. The moment passed, and the hands withdrew, leaving the beads hanging there, a gentle weight on Annah’s skin. She could feel the heat of Mtemi’s body soaked into the glass. Lifting her eyes, she met his gaze. A long, silent look passed between them, a vibrant conduit that held more meaning than long lines of words.
Then Zania came forward and offered Annah a wide bangle made of ivory etched in black with a simple but distinctive pattern. As he slipped it over Annah’s hand and let it fall around her wrist, the Old Queen nodded approval.
Annah looked around her at the faces of the people. Nearly all of them were smiling with goodwill. Now that the white woman’s presence had been formally accepted by the tribesmen, it seemed she was going to be generously welcomed. A feeling of optimism flowed through her. At that moment she could imagine no future so golden as hers. She pictured the life she would have, married to the man she loved, and living here in this beautiful village near the lake. The flamingos would be hers to watch whenever she wanted to. In the cool evenings, she would sit by the fire surrounded by her people. Her friends and her kin.
And Mtemi – Chief of it all – would be at her side.
His eyes on her eyes.
His hands on her body.