Annah and Patamisha were taking turns to grind maize inside a section of hollowed log by pounding it with a rounded stick. The day was warm and they were both panting with exertion.
‘Do not rest,’ Patamisha grinned. ‘Time is hurrying past us.’
Annah laughed, a warm thrill of anticipation stirring inside her.
Tomorrow was her wedding day. The women of the tribe had been preparing food for most of the week, and an encampment of guests had sprung up at the edge of the village. Every warrior that could be spared from routine tasks had gone hunting so that there would be plenty of fresh game for the wedding feast. Mtemi, too, had gone. Annah had watched him striding away in the early dawn, his spear and bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. At the bend in the track, where he would disappear from view, Annah had willed him to turn back, to see her wave. And at the last moment, he had. The memory of the sudden, potent sense of connection tingled pleasurably through Annah’s body.
We are one, already.
Now, at this moment, I could be pregnant with his child …
She smiled, holding the secret close, like a treasure. The wedding day, she knew, would belong to the Waganga – to the tribespeople, warriors and royal family. And when the wedding night came, and she and Mtemi were led to the ceremonial hut with the draped bed, they would be the Chief and the new Queen. How right and good it was, Annah told herself, that the true moment of their union had already occurred in a time and place that held only the two of them. A man and a woman. On the shores of a silver lake. In the seven days that had passed since then, there had been no chance for the two to return there together, or to meet alone anywhere else. But that only served to make the glow of the time they had shared burn even brighter.
‘Shall we stop for a rest?’ Patamisha’s voice cut into her thoughts. ‘We could gather firewood …’ She broke off at the sound of a distant commotion. Exchanging looks with Annah, she put down the pounding stick. Just then, a warrior appeared, running through the village, doubled over and gasping with exhaustion. People were already gathering round him, firing questions that he was too breathless to answer. Annah stiffened as he veered to approach her.
‘What’s happened?’ she demanded when he came to a standstill close by. She looked around for Kitamu. Surely, if there was trouble, it concerned him, not her.
‘The Chief has fallen over.’ The warrior forced out his words.
Annah froze, swept by sudden fear.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘Has he broken something?’
The warrior just shook his head. ‘The Chief has fallen over and lies still. There was nothing to cause it.’
‘Where is he?’ Annah started to move in the direction from which the man had come.
‘No, you must wait here.’ The warrior grasped her shoulder. ‘They are bringing him. Now.’ He fixed his eyes on Annah, veiled emotion showing in his face. ‘You and the safety doctor must prepare to save him.’
Annah met his gaze, struck with a growing dread. Then she gathered herself. ‘Tell them to bring him to my hut,’ she instructed the warrior. She turned to the nearest bystander. ‘Bring Zania.’ Spinning round, she clutched Patamisha’s hand. ‘Come with me. We must boil water. We need firewood.’
Water. Firewood. She shook her head. It was ludicrous. What they needed was an ambulance and an emergency ward. A healthy, fit man didn’t collapse unless something serious was wrong.
The warriors crowded the doorway of Annah’s hut, blocking out light, as they carried Mtemi inside on their shoulders. Gently, they laid him on Annah’s bed. Then they stood back, each man fixing his attention on the white woman who hovered close by, tense-knuckled hands gripping the stethoscope that hung from her neck.
Mtemi lay completely still, his eyes closed. Features relaxed. He might have been a statue, carved from ebony.
Annah reached a shaking hand to feel for a pulse in his neck, closing her eyes in relief as her fingers detected a steady throb. Then she held her cheek over his nostrils until she felt the movement of air from his lungs. He was alive. But unconscious.
‘Did he hit his head?’ She flung the question behind her.
The warriors answered en masse. ‘No. He was walking along, only. And he fell down.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Nothing.’
Annah stood still, her nurse’s mind throwing up possible causes, conditions, diagnostic methods, treatments. But they were all irrelevant here. She closed her eyes as a wave of hysteria mounted inside her. She tried to view the man stretched out in front of her as a patient, needing calm and efficient appraisal. But all that came to her was an overwhelming sense of her love for him. Mtemi. Her husband.
Dimly, she became aware that the warriors were stepping aside, letting a figure pass through. There was a familiar smell and the sound of charms rattling together.
‘Zania!’ Annah gasped out his name.
‘I have come. I am ready to work with you.’ The safety doctor’s steady eyes and the business-like tone of his voice jolted Annah into action.
She leaned over Mtemi, beginning a systematic examination.
‘Pulse strong, but rapid,’ she murmured, as if there were someone beside her taking notes. ‘Breathing fast. Shallow.’ Her hands moved over his body seeking telltale signs – clammy skin, tensed muscles. The same lily hands, the same midnight body, that had so recently been united in pleasure.
She barely noticed the arrival of the Old Queen. Abandoning her litter outside, the African woman hobbled painfully to the bedside and stood in silence, staring down at her son.
While Annah continued her examination, Zania stood nearby, frowning with concentration as he scanned Mtemi’s body, back and forth, up and down.
‘Something serious has happened,’ the safety doctor finally pronounced. ‘I can tell.’ He turned to walk away.
‘Where are you going?’ Annah demanded.
‘To my hut. There are things I can use.’
Annah shook her head. ‘We need real drugs,’ she said bluntly. ‘We need a real doctor.’
Zania showed no sign of having heard her. He kept going.
Annah moaned hopelessly. The closest doctor was Michael, a whole day’s journey away. And Mtemi was in no state to be lurched around in a Landrover. Bending her head, Annah rubbed her hands over her face, grinding her eyes as if she could wipe away the grim picture they had absorbed. When she looked up, she caught sight of Sister Margaret’s notes spiked into the wall.
Germantown. There would be drugs there. And the missionary might even have some knowledge, some experience, that Annah had not. But Mtemi would have to be carried there on a litter. However careful his bearers were he would be jolted at every step.
Annah turned to the warriors. ‘Who can run the fastest?’
‘Chewi,’ came the answer. The Leopard. A strikingly tall man stepped forward, long arms hanging loosely at his sides.
‘Go to Germantown. Describe to Sister Margaret what has happened to your Chief. Tell her to fill her medical bag.’ Annah spoke slowly, knowing that once he held the meaning in his head, the warrior would not forget the details. ‘Ask her to come here straight away,’ Annah concluded. Then she paused. ‘Beg her to come.’
As Chewi left the hut, already running, Annah gazed down at Mtemi. Prayers crowded through her head, half formed pleas for help, for strength. For a miracle. For Sister Margaret to arrive with a doctor. Someone travelling around, just staying over for a few days at Germantown. ‘God must have brought me here,’ he’d say, ‘because He knew there would be an emergency.’ It was possible …
When Zania returned, he sent the warriors and other onlookers out of the hut – even Kitamu was banished. Only Annah and the Old Queen were allowed to remain.
The two women looked towards Zania with expectant faces. Annah searched for the bulky pouches from which Zania chose his medicines. But he had only a few charms in his hand, and his altar table under his arm. She frowned.
Meeting her gaze, Zania shook his head. ‘Mtemi does not need medicine. He is under the influence of a bad spirit.’
A cry burst from the Old Queen’s lips.
‘I will fight against it,’ Zania announced. He crossed to the doorway and began scattering charms over the threshold. Then he leaned outside and called for someone to bring him a firestick.
‘Do not fill the hut with smoke,’ Annah warned. ‘He needs fresh air.’
She broke off as the Regent appeared in the doorway. He stepped carefully over Zania’s charms and entered the hut.
‘How is my nephew, the Chief?’ he asked. ‘What does the white nurse say?’
Annah shook her head mutely, spreading her hands. Empty. Useless.
‘I have brought water.’ The Regent produced a gourd from under his cloth.
‘No, he shouldn’t drink …’ Annah began. But the man ignored her and leaned over Mtemi, removing the cork from the vessel. Without warning, the Old Queen’s hand flew out, knocking the gourd to the floor. The water spilled, pooling on the dirt, then quickly sinking in.
The Regent’s face tensed, but he said nothing.
‘He should not drink,’ Annah continued, ‘until we know what is wrong.’
Until we know … Her words mocked her.
‘Very well,’ the Regent said politely. ‘He is in your hands.’ He turned to leave the hut. As he reached the doorway, he threw a look back into the room – a hard, bitter gaze that sent a shiver down Annah’s spine.
She sat on the bed by Mtemi’s side, watching and waiting. She noted every detail of his pulse, his breathing, the faint movements of his eyes beneath their lids. Nothing changed. Annah kept wanting to move – legs crossing and uncrossing, hands clasping and unclasping, feet shuffling. It was intolerable to be so useless. By contrast, the Old Queen was completely still. She knelt on the floor at the end of the bed, her gnarled hands cradling the bare feet of her son.
Zania set up the sacred altar under the window. Thin sunshine leaked in over stones, plants and artefacts as he laid them carefully in place. Annah watched him, mesmerised by a dull, creeping dread.
The sound of a Landrover seemed to emerge without warning, breaking the tense quiet of the village. Annah ran to the doorway, in time to see a grey-haired woman in Mission clothes approaching the hut. She walked with a slight limp, weighed down on one side by a bulky medical bag.
‘Thank God …’ Annah murmured. ‘You have come.’ In a brief moment, she registered that the missionary must have driven cross-country to get here fast. And that she was alone. No heaven-sent doctor beside her.
Sister Margaret wasted no time on greetings. She strode straight into the hut and started to examine Mtemi. As she did so, she fired questions at Annah. What had happened? Had his condition changed? What treatment had been given? Annah answered where she could, but there was little to tell. After several long minutes, Sister Margaret turned to Annah. The missionary’s face was grave.
‘He’s critically ill, that’s evident. I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s impossible to say without X-rays. Blood tests.’ Her tone was brisk, but there was compassion in her eyes as she looked at the strained face of the woman in front of her. ‘We’ll just have to do what we can.’
Opening her bag, Sister Margaret produced an intravenous drip which she hung from a lantern hook above the bed.
‘Antibiotics,’ she said, sliding a needle into the back of Mtemi’s hand and taping it in place with a piece of elastoplast. The pink stood out against the black, looking like a small patch of foreign skin. ‘And quinine,’ Sister Margaret added, ‘in case it’s cerebral malaria.’
Annah nodded blankly. Everything that the older woman was saying and doing made sense to her. But the whole scene was encased in a nightmare blur.
‘He can’t be moved.’ Sister Margaret added. She was snapping shut her bag and preparing to leave. ‘Anyway, there’s nothing more we could do for him at Germantown. I’ll go straight back and radio Langali for advice.’
She crossed the floor with quick steps. At the entrance to the hut she paused, looking back over her shoulder to nod goodbye. A tremor of surprise crossed her face as if she were taking in the strange scene for the first time – the witchdoctor, the white woman dressed in African cloths, the Louis Vuitton suitcase being used as a table, the patient almost naked and marked with hunting paint. Annah met her gaze.
‘All we can do now,’ the Sister said, ‘is pray.’
Alone with Mtemi, Zania and the Old Queen, Annah tried to follow the missionary’s parting advice. She closed her eyes, shutting out the hut, the burning charms, the sound of Waganga voices outside, the buzz of flies. But her mind was empty of words. There were only feelings – love, fear, disbelief. And fractured snatches of memory. Images of Mtemi laughing. Running. Dancing. Mtemi lying over her. Making her his wife …
Annah opened her eyes, her gaze settling on Zania’s altar. As she scanned the array of African charms and talismans it came to her, suddenly, that the setting was incomplete. Mtemi was a man of two worlds, not one.
Crossing to her suitcase, Annah raised the lid. She sifted through her meagre possessions, picking out first her Bible and then the framed photograph of Langali chapel. Sarah’s embroidered pillowcases. And an old postcard with a Bible verse on it. Do everything in Love. She added her contribution to the altar, arranging the pieces carefully, while the safety doctor nodded approval.
Through the dark hours of the night, Annah sat at Mtemi’s side, watching, praying, struggling to find hope in the fact that his condition seemed not to change. Zania sat with her, along with the Old Queen. A small fire, burning in a brazier near the doorway, cast a warm light towards them. The three hung on every breath that passed between the Chief’s lips – welcoming each subtle whisper as it cut off the deathly pause that lay between.
It was still far from dawn when Zania stood up and approached the altar. Annah watched him with weary eyes.
Slowly and deliberately, he began gathering up his things.
Annah jumped to her feet in sudden alarm. ‘What are you doing?’
‘The Chief is dying.’ Zania’s voice was heavy with pain. ‘No medicines, no magic, no charms will work.’ He nodded towards the drip that was still hanging from the wall, its bag now only half full. ‘Neither will that save him. He is lost.’
Annah clutched at Zania’s bony shoulders. ‘You cured Ndatala,’ she pleaded. ‘She was nearly dead. Mtemi’s your Chief. You must not give up.’
Zania shook his head. ‘Have I not spoken to the ancestors? Have I not burned the feathers of an unborn chicken? I have done all I can. It is finished.’
Annah stared at him, silenced by the certainty in his voice. Then she began to laugh, a mad harsh laugh, tearing up from within her, and transforming into deep wrenching sobs.
The Old Queen rose stiffly to her feet and moved to stand beside Annah. She did not touch her, but just stood there, a rock-still presence.
Zania averted his eyes from the women as he cleared the altar of the last of his talismans, leaving behind only Annah’s things – the Bible, the image of the chapel, the card and the pillowcases – dotted sparsely over the blood-stained wood. He took a long steady look at his Chief, then bowed his head and left the hut.
Annah knelt by Mtemi, laying her cheek against his bare chest. She listened to the beat of his heart. She felt the warmth of his body. A prayer formed in her head, clearly and simply. This is your chance, she told God. Zania has given up. If Mtemi lives, everyone will know you saved him. I’ll tell everyone. They’ll believe in you.
Annah lifted her head as Kitamu entered the hut. He was followed first by the Chief’s warriors and then by those men of his own age-group regiment. Women crowded in behind the men until the small hut was close with bodies.
Moonlight filtered through the window, casting a glow over the bed where Mtemi lay. In his deep stillness, the man looked like a monument, strong and enduring. Annah let her gaze travel over his face, tracing the perfect lines of his nose, his lips, stopping on his closed eyes. She willed them to open. Like a child making bargains with fortune, she told herself that if she could just look into his eyes one more time – reach into the deep, warm brown – she could save him.
Towards dawn, Mtemi stirred. He opened his eyes and gazed directly at Annah. The people in the hut leaned towards him, gasping with joy. Annah stared at him, frozen. As she did so, a word came to her – unchosen, unwanted, unspoken. It arrived in her mind with the clarity of something certain and unavoidable.
Goodbye.
Goodbye …
Mtemi closed his eyes and rested. While others breathed easily, comforted and hopeful, Annah laid down her head and wept.
Bright flames danced and flickered in the dawn, orange tongues reflecting in the still water of the lake. Beside the blaze, on a makeshift stretcher, lay the long-limbed body of a warrior. Dark skin freshly painted with the colours of the hunt. Clay pots lined up for the journey. Spears for the fight. Royal cloths and necklaces. And the Chief’s leopard skin cloak.
The air was filled with the sounds of mourning. Not a muted, snuffling, inward grief, but crying, tearing, screaming. Arms reaching to the skies, hands clawing breasts, heads shaking. A whole tribe of ghosts writhing in anguish. Faces daubed with ashes of the funeral fire, mixed with spit and tears. The village dogs cowered at the edge of the crowd, unnerved by the frenzy.
Only one figure was quiet and still – seated at the right hand side of the Old Queen. She gazed silently at the body laid out in front of her. On her white skin, the ash paint looked grey. And her wild red hair appeared oddly bright, as if touched somehow by the fire. In her lap lay a piece of white linen. Her fingers traced the shape of a letter embroidered in one corner. M.
Annah’s face, her eyes, her mind, were blank. All she let in was the image of the man lying there in front of her. She wanted to fix the picture in her mind so that she could keep it – unfading – forever. At the edges of her consciousness, she heard the wailing of the women surrounding her. Their noise going on and on like a mantra.
Then there was a sudden quiet. Small sounds expanded in the hush. A baby squealing. Flames crackling.
Annah looked up. People were turning away from the fire, away from Mtemi. Some were getting to their feet, craning their heads towards the back of the crowd to the place where the path emerged from the trees.
There was a figure standing there. A pale sylph. Ivory face framed by long dark hair.
Slowly the vision penetrated the haze in Annah’s mind. She stood up, a single word escaping her lips.
‘Sarah!’
The name swam in her head. Shimmering, unreal.
The ranks of the Waganga parted to let the newcomer through. Sarah moved warily between them, nervous hands smoothing down her skirt. She kept her eyes firmly ahead, as if her safe passage depended on it. When she was near enough to see Annah clearly, her step faltered as she took in the woman’s daubed face, the swollen eyes, the dirty kitenge hanging half loose.
As if drawn by a magnet power, the two women came together – at the last moment falling into an embrace. Annah clung to her friend’s slender frame, saying nothing, just burying her face in the lavender-fragranced hair.
The two stood locked together. Gradually, the sounds of grief grew back around them. Not just the crying and moaning, but a high-pitched ululating – the foreign, tribal sound that could speak of joy as well as pain. Of a wedding as well as a funeral.
Annah pulled away and gestured for Sarah to join her beside the Old Queen. As she prepared to sit, Sarah’s gaze flicked over an array of charms and talismans and the remains of a burnt offering that bordered the vacant space. She faltered for only a moment, then joined Annah, cross-legged on the ground, edging back just a little, so that her knees were clear of the relics.
When she was settled, Sarah turned for the first time to look directly at the body laid out by the fire. Annah watched as her friend took in the details of her lover’s face, the sculpted curves and finely modelled lines. The gentle mouth. Strong chin. Dark, unblemished skin. She felt a stab of pride, dulled by pain.
Sarah’s eyes brimmed with tears, her lips trembled. It might have been her own man lying there, so lovingly – longingly – did her gaze travel over his body. She only looked away when Zania came and crouched beside her. He held out a scoop of ash, cupped in a hand that was spotted with blood.
Sarah tensed, glancing sideways at Annah. Zania spat in the ash and mixed a paste with his finger. Then he waited, fixing Sarah with piercing eyes. A hush fell over the crowd. There was a moment of stillness – of watching, waiting. Then Sarah lifted her face, offering it up to receive the ritual mark.
Annah followed the careful movement of the safety doctor’s finger over Sarah’s face. Tears ran down her own cheeks, making thin clean tracks in the pattern of ash. The ash of her husband’s funeral fire.
The ashes of her dreams.
When Annah’s last task was complete – the laying down of her gift of the embroidered pillowcase – it was time for the warriors to be left alone to tend to the body of their Chief.
Patamisha took charge of the two white women, shepherding them back to the village.
‘The place has been cleansed,’ she explained as she led the way towards Annah’s hut. ‘So there is no need to fear returning there.’
‘And how is that done?’ Sarah asked carefully.
‘The safety doctor has burnt medicines in the cooking hearth. He has also killed three chickens and covered the threshold with blood. It’s as I have said, everything is in order.’
At the doorway to the hut, Patamisha stopped and gestured for Annah to be the first to enter.
Annah nodded numbly. As she crossed the threshold, sticky red earth printed onto her feet. Sarah followed her, avoiding looking down.
Patamisha stayed outside. Her eyes moved slowly over the two white women as if, though veiled with grief, they detected something of deep interest in the sight before them. But when she spoke, her voice was dull and flat. ‘Elia will bring tea.’
The African woman’s light step died quickly away. The village was eerily quiet. Annah sank onto the floor in one corner of the hut, pulling her knees to her chin and resting her head on them. Her hair fell forward, half concealing her face.
Sarah sat down on a three-legged stool. She shifted uneasily, her brow creased with tension.
‘Michael was in the middle of operating when the call came through.’ Her words cut through the leaden air. Annah raised her head.
‘He couldn’t possibly leave,’ Sarah continued. ‘It was a complicated Caesarian. Twins. I said I’d go alone, but he said it was too risky travelling in the dark. And there’d be nothing I could do, anyway.’ Sarah paused. Her fingers picked at the hem of her soiled skirt. ‘But … I just had this strong feeling that I had to go. So I did. I got the keys and left.’ Sarah lifted her chin defiantly. ‘It took me nearly ten hours to get here. I got lost twice. And all the time I was thinking about the fact that because I had the Landrover, Michael wouldn’t be able to come in the morning. But the feeling was still there. Somehow I knew that now was the time to go. And that I was the one who was needed.’
Annah nodded, but still she did not speak.
Sarah filled the quiet with talk – of Kate, Ordena, Tefa, of her new work at the homesteads. Whenever she stopped, Annah signed for her to go on. The words, filling the air, kept reality at bay.
‘I take Kate with me to the homesteads.’ Sarah’s voice swam lightly across the room. ‘Then it seems more as if I’m just a visitor, dropping in. Of course, I have to watch her – make sure she doesn’t eat any food, or play with sick children. Michael isn’t too happy about me taking her. But then …’ Sarah paused, frowning, ‘he’d rather I stayed at the station, too. He worries about me. He thinks I’ll get lost in the jungle, or eaten by a lion.’
Annah let the words flow over her in a numbing, comforting stream.
‘What are you going to do now?’
Sarah’s question pierced the fragile shield.
Annah stared at her dumbly.
‘I could take you to Murchanza,’ Sarah said, ‘and put you on the train to Dodoma. The Mission would help you. Go to the Bishop.’
‘I’m not leaving.’ Annah’s voice was clear, firm. ‘This is my home.’ Her gaze swept the small room as she spoke. Looking at the bed, she thought she could still see the impression made by Mtemi’s body as he’d lain there. She could not imagine doing anything other than staying right here in this hut. This place where she had rested her head on Mtemi’s warm chest and listened to the beat of his living heart. This place that would become her shrine and her sanctuary.
Sarah crossed the room to where Annah was still crouched in the corner. ‘I have to go now,’ she said gently.
She bent to kiss the head of tangled red hair.
‘Sarah …’ Annah whispered. ‘Help me.’ Her voice was that of a little child, lost. ‘Hold me.’ She reached up to Sarah with pleading arms, pulling her down beside her, clinging close.
The ochre tones of the earthen floor marked their skin and clothes, gradually blurring the distinction between them. As if, for now, they were sheep of the same flock.
The next days passed in a blur of short hours and long moments. Annah stayed in her hut – silent, immobile. The passage of time had stopped for her with Mtemi’s last breath and she was now held in a state of numb, static suspension.
People came to the door with offerings of food, incense, cloths. Annah received their gifts, hiding her despair behind a calm, polite facade. She was aware that in spite of their expressions of compassion, the tribespeople were uncertain and ill at ease. There was, after all, no protocol for dealing with someone like Annah, an almost-bride who could not be sent back to her mother’s village, a woman who belonged to no man and yet who bore the mark of the royal house of Waganga.
Only Patamisha, Zania and the Old Queen treated Annah as they always had. They visited regularly, trying to entice her to eat, to wash, to talk; but they accepted her silent refusals, often staying to share her tears and adding their own.
One morning, about a week after Mtemi’s death, Kitamu came to Annah’s hut. He had visited several times before, but now he was dressed formally, according to his rank. They exchanged greetings, carefully worded so that each would be able to make the optimistic responses that convention required. Then Kitamu sat down on the finely carved stool that he had brought with him.
‘The government has made a law that there shall be no more chiefs,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless, I am the one who can speak on behalf of the tribe.’
Annah nodded. There had to be a leader, whatever the law might say.
‘I wish to tell you that you are welcome to stay here in the village. I, myself, will be responsible for you. I will care for you and protect you.’ Kitamu avoided looking at Annah as he spoke. She realised, suddenly, that he was finding it difficult to express what he had come to say. She forced an encouraging smile.
‘It is true that you were not the wife of my brother,’ he continued. ‘Only his betrothed. Even so, I believe it is my duty to raise children to his memory.’ He glanced quickly at Annah. ‘Patamisha wishes it, also. Is she not already a sister to you?’
Annah listened to him with a sense of detachment. She understood that he was offering to take her as a second wife. The suggestion ought to have been shocking to her, she knew, but it wasn’t. It seemed only very generous, very practical, very easy. She looked up at him. Behind his awkward expression, she detected a kindness and compassion that touched her deeply. And though he had the same mother and father, he did not look at all like his brother. She felt she would be able to bear being with him.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply. ‘I am truly honoured.’
Kitamu cleared his throat nervously as he stood up. ‘I shall return to discuss your dowry. Meanwhile, your food will be prepared at my own hearth.’
He turned to go, but then paused mid step and addressed Annah again.
‘Some blame witchcraft for my brother’s death.’
Annah nodded. It was a common assumption in Africa, following an unexplained death.
‘I, myself, believe he was poisoned. I suspect the Chief’s uncle.’ Kitamu spoke in a low voice.
‘The Regent?’ Annah whispered. She stared at the man, wide-eyed, well aware of the extreme gravity of a tribesman accusing another of such a crime.
‘The Regent has been angry ever since Mtemi returned to the village and took up his stool as Chief,’ Kitamu added. ‘The Regent had been in power for many years, with no-one to interfere with his plans. He would only have been happy if Mtemi had married his niece and joined with him in business ventures. As it was, Mtemi and the Regent did not agree on anything. I am told that my uncle even went so far as to speak against his Chief to the government men.’
Listening to him, Annah remembered how the Regent had brought water to Mtemi as he lay ill, and how the Old Queen had refused to let him tip it into her son’s mouth. Clearly she did not trust the man either.
‘What does your mother, the Queen, think?’ Annah asked.
Kitamu shook his head. ‘She will not speak about it.’
‘Perhaps she knows best,’ suggested Annah. Accusations and rumours would only cause disharmony among the Waganga. At worst, it could lead to a fracturing of the tribe – the ultimate disaster.
‘You are right,’ Kitamu said. There was respect in his eyes as he faced the white woman.
Annah felt a stirring of pride. She imagined Mtemi watching over her shoulder, using her lips to speak. Not lost to heaven or hell or some place in between – but still here, in this hut. With her.
Annah watched Kitamu leave. Then she let the stillness gather around her again, closing her in. An anaesthetic cloud. Colourless and meaningless. Endless. Like sleep, or her own death.
‘It is time to turn from darkness and see the sun again!’ Zania’s voice came through the walls of the hut, jolting Annah awake. She gave no reply.
‘I am waiting for you,’ Zania called again.
There was a shuffling outside. The next moment a woven bag flew in through the window, landing at Annah’s feet. She recognised the plant-gathering bag.
‘I am in no hurry,’ Zania added. ‘I will leave when you come.’
Nothing would stand in the way of Zania’s persistence, Annah knew. She left her bed and picking up the bag, she approached the doorway slowly. A shaft of sunlight fell over the threshold, covering the fading remains of the blood that Zania had spread there. Annah felt the warmth on her bare feet as she gazed out, blinking in the glare. To her surprise, the world outside was colourful, alive. In her mind, everything had become grey, tarnished by grief.
Zania smiled, drawing her on. She felt like an invalid venturing forth, fragile and vulnerable. Except that most invalids wanted to get better, whereas she wanted nothing, felt nothing. A week ago her monthly bleeding had come – undeniable, bright red. She had stood still, watching it trickling down her thigh. Proof that her last link with Mtemi’s body was severed, her lingering hopes finally killed.
The safety doctor led her out of the village by a route that avoided the main part of the settlement. Annah followed him, grateful not to have to weather the endless greetings of the tribespeople. Even so, she had to pause several times to answer questions about her home, her food, her work. As if she’d been living a normal life – when everyone knew she had not.
‘We have work to do,’ Zania called back over his shoulder. He looked up, frowning as he scanned the cloudless sky.
Annah nodded blankly. Somewhere inside her, she recognised his anxiety and thought briefly of the spectre of drought. But she felt unable to really care, even on behalf of others.
When they reached the forest, Annah entered the shady fringes with a sense of relief. The trees, bending over her, were green and moist with sap. She knew she would be able to lose herself in their calm presence, just as she did in the frozen stillness of her hut.
They did not gather large quantities of herbs as they had on other occasions; Zania wanted only to find the plants that he needed for rainmaking. Then he led Annah back towards the village.
But when they reached the settlement, they found the place strangely quiet. Deserted.
‘Where is everyone?’ Annah asked.
Zania narrowed his eyes uneasily. ‘I do not know.’
They walked on, meeting only foraging chickens and idle dogs along their way. Silence enclosed them as they turned into the narrow pathway that led to Annah’s hut.
Rounding the corner, Annah stopped in her tracks.
The lintels of her hut had been splashed with blood. Gizzards and intestines draped the eaves. A headless rooster sprawled on the threshold.
Zania stared, rigid with shock. Then he grasped Annah’s shoulder and pulled her away. For a moment he seemed lost in confusion, unsure which way to turn. Then Patamisha appeared. She whispered urgently in the local tongue.
Between them, she and Zania pushed Annah along another alley between two huts.
As they reached a doorway, an arm shot out, grabbing Annah and drawing her into the shadows.
‘It is I, Kitamu.’
Annah stifled the cry that had leapt to her lips.
‘The Regent has stirred people against you.’ The man’s mouth was close to her ear. ‘His men carried out the witch-finding ritual. The finger pointed to your hut. You are accused of bewitching the Chief.’
Annah’s face contorted with pain. She shook her head in disbelief. Surely not all her friends had turned against her?
‘Some dispute it,’ Kitamu added. ‘But they have another concern. You have stayed inside grieving. You have shed too many tears. They say that while you stay, it cannot rain.’ Reaching into the shadows, he produced Annah’s suitcase, her microscope and her medical bag. ‘I have saved your possessions.’
‘No. I can’t go,’ Annah protested. ‘This is my home. I belong here.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I am Waganga.’
‘That is why you must do as I say,’ Kitamu responded. ‘For the good of the tribe. You must leave now, and never return.’
Annah searched the gloom for Patamisha and Zania. She found their faces, strained with alarm, eyes wide. Though she fixed her pleading gaze on them, they did not move or speak.
Kitamu grasped Annah’s hand and pressed a piece of rag knotted around some coins into her palm.
‘Walk to the road, but through the bush.’ He thrust Annah’s luggage into her hands, then turned her towards the doorway. ‘A bus will come.’
The sun was hot. Flies swarmed around Annah’s face, settling on her skin and dipping sticky tongues into her sweat. Her suitcase weighed heavy in her hand, but she walked steadily on. She paused only to pick up a single shell-pink feather that lay in her path. Its softness spoke to her senses, whispering a small comfort. But nothing could lighten the load that had settled on her soul, the lost soul of a foreigner wandering without purpose. Alone in the African bush, with no home to turn to. No people. No past. No future.
No lover.
Just an empty, broken heart.