Chapter 12

What time to tard consummation brings,

Calamity, most like a frosty night

That ripeneth the grain, completes at once.

—Sir Henry Taylor

I felt light-headed and tired and moved about painstakingly as I got ready to teach my morning class. After nearly an hour of deliberation, I decided I couldn’t go to work. I thought that I might have come down with malaria, even though I had taken the vaccines and the weekly doses of Nivaquine the doctor had recommended before I left New York. I could still hear Mom and Dad’s recommendations about contaminated food and water and recalled how I conveniently “forgot” the supply of insect repellent they had bought me because I had more important things to pack, like clothing and shoes. “Diseases can be transmitted through insect bites,” Mom had said.

The dinner I had eaten the night before suddenly rolled inside my stomach before erupting like a volcano. I couldn’t think of what would make me feel this ill and wondered if it really was malaria, even though I didn’t have the chills or fever that usually accompanied the ailment.

I stayed in bed the whole morning. By mid-afternoon the heat and humidity were on the rise. I thought a shower would make me feel better. When I reached into the closet for deodorant, I saw the box of tampons and realized my period was two weeks late. I went back to bed, thinking that the stress of the performance was the reason while continuously checking my panties, hoping to see a stain. I never imagined that I would look forward to that monthly occurrence. How could I have been so careless? I had stopped taking birth control pills when I returned from Paris, thinking my relationship with Bolingo was over. But there was the night before he left for China, when we fell into each other’s arms, oblivious to any precautionary measures.

Tired of speculating, I went to Dr. Blanchard’s office without making an appointment. When he called the following day to confirm my suspicions, I wasn’t sure if my head began to spin and ache because of my condition or because of the thoughts swirling inside. The pain rolled in a whipping acrobatic motion. I took a couple of aspirins and dropped my tired body on the bed, still hoping blood would soon drench my panties.

 

* * *

 

The following Saturday afternoon Amba dropped by for a visit on her way home from work. As she sat in an armchair in the living room, she picked up an envelope from the coffee table to fan herself. The traditional wrapper she wore and the embroidered top that left her shoulders bare distinguished her from other women who could not afford such intricate needlework. She also wore a pair of four-inch sandals that buckled around the ankles with an opening that allowed her painted toes to breathe freely. A designer bag and expensive cologne were additional touches. I had no idea how much her salary was, but she certainly needed the general’s help to dress the way she did. She was the mwasi kitoko, the beautiful woman, of her time.

She put the envelope back on the table, cracked her knuckles, and shifted her weight. “I had a dream about you last night,” she said.

“What was it about?”

“You have a beer? It’s so hot and humid today.”

I went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Primus and a chilled glass.

“Just what the doctor recommended,” she said.

“What was the dream about?”

She took a pack of cigarettes from her pocketbook. “You and I were on a boat in the middle of the ocean. It became windy and the peaceful water was suddenly troubled. A woman appeared from under. She rocked the boat and made it fall in the water. I made it ashore, but your body disappeared. I don’t mean to scare you, but I think there’s a message for you in the dream.”

“What do you think the message is?”

“Probably that you’ll go through some hard times,” she said and paused. “Look, I’m no expert. We should visit someone who understands these things.”

“You’re talking about a reading?”

“Yup.”

“I don’t believe in those things.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I saw a reader in Senegal who told me I’ll have some problems, but everything will be resolved. Think about it, life is about ups and downs. Nothing good or bad lasts forever. I don’t need to pay someone to tell me that. How can you believe in those things when your father is a Baptist minister?”

“One thing has nothing to do with the other. There are ancestral forces that influence our lives,” Amba lectured. “I also know there are a lot of crooks out there, but there are also sincere medicine men and women who believe in their mission to help.”

“I don’t know—”

“You have nothing to lose.”

“True,” I said, thinking I had nothing better to do either.

 

* * *

 

I picked her up the next day and drove to a compound with crowded sun-beaten houses made of cinder blocks. Women cooked saca saca, fufu, and dried fish on small portable stoves fueled by charcoal. Children ran around. The elders sat with eyes focused on a world only known to them.

The nganga wore nothing but torn pants. His bare ribs showed under his wrinkled skin. He snapped out of a daze, flashed a toothless smile when he noticed Amba. He invited us inside, and I watched him pour a libation from a cup and wash his eyes with the rest of the water. He then reached for a mirror from under his bed and asked for my name.

“Do you often dream of water?” he asked, staring into the mirror.

I told him yes.

He started singing a song that sounded vaguely familiar. It was only when he repeated the song a second time that I realized it was the same one Lamercie had learned from Nlunda a Kinkulu, except for the fact that he was singing in Lingala:

 

Mama ha eeeeeeeee

Nakweyaki na maiyi eeee

Elima Ngando oooooooo

Ayei kokamata ngai aaaaaa

 

“Your soul is engaged in a spiritual world but you don’t know it.” He studied me for a moment that seemed too long. “You’re a lucky person.” It seemed that his squinting eyes tried to see through me. “You ended a relationship with a man not long ago.”

Amba raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“We’ll talk later,” I whispered with tight lips.

“You don’t want to share him,” he said, looking into my eyes. “You must cleanse yourself, sacrifice a goat, and wear protection.”

Amba nodded in approval.

“But it’s not over between you and that man,” he continued. “You’re going to have his child.” He looked away from the mirror, turned to Amba. “You’re worried about your friend. She will be okay if she does what she’s supposed to do. If she wants the medicine, I need a minimum to buy the ingredients and the goat. After that, it will be up to her to decide what she wants to give me.”

“I’ll be back,” I said, convinced that he only wanted to get money out of me.

“This is no game,” he cautioned. “I’m afraid of what might happen if you don’t protect yourself.”

His words didn’t faze me then. But now I wonder if sacrificing a goat would have changed my destiny.

 

* * *

 

“I have something to tell you,” I said to Amba as we waited for the food we ordered.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Does Bolingo know?”

“No.”

“Why haven’t you told him?”

“What difference does it make?” I blurted out.

“You should appreciate the fact that Bolingo defied tradition by loving a foreigner from another continent! There’s a tale about Nkenge falling in love with a foreigner whose ancestors no one in the village knew—”

I put a hand up. “Please, Amba! This is no time for folktales.”

“I’m just telling you how we think here. You’re going to do what the old man asked, aren’t you?”

“That’s like living in the dark ages.”

“My father used to say this . . . He studied medicine for two years before he became a Baptist minister . . .”

I tried to hide my impatience. “What did he used to say?”

“Science without religion is lame. Religion without science is blind.”

“That’s a quote from Einstein.”

Amba rolled her eyes. “Our African science may not be recognized by the Western world, but it has its place in our society. That woman can and probably will hurt you.”

“The man saw sorrow in my eyes, the kind of sorrow only love can cause, and he exploited that. Does that mean he has mystical powers?”

“Why are you shutting your mind?”

“Probably because I am being myself. I’m fascinated with the cultural aspect of these practices, but they can be the cause of paranoia and psychosis. If he has the power to do so much, why does he look like he himself needs help?”

“You’re talking about material help. I’m talking about something entirely different.” She took a long, deep breath. “I could sacrifice the goat for you, but I don’t see how I can get you to cleanse yourself and wear protection.”

After a long, uncomfortable silence, I asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“That you won’t let people help you.”

I was grateful for her concern, but I saw no point in doing something I didn’t believe in.

“What more do you want? Bolingo does love you,” she said.

“Not enough for him to get a divorce,” I replied brusquely.

“You’re complicating things.”

“I’m not ready to live in a harem.”

“You won’t have to. You will have your own home.” Her voice was callous. She winked and cracked a smile.

“Nokei,” I said to her, having run out of arguments.

“Malamu.” She agreed that we should leave.