If there were no true emergencies—deep lacerations to sew up, uteruses to push back inside—Nurse Verna would try her level best to attend morning chapel. She would pull down the rolling metal window through which drugs were dispensed and slip the Yale lock through the heavy-duty hasp on the reinforced wooden door. Of course she always took Many Boils with her to the brief service. It was, after all, primarily for the sake of Many Boils’s salvation that she kept so many patients waiting in the broiling sun.
The schoolchildren sat up front with their teachers, boys on the right, girls on the left. In the Tshiluba language the word for “right hand” was “boy’s hand,” and the word for “left hand” was “girl’s hand.” This was as it should be, Nurse Verna though, since boys were usually stronger and more dominant. Nurse Verna was very fond of the Tshiluba language; it made a lot more sense than English, which was a tongue that had been cobbled together from French, German, Latin, Danish, Greek—you name it.
Besides the students, at chapel there were always a few of what Nurse Verna privately referred to as “petitioners.” These were mainly the elderly or very sick people who had come to church to beg God for healing or to be put out of their misery. Occasionally, one saw a “fat cat.” These were always men—some were literally fat—who were there to pray for wealth or give thanks for favors received in hopes of receiving more wealth.
“Ask and ye shall receive” was the most popular prayer among the fat-cat set. Nurse Verna abhorred the fat cats with righteous indignation pulled straight from the holy scriptures. Of course the fat cats sat on the right side of the church—on the male side. But unbeknownst to them, Nurse Verna prayed that her God, the God who loved justice, would shrivel the testes of the fat cats, rendering them sterile.
The people with whom she had no problem—but they were sure to upset that Marilyn Monroe look-alike, that dilettante missionary fresh from the States—were the beggars, lepers, and nursing mothers who sat on the women’s side directly in front of Nurse Verna. Actually, there weren’t beggars in the group, as the Bashilele were too proud for that, but there was a leper, and a woman with a goiter the size of a grapefruit, and tons of nursing mothers. Blouses weren’t required in the back of the church, and it was common to see children as old as three standing while nursing. Most often the children’s eyes would be fixed on Nurse Verna while they stretched their poor mothers’ breasts out flat, like hot water bottles filled with milk.
On this particular day, Nurse Verna was a trifle late taking her seat on the bench reserved for the buttocks of white people, which was located at the far rear of the church. She arrived just as the children from the girls’ school marched into the building. As usual, they processed behind their native headmaster. Miss Julia Newton brought up the rear, looking grim, stiff, and totally out of place. However, few people managed to get under Nurse Verna’s thick, sun-mottled skin as did the native headmaster.
Ever since the unfortunate death of Mrs. Hayes, the mother of the Great Distraction, the girls’ school had had to resort to having a native headmaster. This being the Belgian Congo, that native had to be a man. Virtually all the teachers in the Belgian Congo were male, and certainly all the principals. No student was going to take instructions from a black woman seriously—a white woman, yes, but not from a native woman.
This temporary headmaster was an impressive fellow, one who had a secondary-school education that he’d received at Djoka Punda. Plus, he was married, and since he and his wife were both middle-aged, they could serve as houseparents to the girls and live with them in their compound. The only negative quality that Born Without a Neck had was that he was a pompous fool.
Whereas even the missionary men wore their neckties only on Sunday mornings, Born Without a Neck wore one every day. It was one that had been discarded by a missionary when it became too frayed, but this didn’t seem to bother its new owner. Neither did the fact that, without the semblance of a proper neck (he had one, but his vertebrae were fused), the tie cupped his chin, rendering him ridiculous in the eyes of his white beholders.
However, this tie, and the fact that he was meticulous about laundering and ironing his two shirts, very much impressed the Bashilele. Not long after he took over the girls’ school, some of the older male students began referring to him as the “little white man.” Instead of finding this offensive, Born Without a Neck was actually flattered.
One might say that Nurse Verna’s simmering dislike of this pompous little twit reached the boiling point when she saw him strutting down the aisle with his protégées in tow, including that poor wounded Mushilele girl she’d sewn up the night before. That did it; that was the bamboo pole that broke the camel’s back! May the good Lord forgive Nurse Verna for the scene that she was about to make in his house.
Nurse Verna was on her feet just as fast as if she’d been bitten by driver ants. “Stop,” she cried, in a loud and what sounded to her like a terrifying, prophetic voice. “In the name of Yehowa Nzambi, I command thee to stop, Directeur Born Without a Neck!”
Now, a weekday congregation such as this was neatly drawn along two lines: those who were dedicated believers, but who were young and in need of a good laugh; and those who were old, and who were in attendance primarily to seek favors, and in need of a good laugh. The result was that everyone laughed hysterically—that is, everyone except for Directeur Born Without a Neck, and, of course, both Reverend Doyer and Nurse Verna. Even that irascible, motherless cub, the Great Distraction, howled with unbecoming glee.
That was to be expected. However, for that new girl, Miss Julia Newton, to show disrespect to a fellow missionary in front of all the natives—well, even Jesus might have tapped his sandal-shod toes a few times before forgiving that egregious sin. The natives were restless—on the verge of rioting, one might say—and the only way for the white community to survive was to appear unified at all times.
Fortunately for everyone, Born Without a Neck did stop, causing his girls to pile into each other. “Mamu,” he said, “what is it that the Lord God Jehovah wants of me?”
“You fool,” Nurse Verna snapped. “He does not want you! He wants that girl—the one with the bandage on her leg.”
“Aiyee,” said Born Without a Neck. Strange as it might seem, he could shake his head vigorously from side to side, even through it sat directly atop his body. “God could not possibly want anything with a girl—and certainly not with a Mushilele girl.”
Nurse Doyer would be the first to admit that one’s husband should be the head of the house, just as God intended. And, when it came to preaching, a woman should sit back and do the listening. These things were all written down in the Bible and carved into stone by that bitter little man, the Apostle Paul. But when it came down to the sort of racist bigotry purported by the pigeon-chested little headmaster and his vocal disparagement of the female gender—well, Nurse Doyer’s dander had now been officially raised.
“Yala,” she said, “you are a wonder to behold!”
“I am?” said the clueless headmaster while beaming.
“Surely,” Nurse Doyer said. “Never before have I seen a small stone, such as your head, turn so easily upon a larger stone, such as your body, without there first being an application of thick grease. Tell us, if you will, Headmaster, how such a dense and heavy stone can swivel back and forth so easily? What grease did you first smear on that slab of rock beneath it? Please, if you will, bend forward as if to tie your shoes. We wish to see if the small stone slides off.”
Oh yes, the congregation enjoyed that very much, although Nurse Verna was quite sure that the Lord Jesus did not approve of her mean streak. But it did generate some much needed results. As soon as she’d finished her vicious and very unchristian-like attack on Born Without a Neck, the so-called Reverend Paul Henry Hayes, the father of the Great Distraction, was at her side.
“Nurse Verna,” Henry said in English, “what is it?”
Nurse Verna swallowed hard. She swallowed three times—one for each person of the Trinity. It was her version of counting to ten before answering.
“You were there last night. You saw this child’s open gash. She has to stay off her leg or she is going to open up the stitches. If that happens, then there is a good chance of her wound going septic, and then—well, you know what comes next. So you tell me!”
Henry sighed, just as Nurse Verna knew that he would. The man had a heart as soft as Limburger cheese.
“Death,” he whispered, so that the Great Distraction wouldn’t hear, but she did anyway.
“Oh, Papa,” the urchin practically wailed. Then she ran to him and fell into his arms with a great show of generated drama. That was her specialty, and of course the natives thrived on it. “Are you saying that Buakane might die if she doesn’t stay off her leg?” The Great Distraction had the annoying habit of speaking loudly, and in perfectly accented Tshiluba.
Upon hearing such an extreme, although medically sound, prognosis, Buakane collapsed on the dirt floor of the church and commenced keening at death’s door. There she implored the Grim Reaper to grant her immediate access. But if that was not to be the case, then would her ancestors intercede on her behalf, so that she might be spared all the pain and suffering that normally accompanies gangrene and amputation.
Clearly the child named Buakane had witnessed much in her young life, but that didn’t make it all right for the Great Distraction to spill the beans. If that spoiled brat Clementine was Nurse Verna’s child, she’d soon be the recipient of a spanking that would make it all but impossible to sit on her gluteus maximus for a few days.
The only redeeming quality the Hayes girl possessed was one that Nurse Verna shamefully coveted; Clementine had the ability to actually sound like a native when she spoke Tshiluba—not to mention that she had mastered the much more difficult tongue of Bushilele. Okay, to be honest—and Nurse Verna was always honest with herself, unlike some—the child did possess an uncanny ability to think fast on her feet. In that regard, she was sometimes way ahead of the adults.
Like the very next moment. This pint-size person, who was practically drowning in her mother’s clothes and oversized pith helmet, suddenly released herself from her father’s embrace and just took over.
“Muyishi,” Clementine said, addressing the headmaster as “teacher” and thus demoting him on the spot, although she had no authority to do so. The congregation certainly found the disrespectful twerp funny—of course, natives laughed at just about anything.
“Teacher,” Clementine Hayes said again, and again it was in Tshiluba, “you must send one of your girls to where my father is building the new bookshop. There she will find a wheelbarrow. Have her bring it here, and then you will ask Mamu Snake to assist you in putting Buakane in it, and after that, you will take her back to the girls’ compound. There she will stay and rest—sitting or lying down, as Mamu Snake instructs you. Listen to me, you Teacher of Girls, your wife may not use Buakane as a servant. Neither you nor your wife may press her into any sort of work that involves standing or walking. Is that clear? Do you hear my words?”
“E,” Born Without a Neck said.
“Why, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Nurse Verna said aloud.
To be sure the congregation was practically rolling in the aisles, and there was even a smattering of applause, but clearly, the child’s words had been quite effective. Oh, what a bitter pill to swallow; the Lord of Hosts using the Great Distraction to accomplish something that was beyond Nurse Verna’s capabilities.
But that didn’t necessarily make it right. A child ought not to speak to an adult that way—even if the adult was a native. On the other hand, the Bible did say that “a little child shall lead them.” Isaiah 11:6. Yes, well, it wasn’t natural for a child of not quite ten to talk like that. What’s more, given the political climate, it was downright dangerous. Now that Born Without a Neck had been shamed in front of a congregation composed mostly of children, fat cats, and old women, he was sure to take revenge.
Born Without a Neck claimed to be the younger son of a Muluba chief. It was even possible that he was the eldest son but had been passed over in the line of succession because of his deformity. Whatever the case might have been, Nurse Verna believed that Born Without a Neck was a person to be reckoned with. From now on she would keep a better eye on the disgusting little man to see that he treated his girls right. Miss Julia Newton was going to need all the help she could get, to put the girls’ school back in shape, whether she wanted it or not. By the grace of God, Nurse Verna was there to give her just what she needed. That’s what older, more experienced missionaries were for.
In the meantime, she was happy to take over entirely. “Born Without a Neck, a wheelbarrow! Send one of your girls!”
“Yes, Mamu Snake,” the headmaster said, bowing with his entire torso, although his eyes burned with rage. He swiveled to face his girls. “You, you who are called Born After Much Medicine, go fetch the wheelbarrow. Do not return without it. And take She Whose Eyes Are Vacant with you. I do not want to discover that you have taken the morning off to pick mushrooms or to nap under a mango tree. I want the wheelbarrow now. Buasha, buasha.”
No one laughed. One girl looked terrified, the other stared blankly, then off they ran. After that Henry led Buakane to the nearest bench in the native section, and Born Without a Neck continued his strut down to the front with his conga line of very young and very attractive Bashilele girls.
As soon as everyone was seated, Reverend Doyer, who’d been seated up front on a metal folding chair, took his place behind the pulpit. He smiled as if nothing untoward had happened, and he held up a pocket-size blue hymnbook.
“Let us praise God by singing ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus,’ ” he said.
Immediately the boys’ headmaster, Directeur Ends Famine, took his place at the front of the church and began waving his arms. The congregation burst into song with great gusto and full voice, but no one paid attention to poor Ends Famine. With the exception of some of the heathen women at the back of the church, virtually everyone, fat cats included, knew both words and tune to this simple song by now. However, no two people could be bothered to sing quite the same tune as anyone else, or at quite the same speed.
“Mulunda, mulunda muimpe, Yesu udi mulunda!”
Perhaps the worst offender of anyone was Henry Hayes. His normally beautiful tenor voice seemed to try to unite their voices by wandering all over the map with them. Nurse Verna could only sit through the first stanza, then she had to flee. May God forgive her, she really had to.