When Buakane heard the white mamu’s response to Chief Eagle, her heart coalesced, becoming smooth and hard, like a lump of polished ebony within an ebony shell. For a flicker of time she had been led to feel hope, excitement, a stirring of the mind. Perhaps—who knew how, but perhaps—someday she might have been be able to ignite that feeling in Grasshopper Paddle as well! But such foolish thoughts those had been. What a vain, selfish girl Buakane was, to even have thought that she could have a future here under the white man’s protection. How could she have possibly imagined living so close to the man whom she had shamed and betrayed?
As soon as she was certain that the chief and his band of warriors had turned for home, Buakane ran from the classroom building and threw herself on the ground beneath a mango tree. Each step, each movement, jolted her wound; she might just as well have been dancing on sword blades. Nevertheless, when she reached the hard-packed earth beneath the canopy, she commenced rolling on the ground. Was she oblivious to the pain by then? No. Did she welcome it? Yes.
She began keening in full, agonizing voice, as one would do when confronted with the loss of a parent. This was to be her last indulgence, this traditional expression of grief. It was to be false grief; hearts that are made from ebony are so dense that there is no room in them for anything. Not even for manufactured grief.
“Buakane, stop it,” the young white mamu commanded as she swooped in low like a bird of prey. Like an eagle.
“Get up,” the white woman said. “Everything will be all right.”
Buakane got up. But first she rolled free of the white woman’s hands so that she stood beyond her reach.
It was Buakane’s cowardice that was to blame for everything that had gone wrong. If she had submitted to her father’s will and gone through with the marriage, there would have been no hyena attack. No gaping wound. No promise of knowledge, no hint of meanings attached to secret symbols in things called books, and then to have these promises snatched away.
If Buakane had not acted like such a quivering child, the white mamu’s life would not be in danger. The only way to save the innocent—yet stupid—creature was for Buakane to return to her village posthaste and to prostrate herself at the feet of her husband, her master, Chief Eagle. But only a real fool, or perhaps someone not right in the head, might consider that Buakane actually had a choice.
The time for choices had passed. Perhaps at one point her freedom could have been purchased by Mushihi Station—at a great price, to be sure. However, when the white mamu declared that she would rather lie with a male dog than with one of the highest-ranking chiefs in the entire Bashilele tribe—well, an insult of this magnitude could be avenged only with goats and pigs and flocks of chickens. Perhaps even more of the same for many years.
Buakane glanced around and saw that the other girls were still inside the school building, their eyes wide with fear. For once they were silent. There was no sign of Monsieur François, the Muluba teacher. Buakane dipped her head in farewell to the white woman before speaking.
“Mamu, we laugh and we cry, for the healing help on my leg, and the food I ate, and places where I slept. However, the time has come for me to return to my responsibilities. Stay well.” She turned and commenced limping away in the same direction that she’d seen Chief Eagle leave.
“Stop!” The white woman’s voice rang out sharply.
Buakane eventually stopped, but only when the white woman, who had the use of two healthy legs, ran ahead of her and got in her way.
“Think of the other girls,” the mamu said. “They were very brave to seek sanctuary here, but if they see you give in to the chief ’s demands, they could lose courage. Buakane, please think for a moment about what would happen to them if they returned.”
“Aiyee, Mamu, did you not understand my husband’s words? He will kill you if you do not return me to him.”
The white woman shook her head. This set her long hair into motion of the most bewitching kind. Adding to the bizarreness of her appearance was the color of that hair: mukunze, which in this case was somewhere between that of dried elephant grass and gourd blossoms.
“Buakane, listen to me,” the mamu said. “He cannot kill me until after independence day. That is still a long way off. Because if he did, the Belgians would send soldiers into the village and—and—I do not know the word in Tshiluba. But the soldiers would take him away, and he would never be chief again.”
“Truly?”
“I speak only words of truth.”
“E, but even so,” Buakane said, “you know nothing of Chief Eagle and his ways.”
“I have met Chief Eagle, and I have looked into his eyes. Tell me, child, have you looked into a Belgian official’s eyes?”
Child? Buakane felt like she’d been punched in the soft spot behind both knees. Instead of making her angry, as it should have, being called a child made her feel like a child. Suddenly her resolve was gone, and she felt helpless and confused.
“Tch,” Buakane said. “I will return so as to be a good example to the other girls.”
“We laugh and we cry,” said the white woman.