The Witch Doctor's Wife (22 page)

P
risoners in the Belle Vue jail were responsible for securing their own food. Between Amanda Brown and Cripple’s family, Belle Vue’s only prisoner was well cared for. Even Protruding Navel brought a handful of overripe bananas and a not quite ripe pineapple.

On Cripple’s third day in jail, Captain Jardin brought her a plate of chicken cooked in palm-oil gravy, dense manioc mush—known as
bidia
—and tender manioc leaves flavored with tiny green chili peppers. He had with him an identical plate for himself, and protruding from the pockets of his baggy khaki shorts were the glass necks of two beer bottles. He set the comestibles on the stump of a large tree trunk while he fetched a pair of canvas folding chairs.

“
Baba
, it is time to eat,” he called in his unaccented Tshiluba.

Cripple, who’d been watching him, pretended to blink as she appeared in the doorway of her miniscule cell. “I have no money for this food.”

“No money is needed. His Majesty, King Baudouin of Belgium, is paying for it.”

“The king?”

“In a matter of speaking. Now sit. And here is a beer.”

Cripple had never seen beer in a bottle. A fair amount of palm wine was consumed by the village men, but they drank it warm from battered enamel cups, or from small hollow gourds. Certainly she had never seen anyone drink from a bottle.

“I do not know if I can drink this beer,” she said.

“Why is that?”

“There is such a small hole on the bottle, and I have a large mouth.”

The Captain smiled. “Here, watch.” He put the bottle to his lips and tilted his head slightly. Cripple could see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

Cripple picked up her bottle and reluctantly put it to her lips. The liquid was bitter and reminiscent of urine. Still, it was purported to make men happy, so Cripple was determined to have the experience.

Getting liquid from the small hole was not the challenge; the challenge was preventing the beer from escaping around the sides of one’s mouth. But after a half dozen sips, some of which dribbled down her chin, she caught on, and by then the taste seemed to have improved.

“Now let us eat,” the Captain said, “before the flies get it all.” He tore off a chunk of
bidia
and using his thumb and forefinger shaped it into a scoop, which he then filled with a bit of chicken, greens, and the palm-oil gravy.

Cripple watched in amazement. She’d always believed that white people ate only with knives and forks, and sometimes spoons. She, however, had never owned a fork, much less used one. As for spoons, her family owned two, but they were large and used only to stir with while cooking.

“Where did you learn to eat our way?” she demanded.

“From my
baba
, and others who worked in the house. Do you disapprove?”

Cripple laughed. “Why would I disapprove? How you eat interests me, but only that. It is not up to me to judge.”

“What a nicer place this world would be, if there were more people like you.”

“Ha! I am a very wicked woman.”

“If you say so.”

“But I am! Did I not kill a man?”

“I am not so sure.”

“Truly, I did. There were a thousand witnesses.”

“
Baba
, unfortunately that is the case. I am afraid I have some very bad news.”

Cripple’s heart raced. “Eh?”

“I was hoping to keep this case at the local level, but because there were so many witnesses—white witnesses, who are demanding answers—and because it is common knowledge that you have confessed, the Provincial Governor is coming from Luluaburg to rule on your case.”

Cripple trembled. The rational side of her knew that this had always been a possibility, but still she felt unprepared to receive this news.

“When will he come?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Aiyee!”

“
Baba
, there is still one question you refuse to answer. And it
is a question the Provincial Governor will ask you. If you don’t answer, then you stand no chance of leniency. None at all. The consequences could be very grave.”

She didn’t hesitate. “How grave?”

The Captain looked away from her face. “Perhaps twenty years in prison. Perhaps even more. And the whip.”

The
whip
. That needed no further explanation. Everyone in the Congo knew about the whip, that two-inch-thick strip of hippopotamus hide that could peel the skin off a man’s back, just as surely as a knife could peel a ripe mango. But to Cripple’s knowledge, the whip was used only on men, never on women.

“Truly?”

“Truly, truly. This Provincial Governor is new, and full of new ideas.” He lowered his voice, although there was no one else around. “And not such good ideas either. He believes that those who agitate for an independent Congo can be brutalized into backing down. He has stated openly that in his opinion the former Governor was too lax. He feels that this is his opportunity—God given at that—to teach by example. In this case, the whip. And it is to be used not only on political dissidents, but anyone who breaks the law. Did you not hear about the woman who stole a can of sardines from the Portuguese store outside Brabanta? She did this to feed her children.”

“No, I did not hear.”

“Probably because she was Bajembe. She was given ten lashes. Unfortunately, she died shortly afterward.”

Cripple moaned softly, which was an appropriate thing to do when one heard of death. This moan, however, was for herself. What had she gotten herself into? It had gone on far too long, with far too many logical details, to be a dream. But if it were a dream, at some point, just before she woke up, Husband would tell Second Wife he wanted to divorce her.

“So
baba
, do you now have an answer for me? What was your motive for disabling Senhor Nunez’s truck?”

This was a question Cripple had thought about constantly since the morning she’d confessed to killing the Portuguese storekeeper. There had always only been one answer, but it was one that she was ashamed to say. Now things had progressed to the point that shame no longer mattered.

“I killed Senhor Nunez because he was a white man.” There, it was out!

The Captain gasped. “
Baba
, this is not a time for jokes.”

“I am an evil woman, Captain, but I am not stupid. I would not joke at a time like this.”

“But still, you cannot mean this. What did Senhor Nunez ever do to you?”

“Perhaps, as an individual man, the senhor did nothing to harm me. But the whites have brought unspeakable suffering to the Congo. First, there were the Arab slavers, themselves light-skinned, who sold my people to be slaves to the white men of America, then King Leopold—”

“Enough! I know the history of the Congo, and yes, it is ugly. But
baba
, do you want me dead as well? Do I not speak your language? I love this country; this is where I was born.”

Cripple could not look into the eyes of the man she’d just condemned. She could no longer eat the meal he’d prepared. If only he would kick her and call her a macaque, a monkey, that perennially favorite word of Belgian racists. One could be strong in the face of brutality, but the face of kindness wore resolve away just as surely as hot coffee poured over a lump of sugar dissolved it.

“I must go in now,” she said and stood. “I do not feel well.”

“Baba, please.”

Cripple hurried away as fast as her twisted legs could carry her.

How can just six questions be called a trial? For Captain Jardin, who stood at Cripple’s side, the procedure was surreal. The script could have been written by children, the judgment handed down by a punitive eight-year-old.

“Are you the woman referred to as Cripple?”

“
Oui
.”

“Are you responsible for the death of a Monsieur Cezar Nunez, a Portuguese national?”

“No. I am, however, responsible for the death of a Senhor Cezar Nunez.”

The Provincial Governor reared back like a startled horse. “
What?
Is this a laughing matter to you?”

“No, monsieur.”

“You are charged with tampering with the brakes and disengaging the steering column of his truck. Did you do this?”

“
Oui
.”

“Why?”

“Because I had the opportunity, and because he was white.”

The governor’s secretary gasped. A stooped African man with thin shoulders that almost touched and horn-rimmed glasses without lenses, he was the only other person in the room. The governor glared first at him, then at Cripple.

“Madame Cripple, are you saying that you wish to kill all white men?”

“Oui.”

“I’ve heard enough. Through the power vested in me, the Provincial Governor, by His Majesty’s Colonial Government, I convict this woman, Cripple, of the death of Monsieur Cezar Nunez. She will be punished tomorrow by hanging from the neck until dead. Court is adjourned.”

B
ranca told Amanda that for the near future she was going to stay with her husband’s relatives in Angola. That made sense. As far as Amanda knew, none of the other Europeans in Belle Vue came to call on the widow, to bring her casseroles along with their condolences.

How strange it must be to have a death, but no body. There had been eleven bodies the night Amanda sneaked out of the house and joined her friends on their midnight quest to buy beer in Gaffney. Three of the bodies were in the same car as Amanda. One of them, Beverly Shiker, had been her friend since the first day of kindergarten…

“Mamu Ugly Eyes!”

Amanda jumped. She’d been standing in front of the sitting-room window, staring at the falls, but not seeing it. Couldn’t Protruding Navel tell that she wasn’t in the mood to be bothered?

“What is it?” she snapped.

“It is about Cripple,
mamu
.”

“Why can’t you leave her alone? She’s in prison, for heaven’s sake.” Alas, the idiom did not translate well into Tshiluba. The words for “heaven” and “nose” could only be distinguished from each other by one very tricky diphthong. Amanda could never remember which was which.

She must have gotten it right, because Protruding Navel didn’t even smirk. “
Mamu
, she is to die tomorrow.”

“What a horrid thing to say!”

“But it is true,
mamu
. Do you not hear the drums?”

“Drums?”

“Come,
mamu
.” Protruding Navel reached as if to grab her arm, but then just as quickly dropped his hand to his side. “We must go up to the road. You will hear better there.”

Amanda felt strangely compelled to follow the irritating little man. As soon as she stepped outdoors she knew that something unusual was going on; the foot traffic in the road had stopped moving, with everyone turned to face the village. Ah yes, now she heard the drums over the roar of the falls.

“What do they say?”

“They say that the Provincial Governor has sentenced Cripple to die tomorrow. She will be hanged.”

“But this—this—are you
sure?
”

“Very sure,
mamu
.”

Amanda listened for a moment. When she’d first heard drums, she’d found the sound thrilling. It was like living in a
Tarzan movie. But now the sound was ominous. No, more than that.
D-i-e, d-i-e—die, die, die. D-i-e, d-i-e—dead, dead, dead
.

“Protruding Navel, do they say anything else?”

He hesitated, momentarily scanning the ground. “Yes,
mamu
, but it is not something you should hear.”

“Nevertheless, tell me!”

“No.”

“I order you to!”

“Aiyee,
mamu
, that is something the Belgians say. I thought you Americans were different.”

“We are! I assure you. It slipped out because I’m desperate to know more. I am so sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.”

He grunted, which was as much forgiveness as Amanda expected. “The drums say that workers are needed immediately to build the scaffold.”

“The what?” It was a Tshiluba word that Amanda had not been taught in language school.

“It is a small tower from which one is hanged. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “Where will it be built?”

“The airport. They must have an open place for the many people who will come to see.”

“Which people?”

“Everyone, of course.”

“But that can’t be! This isn’t entertainment.”

“Ah, Mamu Ugly Eyes, have you never been to a public execution?”

“Of course not!” Amanda was shocked by the question. Americans had moved far beyond such primitive and grotesque pleasures. Even lynchings—her father had witnessed one—were a thing of the past.

The drumming stopped abruptly and the people who had
stood transfixed by the message, as if frozen in place, began to move again. But now the majority of the men were crossing over to the white side of the river.

Protruding Navel seemed to read her mind. “They must hurry if they wish to get work building the scaffold.”

“There isn’t going to be an execution,” Amanda said, and joined the throng headed to the Belgian side of the river.

Their Death had not worked since the beginning of Cripple’s incarceration. Although he reported to work every day, the post office was closed, and the tool shed locked. Twice, Their Death had summoned the courage to inquire at M. Dupree’s house, but both times the servants had been rude, sending him away with shouted insults. “Village monkey! Killer’s husband. See what trouble you make for us, the
évolué?
”

When Their Death was not visiting Cripple, he was in the family compound caring for the children. A man not employed might watch out for his children and still maintain his dignity. But were a man to help with female chores, such as pounding the manioc with a pestle, or pounding the clothes with rocks at the water’s edge, such a man was no longer even a man. From time to time such people were born, but they were mocked and ridiculed, and if they persisted in this behavior, they were then forever treated as women. Eventually the ridiculing would subside, but there was no going back. A real man might even have sex with one of these people, just as long as he remembered who played the role of the husband.

So it was that while Second Wife repeatedly lifted the heavy pestle and brought it down with bone-jarring thuds, Their Death pretended to dose in a sling-back raffia-covered chair. He’d built it himself from a sketch; he’d seen the original chair on a European’s porch. The children, all of them laughing (except for Baby Boy, who really was asleep on his father’s stomach) played at waking their father with turkey feathers.

Then the drums began to talk. At first they spoke in vague terms about an impending disaster. Their Death sat up, pushing all the children away, except for Baby Boy. Second Wife laid her pestle across the top of the mortar. The older children cocked their heads in the direction of the drums, although they had yet to learn how to interpret the sounds.

As the drumming continued, the varied tones, the pauses, it all added up to one horrifying message:
The woman known as Cripple, the First Wife of Their Death, is going to be hung on the morrow. Who wants to help build the scaffold? The pay is fifty francs for a day’s work
.

Second Wife was the first to react. She screamed and threw herself on the ground, where she rolled in the dust, as befits a good woman upon hearing of the death of a loved one. Almost immediately the girl children followed suit, their high-pitched shrieks proclaiming their love for their Second Mother. Baby Boy, frightened by the commotion, peed on his father.

“Aiyee, aiyee!” Their Death moaned and pounded on the sides of his head with balled fists. He had failed to see this coming. Captain Jardin had all but assured him that the ridiculous charge of murder would be dropped. Cripple was obviously not herself. How could a crazy woman be punished for a crime she didn’t commit?

There were others who shared the family’s shock and impending loss. Taking their cue from Second Wife and her daughters, the women of the village joined in the public grieving. Their cries of anguish spread throughout the village like an August fire leaps across the savanna. The basenji dogs, the breed that cannot bark, threw back their heads and howled.

But while the women keened and mourned, the men dropped what they were doing and ran down the hill toward the town. Death was inevitable, but the opportunity to earn fifty francs seldom presented itself.