The Headhunter's Daughter (23 page)

At any rate, the site for my fictional town of Belle Vue was the real city of Tshikapa. It was, and still is, famous for its diamonds. After independence the Belgians fled, leaving a ghost town of sprawling villas on the hills above the Kasai and Tshikapa Rivers. We leased one of these villas. At that time the Baluba tribe was predominately situated on one side of the Kasai River, and Lulua tribe on the other—well, that is they were so after a refugee exchange. Then machine-gun fortifications were installed along the hilltop above our villa and across the river at a lower elevation.

The gunners were aiming at each other, not us, but unfortunately our house got right in the way. When shooting commenced we had to crawl around on our hands and knees. Then one night my parents came into my bedroom with news that the opposing tribe was expected to breach defenses and make it across the bridge that night. As we were ensconced with the enemy—well, let’s just say that my mansion in the sky was dusting off its welcome mat again.

“But,” Daddy said, “there’s that nook there above your bedroom door, where we store the suitcases. Stay in your room, and don’t come out, no matter what you hear. Just climb into that nook and pull that big suitcase in front of you. Your mommy and I might be killed, but if you survive maybe you can slip down to the river unseen. Just follow the river south. Then keep going until you reach Angola.”

D.A.: And?

Author: Well, obviously I survived.

D.A.: Yes, but did they—I mean, what happened that night?
Don’t leave us hanging!

Author: I honestly can’t remember the rest of the night. We weren’t attacked; I know that much. But later our African neighbors were—they at least had their car burned in their driveway. Then I never saw them again. I have a lot of memory gaps of that period. Forty-six years later I still listen for the sound of footsteps under my window; I listen for men coming to hack me into pieces with machetes.

D.A.: Now you’ve done it again; you’ve forced me to change subjects.
You haven’t talked much about animals.
Did you have many animal experiences?

Author: Not really. My part of Africa was a mixture of savannah and forest, situated along the southern edge of the Congo rainforest. It was forests in the valleys where there were streams, and tall grass on the hills and plains. There were no open grazing lands capable of supporting large herds like in East Africa. Most of the animals I saw were either on my dinner plate or staring into the headlights of our panel truck at night.

One night my uncle (a mere lad in his twenties and fueled by testosterone) purposely ran over a leopard in the road and then tossed it in the back of the truck where we three children were sitting. The leopard was dead, but every time we hit a bump its giant paw would jiggle, causing us to shriek in abject terror. My uncle was thoroughly amused. Oh, lest I forget, my father was bitten by a deadly green mamba—and yes, he survived.

D.A.:
Tamar, before we wrap this conversation up, is there anything else you’d like to share about the headhunters?
Did you get a chance to learn any of their customs?

Author: My father was a man of many interests, including anthropology. From the time he arrived in the Belgian Congo he began taking and keeping notes. He also wrote to his mother in the States on a regular basis. My grandmother saved the letters. When she died the letters were returned to my father and now I am their keeper. Most of my knowledge comes either directly from him or his writing. Very little of it is firsthand because I was a child at the time, and even though I had close
Mushilele
friends, topics I am about to discuss are not ones children normally talk about with their friends.

D.A.: Such as?
I mean, should we be warning sensitive readers that they may wish to set your book down at this point?

Author: Absolutely. If they have queasy stomachs or have trouble remembering that this was the situation in the first half of the twentieth century in traditional tribal culture of this
one
tribe, then they should stop reading now. By the way, I have no idea how things stand now. I’m not even going to guess.

D.A.: Okay then, I think that’s enough of a warning. What unusual custom pops into your mind first?

Author: Burial customs—actually, they involve burial except for one. And that’s polyandry. Did you know that the Bashilele are one of the few polyandrous societies in the world?

D.A.: Uh—no, because I don’t know what polyandry means.
Please explain.

Author: Polyandry is when a woman has more than one husband.

D.A.: Ouch!

Author: My thoughts exactly. But it can be to her advantage. With multiple husbands she and her children are ensured of being supplied with food and shelter. And she gets to select the additional husbands—just not the first one; that’s her father’s choice.

D.A.: So how did this unusual custom come about?

Author: It’s a response to polygamy. When all the available young women are taken, what are the young men supposed to do? Sharing a wife keeps them from stealing another man’s wife or engaging in bloody battles for the right to breed. But when a young girl does come of age and can be purchased by one of the husbands in a polyandrous relationship, he may disengage from that relationship and start his own new family. It is really a rather clever social construct when you think about it.

D.A.: If you say so.
I’m afraid many readers with a traditional view of marriage are going to find the concept offensive.

Author: I only “report the news.” Besides, isn’t
our
system of marriage, divorce, and remarriage a form of
serial
polyandry?

D.A.: Now you’ve really gone too far.
Please, let’s move on to burial.

Author: (Sigh.) Let’s begin with an ordinary death. Let’s say Grandpa dies from choking on his manioc mush. Grandpa has grandchildren and other kinfolk in a number of scattered villages, and getting them all together for the funeral will take weeks, not days. Plus, food will need to be collected for the feasting and dancing that are part of the celebration. The total amount of time needed might be as much as three months. This is the tropics we are talking about, so what is the family supposed to do with Grandpa in the meantime?

Ah, the answer is simple. Every Mushilele hut contained a smoking rack, centered over the fire pit. As the family cooked their meals on rainy days, or warmed themselves on chilly nights, they would also be preserving fish, game, herbs, or whatever. Now it’s time to move over food and put up Grandpa. Keep the fire going. Of course Grandpa will be oozing juices and fat, which will drip down into the cooking pot. By the way, that is not cannibalism; it is simply passing Grandpa’s good qualities on to the next generation.

Hey, you haven’t started to judge, have you? Because I can say plenty about silk-lined, bronze caskets with puffy pillows in this country, while across from the cemetery children go to bed hungry.

D.A.: Truce, shall we
?

Author: Hmm. All right, but you won’t be happy because I’m going to talk about twins.

D.A.: Twins?

Author: Yes—and here is where sensitive readers
must
stop reading. What I’m about to say will be really hard for most Westerners to absorb.

D.A.: Proceed.
We’ve been sufficiently warned—I think
.

Author: You see, in many tribes in my area twins were considered taboo. After all, everyone knows that it is normal to have just one baby at a time. Therefore, when a second, or third, baby shows up, then the spirit world is obviously up to mischief. Unfortunately there is no way to tell which child is the authentic twin, and which one is really an evil spirit masquerading as a human twin. The solution then is to kill both babies, thus ensuring that the evil spirit can do the tribe no harm. This is done by shoving hot peppers up the babies’ nostrils and burying them alive in an ant hill. This is not to hurt the children, mind you, but to torment the evil spirit. The suffering baby is collateral damage. It sounds terrible, I know, but we “civilized” people have done things equally terrible, and on a much larger scale.

D.A.: Are you getting political here?
Because if you are, then this interview is over.
Besides, we no longer use napalm—that was the Vietnam War
.

Author: Good example, but relax. I’m just relating customs, and I only have one more. This one is about the chief and his wife. A Mushilele chief is quite often not a Mushilele by birth; he is usually a slave that was kidnapped or traded from another tribe. The reason for that was because when the tribe misbehaved—in the eyes of the Belgians, that is—it was often the chief who was punished instead of the entire tribe.

D.A.: Oh, I get it!
If a foreigner was chief, it really didn’t matter if he got punished.

Author: Exactly. But there were perks for being chief. You had real power, which led to riches, which led to lots of wives. And there were perks to being a chief’s wife, like having your own hut, and not having to sleep with the old coot that often. However, there was one very,
very
major downside to being a Mushilele queen.

D.A.: Uh-oh. I’m afraid to ask.
(Sigh.)
Bring it on.

Author: When the chief died, his wives—all of them, be it just one, or even thirty—had to accompany him,
live
, to the next world. As you can imagine, the royal women were not happy about being buried alive with their husband, so they had both arms and both legs broken so that they could not dig their way out of the communal grave.

D.A.: Stop! I can’t take any more of this—really.

Author: I understand. I did try to warn you, however. Maybe we can talk a little bit more when my next book comes out. I have a lot more I could talk about.

D.A.: Maybe.
What is the title of your next book in the series?

Author:
The Cannibal’s Confession.

About the Author

TAMAR MYERS
was born and raised in the Belgian Congo (now just the Congo). Her parents were missionaries to a tribe which, at that time, were known as headhunters and used human skulls for drinking cups. Hers was the first white family ever to peacefully coexist with the tribe.

Tamar grew up eating elephant, hippopotamus, and even monkey. She attended a boarding school that was two days away by truck, and sometimes it was necessary to wade through crocodile-infested waters to reach it. Other dangers she encountered as a child were cobras, deadly green mambas, and the voracious armies of driver ants that ate every animal (and human) that didn’t get out of their way.

Today Tamar lives in the Carolinas with her American-born husband. She is the author of thirty-six novels (most of which are mysteries), a number of published short stories, and hundreds of articles on gardening.

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