The Witch Doctor's Wife

T
his book is for Kabemba and Mishumbi, wherever they are. They were Bashilele tribesmen, brothers born of “sister wives,” and students at my parents’ mission school. My parents hired them to protect me from snakes, and other dangers, whenever I “explored” the pristine forest deep within the canyon in front of our house. Kabemba and Mishumbi became more than my bodyguards; they became my friends. They taught me many Bashilele customs, entertained me with Bashilele folktales, and how to survive in the wilderness: which of the jungle leaves were edible, how to make snares to catch small animals, how to trap birds, and even how to make a simple shelter.

Many years later, during a tribal war, my parents came to my bedroom one night and my father said, “I think that Mommy and I might be killed tonight. But there is a secret alcove up there”—he pointed above the door—“which will fit you. If we are attacked, you climb in there, and we’ll push boxes in after you to hide you. If you survive, follow the Kasai River all the way down to Angola.”

Although our neighbors were burned out of their house that night, for some reason we were not attacked. But had we been, and had I survived long enough to reach the forest, I could have used the skills that Mishumbi and Kabemba taught me. I will never forget them.

PROLOGUE

T
he dominant female danced along the edge of the manioc field, impatiently awaiting the arrival of her pack. Her sudden appearance had scared away the jackals whose yips had filled the air since sunset. Although her jaws could crush the bones of a buffalo, she dared not attack an adult human by herself. Something in her primitive brain told her that a human, although unarmed by fangs or claws, was a beast to be feared. A tasty beast, nonetheless.

In only a day or two the female would give birth to her second litter. Already she’d co-opted the burrow of an aardvark in which to have her cubs. But for now, despite her distended belly and swollen teats, she was ravenous. If her pack did not arrive soon, she would have no choice but to move on, in search of some less dangerous prey.

The human was aware of the hyena’s presence; the disappearance of the jackals had been the clue. At first the human thought a leopard was responsible for the silence. But then the hyena, apparently unable to restrain her excitement, burst into the hideous laughter that characterized her species.

The human dug faster, strong fingers raking the damp soil. A leopard might have been scared off by a show of strength—false
bravado in this case—but a pack of spotted hyenas would tear a person limb from limb, and then laugh about it afterward. The human knew that the pack would announce itself by whooping, from perhaps a kilometer away, and when it did, a life-or-death decision must be made.

But just as the first faint sound of the advancing pack reached the human’s ears, digging fingers touched something cool and hard. A moment later the priceless object glinted in the light of the rising moon.

CHAPTER ONE

The Belgian Congo was the name applied to a vast area of Central Africa between the years 1908 and 1960, when it was a colony of Belgium. Later the name was changed to Zaire, and eventually to Congo. Approximately eighty times the size of Belgium, this former colony covers as much territory as the eastern third of the United States. The land stretches from a narrow outlet along the Atlantic Ocean in the east to snow-covered peaks bordering the Western Rift Valley. The interior portion forms a shallow bowl that contains one of the world’s largest tropical rain forests.

I
t’s nothing to worry about,” the stewardess said, but her eyes told another story. She groped for the jump seat. “The captain has it all under control.”

The passenger in 3B knew the truth. She’d seen the left propeller chop through the branches of a eucalyptus tree like a butcher knife through lettuce. She’d watched, unbelieving, as the engine seized and the blade quit turning.

And now a second jolt, not much harder than one might expect from a roller coaster. But this one from the belly of the plane. Maybe the landing gear. Maybe not.

What was that streaming behind the wounded wing? The
stewardess saw it too. She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross.

The large man seated at the rear began shouting the rosary. A child cursed: vile, sexual language it had no business knowing. Or perhaps that was the woman directly behind her. Someone was crying. Possibly more than one. The rank smell of urine filled the air.

The passenger in 3B couldn’t tear her gaze from the window. Was that patch of dirt the landing strip? It couldn’t be. It was way too short—and there were pigs on it. Pigs!

Now a jeep. Out of nowhere. The driver was firing a gun with one hand. At the plane? At the pigs? It was too late. There was nothing to do but watch yourself die.

Only at the impact did the passenger in 3B look away, and then involuntarily, as her head slammed into the seat in front of her.

The plane roared over the village for a second time, its left wing slicing the top off a eucalyptus tree. Children screamed, goats bleated, and chickens scattered in all directions like feathers in a whirlwind, yet the witch doctor and his two wives barely gave the aircraft a second glance.

“And now they cut our trees. When will the Belgians tire of scaring us?” First Wife said, and returned to the book she was reading.

Second Wife grunted. After a full day’s work in the field, she’d managed to prepare the evening meal single-handedly, despite having a toddler clinging to her wrap cloth and a baby strapped to her back. Who had time to be afraid?

Husband, who’d been relaxing in the family’s only chair, a sling-back covered with rattan, sat up wearily. “They will never stop. Only when we get our independence, when we fly our own planes, will this foolish behavior end.”

The engine noise abated. The plane was finally headed for the dirt landing strip across the river. This was the third day that the pilot had circled the village, and it was common knowledge that the harassment was a warning to the people of the village that they must not revolt like the people up north. There would be grave consequences if they did.

Second Wife clapped her hands and called the children—her children—to supper. Tonight they would get a special treat. In addition to the mush, cassava greens, and palm-oil gravy, there were grubs. Wonderful, fat, juicy grubs. Second Wife had taken special care to cook them just the way Husband preferred: fried crisp on the outside, but not cooked so long that they lost their creamy inner texture.

First Wife had purchased the grubs that morning in the market from a woodcutter, who’d found them in a rotten log, deep in the forest. Good for First Wife. It was good that she did something worthwhile with her time. Perhaps one day—

Second Wife’s hands flew to her mouth. The ground was shaking as it had once during an earthquake.

Husband swung to his feet. “Second Wife, what is it?”

“Husband, do you not feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“The earth moves.”

“I feel nothing,” First Wife said, but she rose slowly from the stool and laid her book on it.

“There,” said Second Wife. “And there.”

Husband’s brow wrinkled. “I too feel nothing,” he said, but his words were drowned out by the explosion.