The Witch Doctor's Wife (24 page)

C
ripple marveled at the height of her gallows. After all, they
were
her gallows, were they not? She would always be the first to have been hanged from them, although probably not the last. Not with more and more people agitating for independence.

At any rate, they were the tallest manmade structure she had ever seen, taller even than the spire atop the Roman Catholic church. Then again, Belle Vue was a city of one-story dwellings. Cripple had learned, while listening to her brother’s lessons, that in both Europe and America there were buildings that rose up to meet the clouds. There was even a statue somewhere taller than the gallows, although it was almost impossible to imagine such a thing.

Cripple was suddenly aware that the crowd of thousands had fallen silent, except for the unavoidable coughing from tubercular patients scattered here and there, and the cries of babies and small children. The silence was more unnerving than the babble of excited onlookers, but it was only temporary.

“Can you climb the steps?” a young African in a policeman’s
uniform asked. He was sweating profusely, despite the coolness of the morning.

“I can climb.”

“Are you sure,
baba
? Others have asked to be carried.”

“I am not a sack of corn.”

“
Eyo
. Indeed you are not.”

Still it was not an easy climb, if only because Cripple had never been so high before. The ground beneath her grew blurry, the people as small as rats. It was so quiet, Cripple could hear sparrows chirping.

She clung to the railing and glanced up. A pair of sparrows, male and female, were perched on the overhead beam, the one from which the rope hung. They cocked their heads when they saw Cripple looking up, but didn’t fly away.

It is a sign, Cripple thought. There are two sparrows, not three. Soon they will have a nest together, then chicks, and that is the way it should be. From them will descend an unbroken line of sparrows and that is how the future proceeds—not from days or hours passed, but from one generation replacing another. It is right that our children remain with their mother of birth, and that Husband grows old with the woman from whose womb the next generation had already emerged.

“Step this way,” a man barked.

Cripple was startled to see that there were two people on the platform with her: an
évolué
in a policeman’s uniform, and a white priest.

For the first time that she could remember, Cripple felt crippled. She was unable to move. Even her good leg would not cooperate.

“Come here now!”

“Give her a minute,” the priest said sharply in French. He stepped forward, and after positioning his hands beneath Cripple’s armpits, lifted her into the air as easily as if she were a bundle
of corn husks. He set her carefully down on what Cripple instinctively knew was the trapdoor.

“Thank you, Father.”

“My child, do you wish to make a confession?”

“I am not a Christian.”

“A Protestant then? I am prepared to make exceptions at a time like this.”

“No.”

“Ah, a Muslim.”

“Nor that either; I practice the traditional ways.”

The priest clucked softly to himself, shaking his head and waving his hands, as if engaged in an argument with a person, or persons, unseen. He took so long, in fact, that an authoritative voice from the stands called out for him to get on with it. Cripple recognized the speaker as the Provincial Governor, the man who had sentenced her to die.

The priest grabbed Cripple’s hands and stared earnestly into her eyes. “My superior does not approve of last-minute conversions, but as it just so happens, I have a vial of holy water with me, and I will baptize you, if you’re willing to renounce Satan and—”

“I renounce nothing, Father.”

He squeezed her hands before letting go. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

“And on yours as well.”

“
Touché
.”

As the priest backed down the ladder, the Provincial Governor rose from his seat. An aide handed him a bullhorn.

“Ladies, gentleman, and of course, Congolese—especially Congolese—what you are about to witness is Belgian justice in the making. His Majesty’s Colonial Government will not tolerate murder in the name of nationalism. We will not allow cold-blooded killers—be they male or female—to go unpunished.
And, as you are about to see, the punishment will fit the crime. Let this be a lesson then, to anyone who contemplates violence against the crown, its representatives here in the colony, and its European residents.”

The governor waited while a smattering of applause trickled through the grandstand. Meanwhile the Congolese stared in shocked silence, or so it seemed to Amanda. Even the small babies were quiet for a change.

“Now!” Police Captain Pierre Jardin whispered.

Amanda rose, her legs shaking, her throat suddenly parched. Nonetheless, she was able to call out in a loud, clear voice.

“The accused is innocent!”

The Provincial Governor whirled. “
What?
”

Emboldened by his flashing eyes and haughty demeanor, Amanda cupped her hands to her mouth. “The woman known as Cripple is innocent. She did not kill Senhor Cesar Nunez. It was
I
who killed the Portuguese shopkeeper. I did it because he forced himself on me. But I didn’t do it intentionally—that would have been a sin. I tampered with his brakes. I only meant to scare him. At any rate, as I am an American, you cannot hang me without due legal process.”

The crowd roared with excitement. The Provincial Governor tried in vain to recapture their attention with the megaphone, but in the end was forced to ask one of his soldiers to fire his rifle into the air. The poor African hesitated, no doubt anticipating that there would be a stampede. Thank God for his hesitation.

One should also be grateful for the fact that the handsome Captain Pierre Jardin was a quick thinker. He snatched the megaphone from the governor and, after several attempts, was finally able to get everyone’s attention.

“The American woman lies.
I
am the guilty party. I killed Senhor Nunez because, as you just heard, of what he did to the woman that I plan to marry.”

A young Belgian matron sitting behind the police captain jumped to her feet. She too had the element of surprise and was able to grab the bullhorn away from the captain.

“Governor, I beg you not to listen to either of these imbeciles. They are both liars. It is I, and I alone, who am responsible for the death of Senhor Nunez. The man was a swindler. A robber. He sold us garbage and charged us a fortune for it, all the while pocketing the profits, instead of handing them over to the Consortium. I got tired of his price gouging, so I poisoned him by serving him his own tainted food—”

The megaphone was ripped from her hands. “Your Excellency,” panted a stout man in a pith helmet, “these people are all to be despised for the mockery they make of our noble legal system. They claim to be guilty of a crime they have not committed, and to what end? To put on a show? I beg you, sir, charge them all with obstructing justice, for they are nothing but liars and miscreants. It is I, Jean Luc D’Estoilles, who murdered the unfortunate son of the Iberian Peninsula.”

Madame Gestang, said to be the oldest white woman in the Congo, thrashed the air with her ivory-tipped cane. “Shut up, you fat moron! I killed the Portuguese swindler.”

“No, I did,” someone else yelled.

“Not so. It was I!”

“No, I!”

Amanda listened, dumfounded, as the admissions of guilt seemed to ricochet around the grandstand, growing louder with each new voice. Then, like a lightning bolt seeking a new target, the plot to save Cripple leaped from the grandstand and into the vast crowd of Africans. The first native voice was tentative, but it was immediately succeeded by a stronger cry, and then another, and then another, until within seconds, thousands of people, in dozens of tongues, shouted their bogus confessions. Their voices combined to form an entity with a life of its own, a beast whose
cry of anguish grew louder and louder, until it was eventually heard in the halls of Parliament, back in Brussels.

The Provincial Governor reddened, and then grew pale. But it was only after the people began to stamp their feet in unison that he leaned close to his aide. After a brief consultation, the aide beckoned the priest to approach. A longer conversation ensued. When it was over, the Governor departed hastily, followed closely by his aide and a half dozen Belgians, none of whom had helped to save Cripple.

When the priest began to climb the scaffold a second time, a hush fell across the multitude. Amanda watched, hardly able to breathe, as the priest walked in slow motion across the platform to confer with the executioner. It was a brief conversation that lasted a lifetime. Cripple, meanwhile, stood erect and motionless, the loose end of her wraparound skirt rippling in the breeze, like a partially unfurled banner. From that great a distance Amanda was unable to see the expression on her face, but she imagined it to be one of controlled relief. Finally the executioner addressed the remaining Belgians.

“The charges against this woman have been dropped,” he said. He turned to the African audience, cupping his hands to his mouth. “She is free!”

At once a mighty cheer went up, and a thousand hands were raised in the victory sign made famous by Sir Winston Churchill. Then somewhere, someone started chanting. Amanda heard it first as a murmur, and then as a single voice that grew louder and louder until it was a roar.

“Independence, independence, independence!”

Amanda, self-confessed political novice that she was, thought she would burst with joy. And pride. Captain Jardin had promised her it would work, and it had! But not only that, the very capable Cripple had gone from death’s door—literally—to suddenly becoming an icon of freedom.

“Isn’t it wonderful,” she shouted into her handsome companion’s ear.

He pressed his head against hers. “Not really.”

“What?”

“It means your days here are—how do I say this in English—finite?”

“Numbered?”

“Exactly. When independence comes, we’ll all get booted out. Even you American missionaries.”

“Is that really so bad? I mean, there are many Congolese quite capable of spreading God’s word—”

“This is my home. What will become of people like me?”

At a loss for an answer, Amanda again did what any well brought up lady would do; she changed the subject. “Just so you know, I’m not going to hold you to your promise.”

“What promise?”

His answer had to wait. The executioner had slung Cripple over his shoulder, as if she were as light as a sack of dried caterpillars, and was climbing down the ladder. The multitude held its collective breath for this, but when the pair was safely down, the natives rushed forward, breaking through the bamboo barrier that had been constructed to keep them back. Their Death was in front of the mob, and he lovingly hoisted Cripple up to his shoulders.

The chanting resumed immediately, and some people began to clap. Soon everyone was clapping. Their Death began to dance, and the crowd danced too. Then, like a modern Moses, Their Death began to lead the vast throng out of the airport, down along the main road that bisected Belle Vue, and across the mighty Kasai River.

Amanda watched, fascinated, as the thousands of people assembled, representing a dozen or so disparate tribes, danced in perfect unison. It was like watching a Conga line fifty people wide and a mile long. Nothing she’d ever seen back home com
pared with this, not even when Rock Hill High School won the state football championship for the second year in a row.

Whether or not the other whites were equally as mesmerized, they remained seated in the grandstand until the procession was well enough on its way that the dust began to settle. Even then they took their time, conversing in small clumps, their urgent tones betraying just how nervous they’d suddenly become.

Amanda tried to tune the others out. “Of marriage.”

“Excusez mois?”

“You said I was the woman you planned to marry. I know you were just saying that to make a point, in order to save Cripple’s life.” She felt herself flush with embarrassment. How stupid of her to have even brought it up.

“You are correct, Mademoiselle Brown; I was making a point. I cannot marry a woman I hardly know”—he smiled—“
but
I would very much like to get to know this woman. The sooner, the better.”

“Mamu Ugly Eyes, there are people here to see you.”

“Who?”

“A village urchin accompanied by its mother. People of no consequence. Shall I send them away?”

“Listen to me, Protruding Navel. There is no such thing as a person of no consequence. Now let these people in.”

“Into the house?
Mamu
, this is simply not done. Only an
évolué
may enter a white man’s house.”

“Yes, but I am a white
woman
. Now show them in.”

But when she saw how frightened the African woman was, Amanda immediately regretted her hasty decision to fly in the face of colonial etiquette. The child, however, was as curious as a kitten; his large dark eyes seemed to be taking in everything.

“
Muoyo, baba
,” Amanda said, and followed the greeting with what was meant to be a reassuring smile.

“Muoyo, mamu.”

“
Muoyo, muana
,” Amanda said to the boy, although he was obviously too young to talk.

The African woman stared at her feet. “
Mamu
, I am the second wife of Their Death, the great witch doctor of the Baluba people. I am also the sister wife of Cripple.”

“Yes, of course! Welcome. Is Cripple all right?”

“
Mamu
, there is no need to concern yourself with Cripple. She is fine. Already she has begun to resume her old ways. ‘Sister Wife,’ she says, ‘I am thirsty. Bring me some water.’ Never mind that the water gourd is but an arm’s reach from where she sits. ‘Sister Wife, you need to put more chilies in the meat pot. Sister Wife, next time you wash clothes, do a better job of removing the stains on my new wraparound.
Mamu
will beat me if she were to see me wearing this.’”