ThePoisonwood

Bible

BarbaraKingsolver

Contents:

Author’sNote

BookOne-GENESISBookTwo - THE

REVELATIONBookThree - THE

JUDGESBook Four - BEL AND

THESERPENTBookFive-EXODUSBookSix-SONGofTHE

THREECHILDRENBook Seven - THE EYES

INTHETREES

Author’sNote

THIS IS A WORK OFFICTION. Its principalcharactersarepureinventionswith no relations on thisearth, as far as I know. Butthe Congo in which I placedthem is genuine. Thehistorical figures and eventsdescribedhereareasrealasIcould render them with the

help of recorded history, inallitsfascinatingvariations.Because I wasn’t able to

enterZairewhile researchingandwritingthenovel,Ireliedon memory, travel in otherparts of Africa, and manypeople’s accounts of thenatural, cultural, and socialhistory of the Congo/Zaire.Such is the diversity andvalue of these sources— tome, and to any reader whomightwish to knowmore of

the facts underpinning thefiction—that I’ve citedmanyof them in a bibliography atthe end of the book. Mostprofoundly helpful amongthemwas Jonathan Kwitny’sdescription of Zaire’spostcolonial history, in hisexcellent book, EndlessEnemies,whichgaveshapetomy passion to write a novelon the same subject. Ireturned continually to thataccount for the big picture

andcountlesssmallinsights.Igleaned many kinds ofinstruction from JanheinzJahn’s classic text, Muntu;Chinua Achebe’s novel,Things Fall Apart; Man P.Merriam’s Congo:Background of Conflict; andLumumba: The Last FiftyDays by G. Heinz and H.Donnay. I couldn’t havewrittenthebookatallwithouttwo remarkable sources ofliterary inspiration,

approximately equal in size:K. E. Laman’s DictionnaireKikongo-Francais, and theKingJamesBible.I also relied on help from

my lively community offriends, some of whom mayhave feared they’d breathetheirlastbeforeIwasthroughputting new versions of amountainous manuscript infront of them. Steven Hopp,Emma Hardesty, FrancesGoldin,TerryKarten,Sydelle

Kramer,andLillianLentreadandcommentedinvaluablyonmanydrafts.EmmaHardestyworked miracles of collegialtact, friendship, andefficiency thatallowedme tospend my days as a writer.AnneMairsandEricPetersonhelped sort out details ofKikongo grammar andCongolese life. Jim Malusaand Sonya Norman providedinsights for the final draft.Kate Turkington cheered me

onfromSouthAfrica.MumiaAbu-Jamal read andcommentedonthemanuscriptfrom prison; I’m grateful forhisintelligenceandcourage.I thank Virginia and

Wendell Kingsolver,especially,forbeingdifferentineverywayfromtheparentsI created for the narrators ofthis tale. I was the fortunatechild of medical and public-health “workers, whosecompassion and curiosity led

them to the Congo. Theybrought me to a place ofwonders, taught me to payattention,andsetmeearlyonapathofexploring thegreat,shifting terrain betweenrighteousness and what’sright.I spent nearly thirty years

waiting for the wisdom andmaturity to write this book.That I’ve now written it isproof of neither of thosethings, but of the endless

encouragement,unconditional faith,insomnolent conversation,and piles of arcane referencebooks delivered always justin the nick of time by myextraordinary husband.Thanks, Steven, for teachingme it’s no use waiting forthings that only appear at adistance, and for believing aspirit of adventure willusuallysuffice.

BookOne

GENESIS

AndGodsaiduntothem,

Befruitful,andmultiply,andreplenishtheearth,and subdue it: and have

dominionoverthefishofthesea,and over the fowl of the

air,andovereverylivingthing

thatmovethupontheearth.

GENESIS1:28

Orleanna PriceSANDERLING ISLAND,GEORGIA

IMAGINE A RUIN sostrange it must never havehappened. First, picture theforest. I want you to be itsconscience, the eyes in thetrees. The trees are columnsof slick, brindled bark likemuscular animals overgrownbeyond all reason. Every

space is filled with life:delicate,poisonousfrogswar-painted like skeletons,clutched in copulation,secreting their precious eggsonto dripping leaves. Vinesstranglingtheirownkinintheeverlasting wrestle forsunlight. The breathing ofmonkeys. A glide of snakebellyonbranch.Asingle-filearmy of ants biting amammoth tree into uniformgrainsandhaulingitdownto

the dark for their ravenousqueen.And, in reply, a choirof seedlings arching theirnecks out of rotted treestumps, sucking life out ofdeath. This forest eats itselfandlivesforever.Away down below now,

singlefileonthepath,comesa woman with four girls intow, all of them in shirtwaistdresses.Seenfromabovethisway they are pale, doomedblossoms,bound toappeal to

your sympathies. Be careful.Lateronyou’llhavetodecidewhat sympathy they deserve.The mother especially—watchhowsheleadsthemon,pale-eyed, deliberate. Herdark hair is tied in a raggedlace handkerchief, and hercurved jawbone is lit withlarge, false-pearl earrings, asif these headlamps fromanotherworldmightshowtheway. The daughters marchbehind her, four girls

compressedinbodiesastightas bowstrings, each onetensed to fire off a woman’sheart on a different path toglory or damnation. Evennow they resist affinity likecats in a bag: two blondes—the one short and fierce, theother tall and imperious—flankedbymatchedbrunetteslike bookends, the forwardtwin leading hungrily whilethe rear one sweeps theground in a rhythmic limp.

But gamely enough theyclimb together over logs ofrank decay that have fallenacross the path. The motherwaves a graceful hand infront of her as she leads theway, parting curtain aftercurtainof spiders’webs.Sheappears to be conducting asymphony. Behind them thecurtain closes.The spidersreturntotheirkillingways.Atthestreambankshesets

out their drear picnic, which

is only dense, crumblingbread daubed with crushedpeanuts and slices of bitterplantain. After months ofmodest hunger the childrennowforgettocomplainaboutfood. Silently they swallow,shake off the crumbs, anddrift downstream for a swiminfasterwater.Themotherisleft alone in the cove ofenormoustreesattheedgeofa pool. This place is asfamiliartohernowasaliving

room in the house of a lifeshe never bargained for. Sherests uneasily in the silence,watching ants boil darklyover the crumbs of whatseemed, to begin with, animpossibly meager lunch.Always there is someonehungrier than her ownchildren. She tucks her dressunder her legs and inspectsher poor, featherless feet intheirgrassnestat thewater’sedge—twin birds helpless to

fly out of there, away fromthe disaster she knows iscoming. She could loseeverything:herself, orworse,her children. Worst of all:you, her only secret. Herfavorite.Howcouldamotherlivewithherselftoblame?She is inhumanly alone.

And then, all at once, sheisn’t. A beautiful animalstandsontheothersideofthewater. They look up fromtheir lives, woman and

animal, amazed to findthemselvesinthesameplace.He freezes, inspecting herwith his black-tipped ears.Hisbackispurplish-browninthe dim light, slopingdownward from the gentlehump of his shoulders. Theforest’s shadows fall intolines across his white-stripedflanks.Hisstiffforelegssplayouttothesideslikestilts,forhe’sbeencaughtintheactofreaching down for water.

Without takinghiseyes fromher,hetwitchesa littleat theknee, then the shoulder,where a fly devils him.Finally he surrenders hissurprise, looks away, anddrinks.Shecanfeelthetouchofhis long, curled tongueonthe water’s skin, as if hewere lapping from her hand.His head bobs gently,nodding small, velvet hornslit white from behind likenewleaves.

It lasted just a moment,whatever that is. One heldbreath?Anant’safternoon?Itwas brief, I can promise thatmuch, for although it’s beenmany years now since mychildren ruled my life, amotherrecallsthemeasureofthesilences.Ineverhadmorethan five minutes’ peaceunbroken. I was that womanonthestreambank,ofcourse.Orleanna Price, SouthernBaptist by marriage, mother

of children living and dead.That one time and no othertheokapicametothestream,andIwastheonlyonetoseeit.Ididn’tknowanynamefor

what I’d seen until someyears afterward in Atlanta,when I attempted briefly toconsecrate myself in thepublic library, believingevery crack in my soulcould be chinked with abook. I read that the male

okapi is smaller than thefemale, and more shy, andthat hardly anything else isknown about them. Forhundreds of years people inthe Congo Valley spoke ofthis beautiful, strange beast.WhenEuropeanexplorersgotwind of it, they declared itlegendary:aunicorn.Anotherfabulous tale from the darkdomain of poison-tippedarrowsandbone-piercedlips.Then, in the 1920’s when

elsewhere in the world themenfolk took a breakbetween wars to perfect theairplaneandtheautomobile,awhitemanfinallydidseteyeson the okapi. I can picturehim spying on it withbinoculars, raising up thecross-hairedriflesight,takingit for his own. A family ofthem now reside in the NewYork Museum of NaturalHistory, dead and stuffed,with standoffish glass eyes.

And so the okapi is now byscientific account a realanimal. Merely real, notlegend. Some manner ofbeast, a horseish gazelle,relativeofthegiraffe.Oh, but I know better and

so do you.Those glassymuseum stares have gotnothing on you, myuncaptured favorite child,wildas thedayis long.Yourbrighteyesbeardownonmewithout cease, on behalf of

thequick and thedead.Takeyour place, then. Look atwhat happened from everysideandconsideralltheotherways it could have gone.Consider, even, an Africaunconquered altogether.Imagine those firstPortuguese adventurersapproachingtheshore,spyingon the jungle’s edge throughtheir fitted brass lenses.Imaginethatbysomemiracleof dread or reverence they

lowered their spyglasses,turned, set their riggings,sailed on. Imagine all whocame after doing the same.What would that Africa benow?AllIcanthinkofistheotherokapi,theonetheyusedto believe in. A unicorn thatcouldlookyouintheeye.In the year of our Lord

1960, a monkey barreledthroughspaceinanAmericanrocket; a Kennedy boy tookthe chair out from under a

fatherly general named Ike;and the whole world turnedon an axis called theCongo.The monkey sailed rightoverhead, and on a moreearthly plane men in lockedrooms bargained for theCongo’s treasure. But I wasthere. Right on the head ofthatpin.I had washed up there on

the riptide of my husband’sconfidence and the undertowof my children’s needs.

That’smyexcuse,yetnoneofthemreallyneededmeallthatmuch. My firstborn and mybaby both tried to shed melikeahuskfromthestart,andthe twins came with a fineinteriorsightwithwhichtheycouldsimply lookpastmeateverything more interesting.And my husband, why, hellhath no fury like a Baptistpreacher. I married a manwho could never love me,probably. It would have

trespassedonhis devotion toall mankind. I remained hiswifebecauseitwasonethingIwasabletodoeachday.Mydaughters would say: Yousee,Mother, you had no lifeofyourown.They have no idea. One

hasonlyalifeofone’sown.I’ve seen things they’ll

never know about. I saw afamily of weaver birds worktogetherformonthsonanestthatbecamesuchamonstrous

lump of sticks and progenyand nonsense that finally itbrought their whole treethundering down. I didn’tspeakof it tomyhusbandorchildren, not ever. So yousee.Ihavemyownstory,andincreasingly inmyold age itweighs on me. Now thatevery turn in the weatherwhistles an ache throughmybones, I stir in bed and thememories riseoutofme likeabuzzoffliesfromacarcass.

Icravetoberidof them,butfind myself being careful,too, choosing which ones tolet out into the light. I wantyou to find me innocent. Asmuch as I’ve craved yourlost, small body, I want younowtostopstrokingmyinnerarms at night with yourfingertips. Stop whispering.I’llliveordieonthestrengthofyourjudgment,butfirstletme say who I am. Let meclaim that Africa and I kept

companyforawhileandthenparted ways, as if we werebothparty to relationswithafailedoutcome.Or say Iwasafflicted with Africa like about of a rare disease, fromwhich I have not managed afullrecovery.MaybeI’llevenconfess the truth, that I rodein with the horsemen andbeheld the apocalypse, butstill I’ll insist I was only acaptive witness. What is theconqueror’s wife, if not a

conquest herself? For thatmatter,what is he?When herides in to vanquish theuntouched tribes, don’t youthink they fall down withdesire before those sky-colored eyes? And itch for aturn with those horses, andthose guns? That’s what weyell back at history, always,always. It wasn’t just me;there were crimes strewn sixwaystoSunday,andIhadmyownmouths to feed. I didn’t

know. I had no life of myown. And you’ll say I did.You’ll say I walked acrossAfrica with my wristsunshackled, and now I amonemoresoulwalkingfreeina white skin, wearing somethread of the stolen goods:cotton or diamonds, freedomat the very least, prosperity.Some of us know how wecame by our fortune, andsomeofusdon’t,butwewearit all the same. There’s only

one question worth askingnow:Howdoweaim to livewithit?I know how people are,

with their habits of mind.Most will sail through fromcradle to grave with aconsciencecleanassnow.It’seasy to point at other men,conveniently dead, startingwith the ones who firstscooped up mud fromriverbanks to catch the scentof a source. Why, Dr.

Livingstone, I presume,wasn’t he the rascal!He andall the profiteers who’vesincewalkedoutonAfricaasa husband quits a wife,leaving her with her nakedbody curled around theemptied-out mine of herwomb. I know people. Mosthavenoearthlynotionof theprice of a snow-whiteconscience.I would be no different

fromthenextone,ifIhadn’t

paid my own little part inblood. I trod on Africawithout a thought, straightfrom our family’s divinelyinspired beginning to ourterrible end. In between, inthe midst of all thosesteaming nights and daysdarkly colored, smelling ofearth,Ibelievetherelaysomemarrowofhonestinstruction.Sometimes I can nearly saywhat it was. If I could, Iwould fling it at others, I’m

afraid,atrisktotheirease.I’dslide this awful story offmyshoulders, flatten it, sketchout our crimes like a failedbattleplanandshakeitinthefaces of my neighbors, whoare wary of me already. ButAfricashiftsundermyhands,refusing to be party to failedrelations. Refusing to be anyplace at all, or any thing butitself: the animal kingdommakinghayinthekingdomofglory.Sothereitis,takeyour

place. Leave nothing for ahaunted old bat to use fordisturbingthepeace.Nothing,saveforthislifeofherown.Weaimedfornomorethan

to have dominion over everycreature thatmovedupon theearth.Andsoitcametopassthat we stepped down thereon a place we believedunformed, where onlydarkness moved on the faceofthewaters.Nowyoulaugh,day and night, while you

gnawonmybones.Butwhatelse could we have thought?Only that itbeganandendedwithMS.Whatdoweknow,even now?Ask the children.Lookatwhattheygrewuptobe.Wecanonlyspeakofthethingswecarriedwithus,andthethingswetookaway.

TheThingsWeCarriedKlLANGA,1959

LeahPrice

WE CAME FROMBETHLEHEM, Georgia,bearing Betty Crocker cakemixes into the jungle. MysistersandIwereallcountingonhavingonebirthdayapieceduring our twelve-monthmission. “And heavenknows,” our motherpredicted, “they won’t haveBettyCrockerintheCongo.”“Where we are headed,

there will be no buyers and

sellers at all,” my fathercorrected. His tone impliedthat Mother failed to graspour mission, and that herconcern with Betty Crockerconfederated her with thecoin-jingling sinners whovexed Jesus till he pitched afit and threw them out ofchurch. “Where we areheaded,” he said, to makethingsperfectlyclear,“notsomuch as a Piggly Wiggly.”EvidentlyFathersawthisasa

point in theCongo’s favor. Igot the most spectacularchills, just from trying toimagine.She wouldn’t go against

him, of course.But once sheunderstood there was noturning back, our motherwent to laying out in thesparebedroomalltheworldlythingsshethoughtwe’dneedin the Congo just to scrapeby. “The bare minimum, formy children,” she’d declare

under her breath, all thelivelong day. In addition tothecakemixes,shepiledupadozen cans of Underwooddeviled ham; Rachel’s ivoryplastic hand mirror withpowdered-wig ladies on theback; a stainless-steelthimble; a good pair ofscissors; a dozen number-2pencils; a world of Band-Aids, Anacin.Absorbine Jr.;andafeverthermometer.Andnowwearehere,with

all these colorful treasuressafelytransportedandstowedagainst necessity. Our storesare still intact, save for theAnacin tablets taken by ourmother and the thimble lostdownthelatrineholebyRuthMay.Butalreadyoursuppliesfromhomeseemtorepresenta bygone world: they standout like bright party favorshere inourCongolesehouse,set against a backdrop ofmostly all mud-colored

things.When I stare at themwith therainy-season light inmy eyes and Congo grit inmy teeth, I can hardlyrecollecttheplacewheresuchitems were commonplace,merely a yellow pencil,merely a green bottle ofaspirinamongsomanyothergreen bottles upon a highshelf.Mother tried to think of

every contingency, includinghunger and illness. (And

Father does, in general,approveofcontingencies.Forit “was God who gave manalone the capacity offoresight.) She procured agood supply of antibioticdrugs fromour granddadDr.BudWharton, who has seniledementia and loves to walkoutdoors naked but still cando two things perfectly: winat checkers and write outprescriptions. We alsobrought over a cast-iron

frying pan, ten packets ofbaker’syeast,pinkingshears,theheadofahatchet, a fold-uparmylatrinespade,andalltold a good deal more. Thiswas the full measure ofcivilization’s evils we feltobligedtocarrywithus.Gettingherewitheven the

bare minimum was a trial.Just when we consideredourselves fully prepared andwere fixing to depart, lo andbehold, we learned that the

Pan American Airline wouldonly allow forty-four poundstobecarriedacrosstheocean.Forty-fourpoundsofluggageper person, and not one iotamore. Why, we weredismayed by this bad news!Who’d have thought therewould be limits on modernjet-age transport? When weadded up all our forty-fourpounds together, includingRuth May’s—luckily shecounted as a whole person

even thoughshe’ssmall—wewere sixty-one pounds over.Father surveyed our despairas if he’d expected it allalong, and left it up to wifeand daughters to sort out,suggesting only that weconsidertheliliesofthefield,whichhavenoneedofahandmirrororaspirintablets.“I reckon the lilies need

Bibles, though, and his darnold latrine spade,” Rachelmuttered, as her beloved

toiletry items got pitched outof the suitcase one by one.Rachel never does graspscriptureallthatwell.But considering the lilies

as we might, our trimmingbackgotusnowhereclose toour goal, even withoutRachel’s beauty aids. Wewere nearly stumped. Andthen, hallelujah! At the lastpossible moment, saved.Throughanoversight(orelseprobably, if you think about

it, just plain politeness), theydon’t weigh the passengers.TheSouthernBaptistMissionLeague gave us this hint,withoutcomingrightoutandtelling us to flout the law ofthe forty-four pounds, andfromtherewemadeourplan.We struck out for Africacarrying all our excessbaggageonourbodies,underour clothes. Also, we hadclothesunderourclothes.Mysisters and I left home

wearing six pairs ofunderdrawers, two half-slipsand camisoles; severaldresses one on top of theother, with pedal pushersunderneath; and outside ofeverything an all-weathercoat. (The encyclopediaadvised us to count onrain).The other goods, tools,cake-mix boxes and so forthwere tucked out of sight inour pockets and under ourwaistbands,surroundingusin

aclankingarmor.We wore our best dresses

ontheoutsidetomakeagoodimpression. Rachel wore hergreen linen Easter suit shewas so vain of, and her longwhitish hair pulled off herforehead with a wide pinkelastic hairband. Rachel isfifteen—or,as shewouldputit, going on sixteen—andcares for naught butappearances. Her fullChristian name is Rachel

Rebekah, so she feels free totakeafterRebekah,thevirginat the well, who is said inGenesis tobe“adamselveryfair” and was offeredmarriage presents of goldenearbobs right ofF the bat,when Abraham’s servantspied her fetching up thewater. (Since she’s my elderby one year, she claims norelation to the Bible’s poorRachel, Leah’s youngersister, who had to wait all

those years to get married.)Sitting next to me on theplane, she kept batting herwhite-rabbit eyelashes andadjusting her bright pinkhairband, trying to getme tonotice she had secretlypainted her fingernailsbubble-gum pink tomatch. Iglanced over at Father, whohad theotherwindowseat attheoppositeendofourentirerowofPrices.Thesunwasablood-red ball hovering

outside his window,inflaminghiseyesashekeptupalookoutforAfricaonthehorizon. Itwas just lucky forRachel he had so much elseweighing on hismind. She’dbeen thrashed with the strapfor nail polish, even at herage.ButthatisRacheltoaT,tryingtoworkinjustonelastsin before leavingcivilization.Rachelisworldlyand tiresome in my opinion,so I stared out the window,

where the view was better.Father feelsmakeup and nailpolish arewarning signals ofprostitution, the same aspiercedears.He was right about the

lilies of the field, too.Somewhere along about theAtlantic Ocean, the six pairsofunderwearandcakemixesall commenced to be aconsiderable cross to bear.Every time Rachel leanedover to dig in her purse she

keptonehandonthechestofher linen jacket and it stillmadeasmallclinkingnoise.Iforget now ‘what kind ofconcealed household weaponshe had in there. I wasignoringher,soshechatteredmostly to Adah—who wasignoring her too, but sinceAdahnevertalkstoanyone,itwaslessnoticeable.Rachel adores to poke fun

ateverythinginCreation,butchiefly our family. “Hey,

Ade!”shewhisperedatAdah.“What if we went on ArtLinkletter’s House Partynow?”In spite of myself, I

laughed. Mr. Linkletter likesto surprise ladies by takingtheir purses and pulling outwhat all’s inside for thetelevision audience. Theythink it’s very comical if hedigs out a can opener or apicture of Herbert Hoover.Imagine if he shook us, and

out fell pinking shears and ahatchet. The thought of itgave me nerves. Also, I feltclaustrophobicandhot.Finally, finally we

lumbered like cattle off theplane and stepped down thestair ramp into the swelterofLeopoldville, and that iswhere our baby sister, RuthMay, pitched her blond curlsforward and fainted onMother.She revived very promptly

in the airport, which smelledof urine. I was excited andhadtogotothebathroombutcouldn’tsurmisewhereagirlwould even begin to look, ina place like this. Big palm-tree leaves waved in thebright light outside. Crowdsof people rushed past oneway and then the other. Theairport police wore khakishirts with extra metalbuttons and, believe youme,guns.

Everywhere you looked,therewerevery tinyolddarkladies lugging entire basketsof things along the order ofwilting greens. Chickens,also. Little regiments ofchildren lurked by thedoorways, apparently for theexpress purpose of accostingforeign missionaries. Theminute they saw our whiteskin they’d rush at us,begging in French: “Cadeau,cadeau’ I held up my two

hands to illustrate the totaland complete lack of gifts Ihad brought for the Africanchildren. Maybe people justhid behind a tree somewhereand squatted down, I wasstartingtothink;maybethat’swhythesmell.Just then amarried couple

of Baptists in tortoiseshellsunglasses came out of thecrowd and shook our hands.They had the peculiar nameof Underdown—Reverend

andMrs.Underdown.They’dcome down to shepherd usthrough customs and speakFrench to the men inuniforms.Fathermadeitclearwe were completely self-reliant but appreciated theirkindnessallthesame.Hewasso polite about it that theUnderdownsdidn’trealizehewas peeved. They carried onmaking a fuss as if wewereall old friends and presentedus with a gift of mosquito

netting, just armloads of it,trailing on and on like anembarrassing bouquet fromsome junior-high boyfriendwholikedyouoverlymuch.Aswe stood there holding

our netting and sweatingthrough our completewardrobes, they regaled uswith information about oursoon-to-be-home, Kilanga.Oh, they had plenty to tell,sincetheyandtheirboyshadonce lived there and started

up the whole of it, school,church, and all.At one pointintimeKilangawasaregularmission with four Americanfamiliesandamedicaldoctorwho visited once a week.Nowithadgoneintoaslump,they said. No more doctor,and the Underdownsthemselves had had to moveto Leopoldville to give theirboys a shot at properschooling—if, said Mrs.Underdown, you could even

call it that.The othermissionaries to Kilanga hadlong since expired theirterms.SoitwastobejustthePrice family and whateverhelp we could muster up.Theywarnedusnottoexpectmuch.Myheartpounded,forI expected everything: jungleflowers, wild roaring beasts.God’s Kingdom in its pure,unenlightenedglory.Then, while Father was

smack in the middle of

explaining something to theUnderdowns, they suddenlyhustledusontoatinyairplaneand abandoned us. It wasonlyourfamilyandthepilot,who was busy adjusting hisearphones under his hat. Heignored us entirely, as if wewere no more than ordinarycargo. There we sat, drapedlike tired bridesmaids withour yards of white veil,numbed by the airplane’shorrible noise, skimming

above the treetops.We weretuckered out, as my motherwould say. “Plumb tuckeredout,” she would say. “Sugar,nowdon’t you tripover that,you’retuckeredout,it’splaintosee.”Mrs.Underdownhadfussedandlaughedoverwhatshe called our charmingsouthern accent. She eventried to imitate the way wesaid “right now” and “bye-bye.” (“Rot nail” she said. “Whah yay-es, the ayer-plane

is leavinrotnail!”and“Bah-bah”—like a sheep!) Shecaused me to feelembarrassed over our simpleexpressions and drawn-outvowels, when I’ve neverbefore considered myself tohave any accent, thoughnaturally I’m aware we dosound worlds different fromthe Yanks on the radio andTV. I had quite a lot toponder as I sat on thatairplane, and incidentally I

stillhad topee.Butwewereall dizzy and silent by thattime, having grownaccustomed to taking up nomorespaceinaseatthanwasourhonestdue.At long lastwebumped to

a landing in a field of tallyellow grass.We all jumpedout of our seats, but Father,because of his imposingstature,hadtokindofcrouchover inside the plane insteadof standing up straight. He

pronounced a hastybenediction: “HeavenlyFather please make me apowerful instrument of Thyperfect will here in theBelgianCongo.Amen.”“Amen!”weanswered,and

thenheledusoutthroughtheovaldoorwayintothelight.We stood blinking for a

moment, staring out throughthe dust at a hundred darkvillagers, slender and silent,swaying faintly like trees.

We’d left Georgia at theheight of a peach-blossomsummer and now stood in abewildering dry, red fog thatseemed like no particularseason you could put yourfingeron.Inallour layersofclothing we must haveresembled a family ofEskimos plopped down in ajungle.Butthatwasourburden,

because there was so muchwe needed to bring here.

Each one of us arrived withsome extra responsibilitybiting into us under ourgarments: a claw hammer, aBaptist hymnal, each objectofvaluereplacing theweightfreed up by some frivolousthingwe’dfoundthestrengthto leave behind.Our journeywastobeagreatenterpriseofbalance.Myfather,ofcourse,was bringing the Word ofGod—which fortunatelyweighsnothingatall.

RuthMayPriceGOD SAYS THE

AFRICANSaretheTribesofHam.Hamwastheworstoneof Noah’s three boys: Shem,Ham,andJapheth.Everybodycomes down on their familytree from just those three,because God made a bigflood and drowneded out thesinners.ButShem,Ham,andJapheth got on the boat sotheywereA-okay.

Hamwastheyoungestone,like me, and he was bad.Sometimes I am bad, too.After they all got off the arkand let the animals go iswhenithappened.HamfoundhisfatherNoahlayingaroundpig-nakeddrunkonedayandhe thought thatwas funnyasall get-out. The other twobrothers covered Noah upwith a blanket, but Hambusted his britches laughing.When Noah woke up he got

to hear thewhole story fromthe tattletale brothers. SoNoah cursed all Ham’schildren tobeslaves foreverand ever. That’s how comethemtoturnoutdark.BackhomeinGeorgiathey

havetheirownschoolsotheywon’t be a-strutting intoRachel’s and Leah andAdah’s school. Leah andAdah are the gifted children,buttheystillhavetogotothesame school as everybody.

But not the colored children.The man in church saidthey’re different fromus andneeds ought to keep to theirown. Jimmy Crow says that,and he makes the laws.Theydon’t come in the WhiteCastle restaurant whereMama takes us to get Cokeseither, or the Zoo. Their dayfor the Zoo is Thursday.That’sintheBible.Our village is going to

havethismanywhitepeople:

me,Rachel,Leah, andAdah.Mama. Father. That is sixpeople.Rachelisoldest,Iamyoungest.LeahandAdahareinbetweenandthey’retwins,so maybe they are oneperson, but I think two,because Leah runseverywhere and climbs trees,butAdahcan’t,sheisbadonone whole side and doesn’ttalk because she is brain-damaged and also hates usall. She reads books upside

down.You are only supposedto hate the Devil, and loveeverybodyelse.MynameisRuthMayand

I hate the Devil. For thelongest time I used to thinkmy name was Sugar. Mamaalwayssaysthat.Sugar,comehere a minute. Sugar, nowdon’tdothat.In Sunday school Rex

Mintonsaidwebetternotgoto the Congo on account ofthe cannibal natives would

boilusinapotandeatusup.He said, I can talk like anative, listen here: Uggabugga bugga lugga. He saidthat means, I’ll have me adrumstickoff’nthatlittleonewith the curly yellow hair.Our Sunday-school teacherMissBannietoldhimtohushup. But I tell you what, shedidn’t say one way or theotheraboutthemboilingusina pot and eating us up. So Idon’tknow.

Here are the other whitepeople we had in Africa sofar:MisterAxelrootthatfliesthe plane. He has got thedirtiest hat you ever saw.Helives way on down by theairplane field in a shack byhimself whenever he comesover here, and Mama saysthat’s close enough quartersforhim.ReverentandMisrusUnderdown, who started theAfrican children on going tochurch way back years ago.

TheUnderdowns talk Frenchto each other even thoughtheyarewhitepeople.Idon’tknow why.They have theirown two boys, theUnderdownboys,thatarebigand go to school inLeopoldville. They felt sorryfor us so they sent us comicbooks to takeon theairplanewith us. I got almost all ofthem to myself when Leahandthemallwenttosleeponthe airplane. Donald Duck.

Lone Ranger. And the fairy-tale ones, Cinderella andBriar Rose. I hid them in aplace. Then I got to feelingbad and upchucked on theairplane,and itgotalloveraduffel bag and the DonaldDuck.Iputthatoneunderthecushion so we don’t have itanymore.Sothisiswhoallwillbein

our village: the Price family,Lone Ranger, Cinderella,BriarRose,andtheTribesof

Ham.

RachelPriceMANOHMAN,arewein

for it now, was my thinkingabout the Congo from theinstant we first set foot.Wearesupposedtobecallingtheshotshere,butitdoesn’tlooktomelikewe’re inchargeofa thing, not even our ownselves. Father had planned abig old prayer meeting as awelcome ceremony, to prove

that God had ensued us hereand aimed to settle in. Butwhen we stepped off theairplane and staggered outinto the field with our bags,the Congolese peoplesurroundedus—Lordy!—inachanting broil.Charmed, I’msure.We got fumigated withthe odor of perspiratingbodies. What I should havestuffedinmypursewasthosefive-daydeodorantpads.I looked around for my

sisters to tell them, “Hey,Ade, Leah, aren’t you gladyouuseDial?Don’tyouwisheverybody did?” I couldn’tfind either one of the twinsbut did catch sight of RuthMay fixing to executrate hersecondswoonoftheday.Hereyes were rolled back withmostly the whites showing.Whatever was pulling herunder, I knew she wasopposing it with all hermight. Ruth May is

surprisingly stubborn for achildoffiveandunwillingtomiss out on any kind of aspree.Mother took hold of her

hand and also mine—something I would not havetoleratedintheslightestbackhomeinBethlehem.Butherein all the hubbub we wouldhave lost trackofeachother,withhowwewerejustgettingswept along on a big darkriverofpeople.And thedirt,

law! There was dirteverywhere like red chalkdust, and me with my goodgreen linen suit on theoutside,wouldn’tyouknow.Icould just feel thegrit inmyhair, which is so extremelyfair it isprone togetstained.Boy,what aplace.Already Iwasheavy-heartedinmysoulfor the flush commodes andmachine-washed clothes andother simple things in life Ihavetookforgranite.

The people were hurryingusondowntowardsomekindofopendirt-floorpatiowitharoof over it, which as itturned out was going to beour father’s church. Just ourluck, a church made of dirt.But worship was not on thedocket that night, let me tellyou.Weendedupthereinthethrong under the thatchedroof and I almost screamedwhen I realized the hand Iheldwasnotmymother’sbut

a thick brown claw, astranger!What I trusted wasgone.Ijustplumbletgo,andtheearthreeledbeneathme.Ithrew my eyes around inpanic like Black Beautytrappedintheflames.FinallyI spotted my mother’s whiteshirtwaistliketheflagof“WeGive Up!” waving nearFather. Then, one by one, Ifoundthepastelshapesofmysisterslikepartyballoonsbutin the wrong party, man oh

man. Iknewright thenIwasin the sloop of despond.Father,ontheotherhand,wasprobably all deeply gratified,justgratifieduponesideanddown the other. PraisingJesus for this occasion towhich we were all going tohavetorise.We needed desperately to

change—the extra underwearanddressesweredraggingusdown—but there was nochance whatsoever for that.

None. We just got shovedstraight into the heathenpandemony. I have no ideawhere our suitcases andcanvasbagshadgoneto.Myembroidery hoops and a pairof pinking shears in anoilcloth sheath hung aroundmy neck, threatening myselfand others in the push andshove. Finally we wereallowed to sit down about asclose together as humanlypossibleatatable,onanoily

bench made out of roughlogs. Day one in the Congo,andheremybrand-newtulip-tailored linen suit in PoisonGreenwithsquaremother-of-pearl buttons was fixing togive up the goat.We had tosit so close to other peopletherewasn’troomtobreathe,if you evenwanted to, beingin the position to contractevery kind of a germ therewas.Anotherthingweshouldhave brought: Listerine.

Forty-five percent fewercolds. A roar of voices andweird birds lombarded myearsandfilledmyheadtothebrink. I amsensitive tonoiseof any kind—that and thebright sunlight both give metension headaches, but thesunat leastbythenhadgonedown. Otherwise I probablywould have followed RuthMay’s example and passedoutorupchucked,hertwobigaccomplishments of the day.

The back of my neck feltpinched, andmy heart smotelikeadrum.Theyhadmadeahorrible roaring fire in oneend of the church. Oilysmoke hung above us like anet, drooping under thethatched roof.Thescentof it‘was strong enough to chokeany animal you can think of.Inside the bright orange rimof the fire I could see theoutline of some dark thingbeing turned and pierced,

with its four stiff legs flungout in a cry for help. Mywoman’s intuition told me Iwas slated to die here andnow, without my mother’spalm even to feel the sweatonmy forehead. I thoughtofthe few occasions in my lifeuptonowwhenIhadtried—I admit—to bring on a feverto avoid school or church.Now a real fire beat in mytemples, all the fevers I’deverbeggedfor,caughtupto

meatlast.All at once I understood

the pinch on my neck wasMother.Shehadallfourofuswithin the reach of her longarms:RuthMay,me,andmysistersLeahandAdah—RuthMayjustsmall,ofcourse,butLeahandAdahbeingaprettygood-sized pair of twins,althoughwithAdahbeingtheshorter because of herhandicap. How Mothermanagedtokeepagriponus

alllikethatisbeyondme,I’msure. And the beat of myheart was not my heart, Ifinally figured out, but thedrums. The men werepounding on big loggedy-looking drums, and womenwere singing high, quaverytuneslikebirdsgonecrazyinthefullmoon.Theycalledthesongs back and forth in theirown language between aleader and the rest of thegroup.Theyweresuchweird

songs it took me a while torealize they followed thetunes of Christian hymns,“Onward Christian Soldiers”and“WhataFriendIHaveinJesus,”which made my skincrawl. I guess they have aright to sing them,buthere’sthething:rightinfrontofourvery eyes, some of thewomen stood up there in thefirelight with their bosomsnaked as a jaybird’s egg.Some of themwere dancing,

andothersmerelyranaroundcooking,asifnakednesswerenothing special. They passedback and forthwith pots andkettles, all bare-chested andunashamed. They were verybusy with the animal in thefire, pulling it to pieces nowandmixingitwithsomethingsteaming in a pot.Wheneverthey bent over, their heavybreasts swung down likeballoons full ofwater. I keptmy eyes turned away from

them, and from the nakedchildrea who clung to theirlong draped skirts. I keptglancing over at Father,wondering,AmItheonlyonegetting shocked tosmithereenshere?Hehadthatnarrow-eyed, lockjawed looklike he was starting to getsteamed up, but you neverknow exactly where that’sgoing to lead. Mostlysomeplace where you wishyouwereanyplacebut.

After a good longhootenanny of so-calledhymns shouted back andforth, the burnt offering wasout of the fire and into thefrying pan so to speak, allmixedupintoagray-looking,smolderingstew.Theystartedplunking it down in front ofusintinplatesorbowls.Thespoonstheygaveuswerebigoldmetalsoupladles,whichIknewwouldneverfitintomymouth. I have such a small

mouth, mywisdom teeth arecoming in all sigoggling. Ilookedaroundforsomeonetotradespoonswith,but loandbehold, nobody but ourfamilyevenhadanykindofaspoonatall!What theothersaimedtodowiththeirfood,Iwouldn’t hazard to guess.Most of them were stillwaiting to get served, likebirds in thewilderness.Theyheld up their empty metalbowls or hubcapsorwhatnot

andcheerfullybeat themlikedrums. It sounded like anentire junkyard orchestra,because everybody’s platewas different. RuthMay justhad a little tiny cup,which Iknew she would resentbecause it made her seemmoreofababy.Inalltheruckus,somebody

was talking English. It justdawned on me all of asudden. It was near aboutimpossible tomake outwhat

wasgoingon,becausepeopleall around us were singing,dancing,banging theirplates,waving their arms back andforthliketreesinahurricane.But up by the bonfire wherethey were cooking, a coal-black man in a yellow shirtwiththesleevesrolledupwasgesturing towards us andhollowing at the top of hislungs: “Welcome! Wewelcomeyou!”There was another man

behind him, much older anddressedjustoutofthisworld,withatallhatandglassesanda cloth drapery dress andswishing an animal’s tailback and forth. He hollowedsomething in their languageand everybody began to pipedownjustahair.“Reverend and Mrs. Price

and your children!” cried theyounger man in the yellowshirt. “You are welcome toour feast. Today we have

killedagoattocelebrateyourcoming. Soon your bellieswillbe fullwithour fufupili-pili.”At that, why, the half-

nakedwomenbehindhimjustburst out clapping andcheering, as if they could nolonger confine theirenthusiasmforadeadgoat.“ReverendPrice,” theman

said, “please offer with us awordofthanksforthisfeast.”He gestured for Father to

come forward, but Fatherneeded no invitation, itseems.Hewasalreadyonhisfeet,awayuponhischair,sohe looked ten feet tall. Hewasinhisshirtsleeves,whichwas not an unusual sight ashe’s one of those men that’seasy in his body and in theheat of a sermon will oftenthrow off his suit jacket.Hispleated black trousers werebelted tightbuthis chest andshoulders looked just huge.

I’d almost forgotten, he stillcarried numerous deadlyweapons under that cleanwhiteshirt.Slowly Father raised one

arm above his head like oneof those gods they had inRoman times, fixing to senddown the thunderbolts andthe lightning. Everyonelooked up at him, smiling,clapping, waving their armsovertheirheads,barebosomsand all. Then he began to

speak. It was not so much aspeechasarisingstorm.“TheLordrideth,”hesaid,

lowand threatening, “upon aswift cloud, and shall comeintoEgypt.”Hurray! they all cheered,

but I felt a knot in mystomach.Hewasgetting thatlook he gets, oh boy, likeHere comes Moses trampingdown off of Mount Syanidewith ten freshways towreckyourlife.

“IntoEgypt,”heshoutedinhis rising singsong preachingvoicethatgoeshighandlow,then higher and lower, backand forth like a saw rippinginto a tree trunk, “and everycorneroftheearthwhereHislight,” Father paused, glaringall about him, “where Hislighthasyettofall!”He paused for breath and

beganagain,swayingeversofaintly as he sang out: “TheLord rideth in the person of

His angels of mercy, Hisemissariesofholinessintothetitleson theplain,whereLotdwelled amongst thesinners!”The cheers were slowing

down. He had everybody’sattentionnow.“And Lot said unto the

sinners who crowded at hisdoor, I pray ye, brethren, donot do so wickedly] For thesinners of Sodom pressedtheir evil will against the

entrancetohishousehold!’I shuddered. Naturally I

knewChapter 19ofGenesis,whichhe’dmadeuscopyouttime and again. I detest thepart where Lot offered hisown virgin daughters to therabble of sinners, to do withas theymight, just so they’dforget about God’s angelsthat were visiting and leavethembe.Whatkindofatradeisthat?Andhispoorwife,ofcourse, got turned to a pillar

ofsalt.ButFatherskippedoverall

that and went straight to thedire consequences: “Theemissaries of theLord smotethe sinners, who had comeheedless to the sight ofGod,heedlessintheirnakedness’’Thenhestopped,justfroze

perfectlystill.Withoneofhishugehandshereachedout tothe congregation, pullingthem in. With the other, hepointed at a woman near the

fire.Her big long breasts layflat on her chest like they’dbeen pressed down with aniron, but she did seemheedlessofit.Shewastotinga long-legged child allstraddlyonherhip, andwithher free handwas scratchingat her short hair. She lookedaround nervously, for everypair of eyes in the place hadfollowed Father’s accusinggaze straight to hernakedness. She bounced her

knees, shifting the big childupwardsonherhip.Hisheadlolled.Hehadhair thatstoodout in reddish tufts and helookeddazed.Foraneternityof silence the mother stoodthereinthespotlight,drawingherheadbackonherneck infear and puzzlement. Finallysheturnedaroundandpickedupa longwooden spoonandwent to poking at the stewkettle.“Nakedness,” Father

repeated,“anddarknessofthesoul!Forweshalldestroythisplace where the loud clamorof the sinners iswaxen greatbeforethefaceoftheLord.”No one sang or cheered

anymore.Whetherornottheyunderstood the meaning of“loud clamor,” they didn’tdare be making one now.Theydidnotevenbreathe,orsoitseemed.Fathercangetagooddealacrosswithjusthistoneofvoice,believeyoume.

Thewomanwiththechildonherhipkeptherback turned,tendingtothefood.“And Lot went out and

spake unto those that wereworthy” Now Father wasusinghisgentler, simmering-down tone. “And Lot saidunto them, ‘Up! Get ye outfrom this place of darkness!Arise and come forward intoabrighterland!’HERE“O Lord, let us pray,” he

concluded, landing abruptly

back down on earth. “Lord,grant that the worthy amongus here shall rise abovewickedness and come out ofthe darkness into thewondrous light of our HolyFather.Amen.”All faces were still set on

myfather,as if theyallwereshiny,darkplantsandhisredhead was the sun. But theirexpressionshadfalleninslowmotionfromjoytoconfusionto dismay. Now, as the spell

broke,peoplebegantomutterand move about. A fewwomen lifted up theirwraparound sarongs and tiedthem in front, to cover theirbreasts. Others gathered uptheir bare-bottomed childrenand moved out into thedarkness. I guess they weregoing home to bed withoutanysupper.The air above our heads

grew perfectly quiet. Therewas not a peep to be heard

but katydid noises outside inthedeep,blacknight.Well, there was nothing

now but to dig in. Witheveryone’s eyes uponus,mysistersandIpickedupourbigmetal spoons. The foodthey’d set before us was astew that tasted like purenothing, just wet clumpsstuffed in my mouth that Iwouldhavetochewintoglue.OnceI tookit in, though, theveryfirstbiteslowlygrewto

a powerful burn on mytongue. It scorched myeardrums from the inside.TearsranfrommyeyesandIcouldn’t swallow. This wasgoingtobethestartofarealcrying jag, I had the feeling,for a girl whose only hopesfor the year were a sweet-sixteen party and a pinkmohairtwinset.RuthMaychokedoutloud

and made a horrible face.Mother leaned over, to slap

herontheback,Ithought,butinsteadshewhisperedatusinthe awfulest, hissing voice:“Girls, you be polite, do youhearme?I’msorrybutifyouspit thatoutIwill thrashyoutoaninchofyourlives.”This was Mother, who’d

neverlaidahandonusinallour lives! Oh, I got thepicture, right there, our firstnight in Africa. I satbreathing through my nose,holding in my mouth the

pure, awful slavor ofsomething on fire and abristle of stiff hairs from theburnt hide of a dead goat. Ishut my eyes tight, but evenso,thetearsrandown.Iweptfor the sins of all who hadbrought my family to thisdreaddarkshore.

AdahPriceSUNRISE TANTALIZE,

evil eyes hypnotize: that isthe morning, Congo pink.

Anymorning,everymorning.Blossomyrose-colorbirdsongair streaked sour withbreakfast cookfrres. A widered plank of dirt—the so-called road—flat-out in frontof us, continuous in theoryfrom here to somewheredistant. But the way I see itthroughmyAdaheyes it isaflatplankclippedintopieces,rectangles and trapezoids, bytheskinnyblack-lineshadowsof tall palm trunks. Through

Adaheyes,ohtheworldisa-bogglewithcolorsandshapescompeting for a half-brain’sattention.The parade neverstops. Into the jangledpiecesof road little jungle roostersstep from the bush,karkadoodling. They jerk uptheir feet with cockyroosternessasiftheyhavenotyet heard about the two-legged beasts who are goingtomakeslavesoftheirwives.Congo sprawls on the

middle of the world. Sunrises, sun sets, six o’clockexactly. Everything thatconies of morning undoesitselfbeforenightfall: rooster-walks back into forest, firesdie down, birds coo-coo-coo,sun sinks away, sky bleeds,passesout,goesdark,nothingexists.Ashestoashes.Kilanga village runs along

theKwiluRiverasalongrowoflittlemudhousessetafter-one-the-other beside a lone

redsnakeofdirtroad.Risingup all round us, trees andbamboo.LeahandIasbabieshadalong,hodgepodgestringofunmatchedbeadsfordress-up which would break whenwefoughtoveritandflyintoa snaking line of odds andends in the dirt. That is howKilanga looked from theairplane. Every red mudhousesquatsinthemiddleofits red dirt yard, for theground in the village is

clearedhairlessasabrick.The better to spy and kill

our friends the snakes whenthey come calling, we aretold.SoKilangaisalonglowsnake break clearing. In along row the dirt huts allkneel facing east, as ifpraying for the staved-offcollapse—not toward Meccaexactly but east toward thevillage’s one road and theriver and behind all that, thepinksunrisesurprise.

Thechurchbuilding,sceneofour recent feast, resides atoneendofthevillage.Attheother end, our own house.AndsowhenthePricefamilystrolls to church we are ableen route to peer straight intoeach and every villager’shouse. Every house has onlya single square room and athatched roof, under whichmight dwell the likes ofRobinsonCrusoe.Butnoonehere stays under a roof. It is

in the front yards—all theworld’s a stage of hard reddirt under bare foot—wheretired thin women in everythinkable state of dress anddisrepair poke sticks intotheir little fires and cook.Clumps of childrenstonethrowing outflowingrush upon terrified smallgoats, scattering them acrosstheroadsothatthegoatsmaytiptoe back and be chasedagain.Mensitonbucketsand

stareatwhatsoeverpassesby.The usual bypasser is awoman sauntering slowlydown the road with bundlesuponbundlesbalancedonherhead. These women arepillars of wonder, defyinggravitywhilewearingtheho-humaspectofperfecttedium.They can sit, stand, talk,shakeastickatadrunkman,reach around their backs tofetchforthababytonurse,allwithout dropping their piled-

high bundles upon bundles.They are like ballet dancersentirely unaware they are onstage. I cannot takemy eyesfromthem.Whenever awoman leaves

her wide-open-to-the-worldyard to work her field orsaunteroffonanerrand,firstshemustmakeherselfdecent.Todothis,eventhoughsheisalready wearing awraparoundskirt, shewillgoand get another large square

of cloth from the house,which she wraps around herfirst skirt—covering her legsright down to the instep ofherfoot—intoalong,narrowsarong tied below her barebreasts. The cloths arebrightly printed and worntogether in janglingmixturesthat ring in my ears: pinkgingham with orange plaid,for example. Loose-jointbreaking-point colors, andwhether you find them

beautiful or find themappalling, they do make thewomen seem more festive,andlessexhausted.Backdrop to the Kilanga

pageant, risingupbehind thehouses,atallwallofelephantgrass obscures our view ofanythingbutthedistance.Thesunsuspendedaboveitintheafternoonisapink,rounddotin thedistantwhitehazeyoumay stare at and never goblind. The real earth where

the real sun shines seems tobe somewhere else, far fromhere. And to the east of us,behind the river, a risingrumple of dark green hillsfolded on each other like agreat old tablecloth, recedingto pale hazy blue. “Loominglike the Judgment,” says ourmother, pausing to wipe herdamp foreheadwith thebackofherhand.“It’s a place right out of a

storybook,” my twin sister,

Leah, loves to declare inresponse, opening her eyeswide and sticking her shorthair behind her ears as if tohearandseeeverylittlethingoh somuch better. “And yetthis is our own family, thePrices,livinghere!”Next comes this

observation from my sisterRuth May: “Nobody here’sgot very many teeth.” Andfinally,fromRachel:“Jeezohman, wake me up when it’s

over.” And so the Pricefamily passes its judgments.AllbutAdah.Adahunpassesher judgments. I am the onewhodoesnotspeak.OurFatherspeaksforallof

us,asfarasIcansee.Andheis at the moment not sayingmuch.Hishammerturnedouttobeawasteof twoor threegood pounds, because thereappear to be no nails in themud-and-thatch town ofKilanga.The wide-open

buildingthatservesaschurchand school was built ofconcrete-blockpillarsholdingupa.roofofpalmthatchandbillowy clouds of scarletbougainvillea. By now it allseems more or less weldedtogether by its own decay.Our house is also mud,thatch,cement,andfloweringvines. Leah in her earnestwayhelpedhimscoutaroundfor a project, but alas hefound nothing worth

pounding at, anywhere. ThiswasagreatdisappointmenttoOur Father, who likes torepair things betweenSundays.Yet here we are to stay.

The bush plane that droppeddown into the field to leaveus here went right awayagain, and there will be nomorecoming-goinguntil thatsameplanereturnsagain.Weasked about the dirt roadthrough the village andwere

tolditstretchedallthewaytoLeopoldville. I doubt it. Ashort way on either side ofourvillage theroadfalls intoafrenzyofharddirt ruts thatlook likeoceanwavesfrozensolid in the middle of atempest. Our Father says in the

greatbeyondnearbythereareprobably swamps you couldsink a battleship in, not tomention a mere automobile.We do see vestigial signs of

automobiles in our village,buttheyresemblethesignsoflife you would dig up in agraveyard if you wereinclined to that pastime.Which is to say: parts deadand rusted, scattered aroundand used not fortransportation but foranything but.On awalk oneday with Our Father hepointedoutforhisdaughters’edification a carburetor air-filter lid boiling a family’s

dinnerover a cookfire, andaJeepmufflerbeingput touseby six boys at once, as adrum.The Kwilu River is the

throughway here: Kwilu, awordwithoutasinglerhyme.Nearly a prelude, but notquite. Kwilu. It troubles me,this dubious escape route. Itsits unanswered like a half-phraseofmusiconmyear.Our Father claims the

Kwilu is navigable

downstreamfromherealltheway to where it joins theCongo River; upstream, onemay go only as far as thehigh, scenic cataracts thatthunder just to the south ofus. In other words, we havearrivedverynearlyattheendof the earth. We sometimesdo see the odd boat passingby, but only carrying peoplefrom nearby villages exactlylike this one. For news ormail or evidence of what

Rachel calls The PaleWhichWe Are Way Beyond, wewait for the rough-and-readyairplane pilot, Mr. EebenAxelroot.Heisreliableinthefollowingway:iftheysayheiscomingonMonday, itwillbeThursday,Friday,ornotatall.Like the village road and

the river, nothing here reallycontinues to its end. TheCongoisonlyalongpaththattakes you from one hidden

place to another. Palm treesstand alongside of it lookingdown at you in shock, liketoo-tall, frightened womenwith upright hair.Nevertheless, I amdetermined I will walk thatpath, even though I do notwalk fast or well. My rightside drags. I was born withhalfmybraindriedup likeaprune, deprived of blood byan unfortunate fetal mishap.My twin sister, Leah, and I

areidenticalintheory,justasin theorywe are allmade inGod’simage.LeahandAdahbegan our life as imagesmirror perfect. We have thesame eyes dark and chestnuthair. But I am a lamegallimaufry and she remainsperfect.Oh, I can easily imagine

the fetal mishap: we wereinside the womb togetherdum-de-dum when Leahsuddenlyturnedanddeclared,

Adahyouarejusttooslow.Iamtakingallthenourishmenthereandgoingonahead.Shegrew strong as I grewweak.(Yes! Jesus loves me!) Andso it came to pass, in theEden of ourmother’swomb,I was cannibalized by mysister.Officially my condition is

called hemiplegia. Hemi ishalf,hemisphere,hemmed-in,hemlock, hem and haw.Plegia is the cessation of

motion. After ourcomplicated birth, physiciansin Atlanta pronounced manydiagnoses on myasymmetricalbrain,includingWernicke’s and Broca’saphasia, and sentmy parentshome over the icy roads onChristmas Eve with one-halfasetofperfect twinsand theprediction that I mightpossibly someday learn toreadbutwouldneverspeakaword. My parents seem to

havetakenthiswellinstride.I am sure the Reverendexplained to his exhaustedwife that it was the will ofGod,whocouldplainlysee—with these two additionalgirls so close after the firstone—our house had enoughfemales in itnowtofill itupwith blabber. They did notevenhaveRuthMayyet,butdid have a female dog thathowled,OurFatherstill likesto say, Like One Too Many

SopranosinChurch.TheDogthat Broke The Camel’sBack, he also calls it. OurFather probably interpretedBroca’s aphasia as God’sChristmas bonus to one ofHisworthieremployees.I am prone to let the

doctors’ prophecy rest andkeep my thoughts to myself.Silencehasmanyadvantages.Whenyoudonotspeak,otherpeople presume you to bedeaf or feeble-minded and

promptly make a show oftheir own limitations. Onlyoccasionally do I find I haveto break my peace: shout orbe lost in the shuffle. Butmostlyamlostintheshuffle.I write and draw in mynotebookandreadanythingIplease.It is true Idonot speakas

wellasIcanthink.Butthatistrueofmostpeople,asnearlyasIcantell.

LeahIN THE BEGINNINGmy

sisters bustled indoors,playing the role of mother’shelper withmore enthusiasmthan they’d ever shown forhousework in all their borndays. For one reason only:they were scared to set footoutside the house. RuthMayhad the bizarre idea that ourneighbors desired to eat her.Rachel, who sightedimaginary snakes at the least

provocation, said, “Jeez ohman,” rolled her eyes, andannounced her plan to passthe next twelve months inbed. If they gave out prizesfor being sick,Rachelwouldwinthegoldbricks.Butsoonshe got bored and dredgedherselfuptoseewhatallwasgoing on. She andAdah andRuthMayhelpedunpackandsetuphousekeeping.Thefirsttask was to pull out all themosquitonettingandstitch it

into tents to cover our fouridenticalcotsandmyparents’larger one. Malaria is ourenemy number one. EverySunday we swallow quininetablets so bitter your tonguewantstoturnitself insideoutlike a salted slug. But Mrs.Underdown warned usthat,pillsornopills,toomanymosquito bites could stillovertake the quinine in ourbloodandspellourdoom.I personally set myself

apart from the war on bloodparasites. I preferred to helpmyfatherworkonhisgarden.I’ve always been the one foroutdoor chores anyway,burning the trash andweeding, while my sisterssquabbled about the dishesand such. Back home wehavethemostgloriousgardeneach and every summer, soit’s only natural that myfather thought to bring overseeds in his pockets:

Kentucky Wonder beans,crookneck and patty-pansquash, Big Boy tomatoes.He planned to make ademonstration garden, fromwhich we’d gather a harvestfor our table and also supplyfood and seeds to thevillagers.ItwastobeourfirstAfrican miracle: an infinitechain of benevolence risingfrom these small, cracklingseed packets, stretching outfromourgarden into a circle

of other gardens, flowingoutward across the Congolike ripples from a rockdroppedinapond.Thegraceof our good intentions mademe feel wise, blessed, andsafefromsnakes.But there was no time to

waste.Aboutassoonaswe’dknelt on our own humblethreshold in a prayer ofthanks, moved in, and shedourkitchengoodsandallbutthe minimum decent

requirement of clothing,Father started clearing a plotofgroundoutof the jungle’sedge near our house, andpacingoff rows.He tookbiggoose steps—giant steps,we’d have called them, if hehadfirstasked,“MotherMayI?” But my father needspermission only from theSaviour,whoobviously isallin favor of subduing theuntamed wilderness for agarden.

He beat down a square oftall grass and wild pinkflowers,allwithoutonceeverlooking at me. Then he bentoverandbegantoripoutlonghandfuls of grasswithquick,energetic jerks as thoughtearing out the hair of theworld. He wore his cuffed,baggy work khakis and ashort-sleevedwhiteshirt,andlabored at the center of arisingredcloudofdustlikeacrew-cut genie who’d just

appeared there. A fur of reddust gathered on the curlyhairs of his forearms, andrivulets of perspiration randownhis temples.The tendonof his jawwasworking, so Iknew he was preparing arevelation.The education ofhisfamily’ssoulsisneverfarfrom my father’s thoughts.He often says he viewshimself as the captain of asinking mess of femaleminds. I know he must find

me tiresome, yet still I likespendingtimewithmyfathervery much more than I likedoinganythingelse.“Leah,”heinquiredatlast,

“why do you think the Lordgave us seeds to grow,instead of having our dinnerjustspringupoutthereontheground like a bunch of fieldrocks?”Now that was an arresting

picture. While I wasconsideringit,hetookupthe

hoebladethathadcrossedtheAtlanticinourmother’spurseandshoveditontoalongpolehe’dwhittledtofititssocket.Why did the Lord give usseeds? Well, they were sureeasier to stuff in our pocketsthanwhole vegetableswouldhave been, but I doubted ifGod took any real interest intravel difficulties. I wasexactly fourteen and a halfthat month, and still gettingusedtotheembarrassmentof

having the monthly visits. Ibelieve in God with all mymight,buthavebeenthinkinglately thatmostof thedetailsseem pretty much beneathHisdignity.I confessed I didn’t know

theanswer.He tested the heft and

strengthofhishoehandleandstudied me. He is veryimposing, my father, withbroad shoulders andunusually large hands. He’s

the handsome, sandy-hairedtype that people presume tobe Scottish and energetic,though possibly fiery-tempered.“Because, Leah, the Lord

helps those that helpthemselves.”“Oh!” I cried, my heart

rushing to my throat, for ofcourse I had known that. Ifonly I could ever bring forthall that I knew quicklyenoughtosuitFather.

“God created a world ofwork and rewards,” heelaborated, “on a bigbalanced scale.” He broughthis handkerchief out of hispocket to ream the sweat,carefully, out of one eyesocketandthentheother.Hehas a scar on his temple andpoor vision on the left side,fromawar injury he doesn’tevertalkabout,notbeingoneto boast. He refolded thehandkerchief and returned it

tohispocket.Thenhehandedmethehoeandheldhishandsout fromhis sides,palmsup,to illustrate the heavenlybalancing act. “Small worksofgoodnessoverhere,”helethis left hand drop slightly,“small rewards over here.”Hisrighthanddroppedjustamite with the weight of analmost insignificant reward.“Great sacrifice, greatrewards!”hesaidthen,lettingboth hands fall heavily from

theshoulders,andwithallmysoul I coveted the deliciousweight of goodness hecradledinthosepalms.Then he rubbed his hands

together, finished with thelesson and with me. “Godmerely expects us to do ourown share of the perspiringforlife’sbounty,Leah.”Hetookbackthehoeand

proceeded to hack out asmall, square dominion overthe jungle, attacking his task

with suchmuscular vigorwewouldsurely,andsoon,havetomatoes and beans comingout our ears. I knew God’sscale tobevastandperfectlyaccurate: I pictured it as amuch larger version of theone at the butcher’s counterin the Bethlehem PigglyWiggly. I vowed to workhardforHisfavor,surpassingall others in my devotion toturning the soil for God’sgreatglory.Somedayperhaps

I shall demonstrate to all ofAfrica how to grow crops!Without complaint I fetchedbucket after bucket of waterfrom the big galvanized tubon the porch, so he coulddousetheplotalittleatatimeahead of his hoe, to holddowntheawfuldust.Theredmud dried on his khakis likethe blood of a slain beast. Iwalkedbehindhimandfoundthe severed heads of manysmall,brightorangeorchids.I

held one close to my eye. Itwas delicate andextraordinary,withabulbousyellow tongue and maroon-spotted throat. Nobody hadever planted these flowers, Ifelt sure, nor harvested themeither; thesewereworks thattheLordhadgoneaheadandfinishedonHisown.Hemusthave lacked faith inmankind’s follow-throughcapabilities, on the day Hecreatedflowers.

Mama BekwaTataba stoodwatchingus—alittlejet-blackwoman.Herelbowsstuckoutlikewings, and a hugewhiteenameled tub occupied thespace above her head,somewhat miraculouslyholdingsteadywhileherheadmoved in quick jerks to therightandleft.MamaTataba’sjob, we were surprised tolearn,wastolivewithusandearnasmallstipendbydoingthesameworkshe’ddonefor

ourforerunnerintheKilangaMission, Brother Fowles.He’d left us twoboarders, infact: Mama Tataba and aparrot named Methuselah.Bothhadbeentrainedbyhimin the English language andevidentlyagooddealelse,forBrother Fowles left somemystery in his wake. Igathered throughoverhearingmy parents that BrotherFowles had entered intounconventionalallianceswith

the local people, and too hewas a Yankee. I heard themsaying he was New YorkIrish,whichtellsyoualot,asthey are notorious for beingpapist Catholics. Fatherexplained to us that he hadgoneplumbcrazy,consortingwith the inhabitants of theland.That’s why the Mission

League finally allowed us tocome.Atfirst they’dinsultedmy father by turning us

down, even after ourBethlehem congregation haddone special tithes for awholeyear to fly us here fortheperfusionofJesus’name.But no one else volunteeredfor theKilanga post, and theUnderdowns had requestedthat it be taken by someonesteady, with a family. Well,we were a family all right,and my father is steady as astump. Still, theUnderdownsinsisted that our mission last

no more than one year—notenoughtimeforgoingplumbcrazy but only partway, Iguess, even if things wentpoorly.BrotherFowleshadbeenin

Kilanga six years, whichreallywhenyouthinkaboutitis longenough for about anykindofbackslidingyoucouldname. There was no tellinghow he might haveinfluencedMamaTataba.Butwe needed her help. She

carriedallourwaterup fromthe river and cleaned and litthe kerosene lamps and splitwoodandbuiltthefireinthecookstove and threw bucketsof ash down the hole in theouthouse and paused to killsnakes more or less as adistraction between heavierjobs.MysistersandIstoodinawe of Mama Tataba, butwerenotquiteusedtoheryet.Shehadablindeye.Itlookedlike an egg whose yolk had

been broken and stirred justonce. As she stood there byourgarden,Istaredatherbadeye, while her good eyestaredatmyfather.“What you be dig for?

Wormgrub?” shedemanded.She turned her head slightlyfrom side to side, surveyingmy father’s work with whathecallsher“acutemonocularbeam.” The galvanizedbucket remained perfectlystill on top of her head—a

great,levitatingcrown.“We’recultivatingthesoil,

sister,”hesaid.“That one, brother, he

bite,” she said, pointing herknuckly hand at a small treehe was wresting from hisgardenplot.Whitesapoozedfromthetornbark.Myfatherwiped his hands on histrousers.“Poisonwood,” she added

flatly, emphasizing thedescendingsyllablesasifshe

wereequallytiredofallthree.My father mopped his

browagainandlaunchedintothe parable of the onemustard seed falling on abarren place, and the otheroneongoodsoil.Ithoughtofthe bright pointy-nosedmustard bottles we used inabundance at church wienersuppers—a world apart fromanything MamaTataba hadever seen.Fatherhad the jobof his life cut out for him,

bringing theWord to aplacelike this. I wanted to throwmy arms around his wearyneck and pat down hisrumpledhair.Mama Tataba seemed not

to be listening. She pointedagainatthereddirt.“Yougottobemakehills.”He stood his ground, my

father, tall as Goliath andpureofheartasDavid.Afilmof red dust on his hair andeyebrows and the tip of his

strong chin gave him afiendish look untrue to hisnature. He ran his large,freckled hand across the sideof his head, where his hairwas shaved close, and thenthrough the tousled crown,where Mother lets it growlonger. All this whileinspecting Mama Tataba -with Christian tolerance,taking his time to formulatethemessage.“MamaTataba,”hesaidat

last, “I’ve been tending thesoil ever since I could walkbehindmyfather.”When he says anything at

all,evenasimplethingaboutacaroraplumbing repair, ittends tocomeout like this—in terms that can beinterpretedassacred.Mama Tataba kicked the

dirt with her flat, naked soleand looked disgusted. “Hewon’tbegrow.Yougottobemake hills,” she stated, then

turned on her heel and wentin the house to help mymother slosh Clorox wateracross the floor to kill thehookworms.Iwas shocked. InGeorgia

I’d seen people angered bymy father before, orintimidated, but notcontemptuous.Never.“What does she mean,

make hills?” I asked. “Andwhy did she think a plantcouldbiteyou?”

He showed no trace ofconcern, though his hairblazedasifithadcaughtfirein the late-afternoon light.“Leah, our world is filledwith mystery” was hisconfidentreply.Among all of Africa’s

mysteries, herewere the fewthat revealed themselves inno time flat.My fatherwokeup the next morning with ahorriblerashonhishandsandarms, presumably wounded

by the plant that bites. Evenhis good right eye wasswollen shut, from wherehe’dwipedhisbrow.Yellowpus ran like sap from hiswelted flesh. He bellowedwhen Mother tried to applythesalve.“Iaskyou,howdidI earn this?” we heard himroar in their bedroom,through the closed door.“Ow! Great God almighty,Orleanna.Howdid thiscursecome tome,when it’sGod’s

own will to cultivate thesoil!” The door flew openwith a bang, and Fatherbarreled out. Mother chasedhim with bandages but hebatted her roughly away andwent outside to pace theporch. In the long run,though,hehad to comebackinandlethertendtohim.Shehadtobindhishandsincleanrags before he could evenpickupafork,ortheBible.Right after prayers I went

out to check the progress ofour garden, and was stunnedtoseewhatMamaTatabahadmeant by hills: to me theylooked like graves, as wideand long as a regular deadhuman.Shehadreshapedourgarden overnight into eightneatburialmounds. I fetchedmyfather,whocamewalkingfast as if I’d discovered aviperhemeanttobehead.Myfather by then was in aparoxysmofexasperation.He

squinted long and hard withhis bad eye, tomake out thefix our garden was in. Thenthe two of us together, -without a word passingbetween us, leveled it outagain as flat as the GreatPlains. I did all the hoeingmyself, to spare his afflictedhands. With my forefinger Iranlong,straightfurrowsandwe folded into themmore ofourprecious seeds.Westuckthe bright seed packets on

sticksat theendsof therows—squash, beans, Halloweenpumpkins—to remind uswhattoexpect.Several days later, once

Father had regained hiscomposureandbothhiseyes,he assured me thatMamaTatabahadn’tmeant toruin our demonstrationgarden. There was such athing as native customs, hesaid. We would need thepatience of Job. “She’s only

tryingtohelp,inherway,”hesaid. This is what I most

admire about Father: nomatter how bad thingsmightget, he eventually will findthegracetocomposehimself.Somepeople findhimoverlysternandfrightening,butthatisonlybecausehewasgiftedwithsuchkeenjudgmentandpurity of heart. He has beensingled out for a life of trial,as Jesus was. Being always

the first to spot flaws andtransgressions, it falls uponFathertodeliverpenance.Yethe is always ready toacknowledge the potentialsalvation that resides in asinner’s heart. I know thatsomeday, when I’ve grownlarge enough in the HolySpirit, I will have hiswholeheartedapproval.Not everyone can see it,

but my father’s heart is aslarge as his hands. And his

wisdom is great. He wasnever one of thosebackwoods ministers whourge the taking up ofcopperhead snakes, baby-flinging, or the shrieking ofnonsensesyllables.Myfatherbelievesinenlightenment.Asa boy he taught himself toread parts of the Bible inHebrew,andbeforewecameto Africa he made us all sitdown and study French, forthe furtherance of our

mission.Hehasalreadybeenso many places, includinganother jungle overseas, inthe Philippine Islands,wherehewasawoundedherointheSecond World War. So he’sseenabouteverything.

Rachel

ON CONGO EASTERSUNDAYtherewerenonewclothes for the Price girls,that’s for sure. We tromped

off tochurch in thesameoldshoesanddresseswe’dwornall theotherAfricanSundaysso far. No white gloves, itgoeswithout saying.And noprimping, because the onlymirror we have in the houseismyfaux-ivoryhandmirrorbrought from home, whichwe all have to share.Mothersetitonthedeskinthelivingroom, propped against thewall, and every time MamaTatabawalks by it she yelps

like a snake bit her. So:Easter Sunday in dirt-stainedsaddle oxfords, charmed I’msure.Asfarasmysistersareconcerned I have to say theydidn’t care. RuthMay is thetype to wear rolled-up BlueBelljeanstoherownfuneral,and the twins too, they’venevercaredahootwhat theylooked like. They spent somuch time staring at eachother’sfacesbeforetheywereborn they can go the rest of

their livespassingupmirrorswithoutaglance.Whilewe’reonthesubject,youshouldseewhat the Congolese runaround in. Children dressedup in the ragbags of Baptistcharity or else nothing at all.Color coordination is not astrongpoint.Grownmenandwomen seem to think a redplaid and a pink floral printare complementary colors.The women wear a sarongmade of one fabric, with

another big square of adifferent fabricwrappedoverthe top of it. Never jeans ortrousers—not on your life.Bosoms may wave in thebreeze, mind you, but legsmust be strictly hidden, topsecret. When Mother stepsfoot out of the house in herblack Capri pants, why, theyall just gawk and stare.As amatter of fact, amanwalkedinto a tree in front of ourhouse and knocked out a

tooth, thanks to Mother’sstretch pants. Women areexpectedtowearjust theonestyleofgarmentandnoother.But the men, now that is acourse of a different color.Theydressupeverydifferentway in theworld: somehavelong shirts made from thesame flowery African cloththat is attired by thewomen.Or they’ll wear a bolt of itdraped over one shoulder inthe style of Hercules. Others

wear American-stylebuttoned shirts and shorts indrab,stainedcolors.Afewofthe smaller men even gogallivanting around in littleundershirts decorated withchildish prints, and nobodyseemstonoticethejoke.Theonethatknockedhistoothouthas got himself a purple,steel-buttoned outfit thatlooks like a cast-off janitoruniform. As for theaccessories, I hardly know

wheretobegin.Sandalsmadeofcartiresarepopular.Soareantique wing tips curling upat the toes, black rubbergaloshes unbuckled andflapping open, or bright pinkplastic thongs, or bare feet—anyof thesecangowithanyof the before-mentionedoutfits. Sunglasses, plainglasses, hats, no hats, like-wise. Perhaps even a knitwoolencapwithaballontop,or a woman’s bright yellow

beret—I have witnessed allthesewondersandmore.Theattitude toward clothingseems to be: if you have it,why not wear it? Some mengo about their daily businessprepared for the unexpectedtropical snowstorm, it seems,whileotherswear shockinglylittle—a pair of shorts only.When you look around, itappears that every man herewasfixingtogotoadifferentparty,andthensuddenlythey

allgotplunkedheretogether.So that is how Easter

Sundaylookedinourchurch.Well, anyhow it was hardlythe church for crinolines andpatentleather.Thewallswerewide open. Birds couldswoop in and get your hairfor their nest if they felt likeit. Father had put up an altarmadeofpalmleavesinfront,whichlookedpresentableinarusticway,butyoucouldstillsee black char and stains on

the floor from the fire theymade on our first night here,for thewelcome feast. Itwasan unpleasant reminder ofSodom, Gomorrah, and soforth. I could still choke onthememoryofgoatmeat if Ithought about it. I neverswallowed it. I carried onebite inmymouthall eveningand spat it out behind theouthouse when we wenthome.So all right, no new

dresses. But I was hardlyallowed to complain aboutthat because, guess what. Itwasn’t even real Easter. Wearrived smack dab in themiddle of summer, far fromthe nearest holy day. Fatherwas disappointed about thetiming, until he made theshocking jet-age discoverythat days andmonths do notmatteronewayoranother topeople in this village. Theydon’t even know Sunday

fromTuesdayorFridayorthetwelfth of Never! Theyjustcount to five, have theirmarket day, and start over.One of the men in thecongregation confided toFatherthathavingchurchjusteveryoldnowandthen,as itseems to them, instead of onmarket day, has alwaysbamfuzzled everybody abouttheChristians.Thatsuregaveus a hoot! So Father hadnothing to lose by

announcing his own calendarandplacinguponitEasterontheFourthofJuly.Whynot?He said he needed a focalpointtogetthechurchgearedup.Our great event for

counterfeit Easter Sundaywas a pageant, organized byFather and whoever elsecould drum up theenthusiasm. So far, for ourfirst few weeks in Kilanga,attendance in church had

been marked by almost totalabsence. So Father saw thispageant as a splectacularmark of things being on theupswing.Fourmen,includingtheoneinthejanitoruniformand another with only oneleg, performed the roles ofsoldiers and carried realspears. (There “weren’t anywomen at the services tospeak of, so they weren’tgoing to be caught dead inany play.) At first the men

wantedtohavesomeoneplayouttheroleofJesusandraiseup from the dead, but Fatheropposed thatonprinciple.Sothey merely dressed up asRoman guards, standingaround the tomb laughingwith pagan satisfactionbecause they’d managed tokill God, and then in thesecond act, leaping about,showinggreatdismay to findthestonerolledback.I didn’t much care for

looking at those men in thepageant. We aren’t all thataccustomed to the Africanrace to begin -with, sincebackhometheykeep to theirownparts of town.But here,of course, with everyplacebeingtheirpartoftown.Plus,thesemeninthepageantwerejust carrying it to the hilt. Ididn’tseetherewasanyneedfor them to be so Africanabout it. They wore steelbraceletsontheirblackarms,

and loose, flapping clotthstucked half hazardly aroundtheir waists. (Even the peglegone!)Theycame runningor hopping into the church,carrying the sarnie heavyspearstheywoulduselaterinthe week to slew theanimals.Weknewtheydidit.Theirwivescametoourdoordaily with whole, drippinglegs of something not tenminutes dead. Before thegreat aadventure is all over,

Fatherexpectshischildrentoeat rhinoceros, I ssuppose.Antelope ismore or less ourdaily bread. They startedbringingusthat theveryfirstweek.Even,once,amonkey.Mama Tatalba would hagglewith the women at the door,and finally turn tco us withher scrawny arms raised uplikeaboxingchamp,holdingup our dinner. Jeez oh man,tellmewhen it’s over! Thenshe’d stoimp out to the

kitchen hut and build such ahuge fire in the iron stoweyou’d think she was CapeCarniverallaunchingarocketship.Slheishandyatcookinganything living or dead, butheaven be prraised, Motherrejected themonkey,with itslittle dead grin. She toldMamaTatabawecouldgetbyonthingsthatlookedlesslikekinfollk.Sowhenthemenwiththeir

bloodstained spears came

jinglingdowntheaisleofourchurch pageant on EasterSumday it representedprogress, I’m sure, but itwasn’t what Father re:allyhopedfor.Hehadenvisionedabaptism.ThewholepointofEasster in Julywas supposedto be an altar call, followedbyajoyfulproceessiondownto the river with childrendressed all in white gettingsaved. Father would standwaist deep out there like the

Baptist Saint John and holduponehand,andinthenameoftheFatheramdtheSonandthe Holy Ghost he woulddunkthemunder,onebyone.The river would be jam-packedwithpurifiedsouls.Thereisalittlestreamthat

runs by the village, writhsmall pools where peoplewash clothes and get waterfordrinkiing,butitisn’tdeepor wide enough for anythingnear the proper bsaptismal

effect. For Father it’s thewide Kwilu River andnothing less. I could seeexactly how he meant theceremony to go. It couildhave been, really, a prettysight.But the men said no, that

was not to be. The womenwere so opposed to gettingdunked in the river, even onhiearsay, they all kept theirchildren extra far from thechurch that day. So the

dramatic points of Father’spageantwere lostonmostofKilanga.Whatwithmysistersand me, our mother, andMamaTataba being the onlyfemalesinattendance,andallthementhatcouldwalkbeingin the play, a higherproportion of the audiencethan you’d care to thinkwaseither daydreaming orexamining the contents oftheirnostrils.Afterwards, instead of the

baptism, Father lured peopledownasnearashecouldgetthemtotheriverbymeansofthe age-old method of achurch supper. We had apicnic down on the bank ofthe Kwilu, which has thedelightful odor of mud anddead fish. The families thatwouldnotdarkenthedoorofthechurch,whichbythewaydoesn’t have any door, didmanage to join us for thepicnic. Naturally, since we

brought most of the food.They seem to think we areSanta Claus, the way thechildren come aroundbegging us for food andthings every single day—andus as poor as church mice!Onewomanwhocametryingto sell us her handmadebaskets looked in our doorand spied our scissors andasked right flat out if shecould have them! Imaginehavingthenerve.

So they all came grandlydown to the picnic: womenwith their heads wrapped inprint cloth like birthdaypresents. Children wearingwhat few clothes they had—whicheven thatwasonlyforour benefit, I knew, afterFather’s blowup over thelittledress-codeproblem.Inacertain way they seemednaked irregardless. Some ofthe women had newbornbabies too, teeny fawn-

colored frowning things,whichthemotherswrapupingreat big bundles of clothsand blankets and even littlewoolly caps, in all this heat!Just toshowhowprizedtheyare, I guess. In all this dustanddirtwithhardlyanythingever coming along that’sshiny and new, a baby doesseemlikequiteanevent.Of course, everyone kept

staring atme, as they alwaysdo here. I am the most

extremeblonde imaginable. Ihave sapphire-blue eyes,whiteeyelashes,andplatinumblonde hair that falls to mywaist. It is so fine I have touseBreckSpecialFormulatedand don’t care to think whatI’ll do when my one bottlethat Father allowed runs out:beat my hair on a rock likeMamaTataba does with ourclothes, charming. On theirown initiative the Congoleseseemunabletoproducemuch

in the way of hair—half ofthemarebaldas abug, eventhe girls. It is a disturbingsighttoseeagood-sizedlittlegirl ina rufflydress,andnota hair on her head.Consequently they are all soenvious of mine theyfrequentlywalkupboldlyandgive it ayank. It’s surprisingthat my parents allow thesituation to present itself. Insome ways they are so strictyou might as well have a

Communist for your parents,but when it comes tosomething you really wishthey’dnotice,oh,well!Thenparental laxity is the rule oftheday.The Easter picnic on the

Fourth of Julywas one long,drawn-out eternity of aCongolese afternoon. Theriverbank, though it looksattractive from a distance, isnot so lovely once you getthere:slick,smellymudbanks

framedbya tangleofbusheswithgaudyorangeflowerssolarge that if you tried to putone behind your ear likeDorothy Lamour you’d looklike you were wearing aMelmac soup bowl. TheRiver Kwilu is not like theRiverJordan,chillyandwide.It is a lazy, rolling river aswarm as bathwater, wherecrocodiles are said to rollaroundlikelogs.Nomilkandhoney on the other side,

either, but justmore stinkingjunglelayinglowinthehaze,as far, far away as thememory of picnics inGeorgia. I closed my eyesanddreamedofrealsodapopin convenient throwawaycans.Weallatefriedchickenthat Mother had cooked,southern style, starting fromscratchwithkilling themandloppingofftheirheads.Thesewere the self-same chickensRuthMayhadchasedaround

the house that very morningbefore church. My sistersmoped somewhat, but Inibbled my drumstickhappily! Considering mywhole situation, I was notabout to be bothered by thespectrum of death at ourpicnic. Iwas justgrateful fora crispy taste of somethingthat connected this creepy,buzzing heat with realsummertime.The chickens had been

another surprise for us, likeMamaTataba.Therewasjustthe biggest flock of black-and-white-checkered hensherewaiting for uswhenwearrived. They were bustingoutof thehenhouse, roostinginthetreesandwherevertheycould find a spot, for afterBrotherFowlesleft,they’dallgonetohidingtheireggsandraising up babies during thebackslide between missions.People in the village had

thought of helping us out byeating a few before we gothere, but Mama Tataba, Iguess, kept them warded offwith a stick. It was Motherwho decided to contributemostof the flock for feedingthe village, like a peaceoffering. On the morning ofthe picnic she had to start inat theverycrackofdawn, toget all those hens killed andfried up. At the picnic shewalked through the crowd

passing out thighs anddrumsticks to the littlechildren, who acted just aspleased as punch, lickingtheir fingers and singing outhymns. Yet, for all herslaving over a hot stove,Father hardly noticed howshe’d won over the crowd.His mind was two millionmiles away. He just mostlystared out at the river,whereno one was fixing to getdunked that day,whatsoever.

Just big mats of floatingplants going by with stilty-legged birds walking aroundandaroundontop,everyoneof them no doubt thinkinghe’skingoftheworld.I was sore at Father all

right, for us having to bethere in thefirstplace.But itwas plain to see he was putout, too, something fierce.Whenhegetshismindsetonsomething you’d just aswellprepare to see it through.The

picnicwas festive, but not atallwhathe’dhad inmind. Itwas nothing, in terms ofredemption.

RuthMayIF SOMEBODY WAS

HUNGRY, why would theyhave a big fat belly? I don’tknow.The children are named

Tuniba, Bangwa, Mazuzi,Nsimba, and those things.One of them comes in our

yard the most and I don’tknow his name at all. He’snear about big, like mysisters, but doesn’t wear athing on God’s green earthbut an old gray shirtwithoutany buttons and baggy grayunderpants.He has a big oldround belly with his bellybutton sticking out like ablack marble. I can tell it’shim because of the shirt andunderpants, not because ofthe belly button. They all

have those. I thought theywere all fat, but Father saidno.Theyrehungryascanbe,and don’t get their vitamins.And still God makes themlook fat. I reckon that’swhatthey get for being theTribesofHam.One of them is a girl,

because of her dress. It’spurple plaid, and it’s rippedright open on the bodice sooneofhernipplesshows,butshe just runs around a-

wearing it anyway like shenevernoticedandneitherdidanybody. She has shoes too.They used to be white butnow they’re dirt-color.Anythingthateverwaswhiteisnotwhitehere.Thatisnotacolor you see. Even a whiteflower opening up on a bushjust looks doomed for thisworld.Ionlygot tobringme two

toys: pipe cleaners, and amonkey-sock monkey. The

monkey-sock monkey hasdonegonealready. I lefthimouton theverandaandcomethe next morning, he wasgone. One of those littlechildrenstole,whichisabadsin. Father says to forgivethemfor theyknownotwhattheydo.Mamasaysyoucan’thardlyevencallitasinwhenthey need ever little thing asbad as they do. So I don’tknow which one, if it was asinoritwasn’t.ButIsuregot

mad and had a fit. Iaccidentally peed in mybritches. My monkey-sockmonkey was named SaintMatthew.The grown-up Congomen

are all named TataSomething. That one, nameofTataUndo,heisthechief.He wears a whole outfit, catskins and everything and ahat.FatherhadtogoseeTataUndotopaytheDevilhisdo.AndthewomenareallMama

Something,eveniftheydon’thave children. Like MamaTataba, our cooking lady.Rachel calls herMamaTaterTots. But she won’t cookthose.Iwishshewould.Theladyinthelittlehouse

that’s pretty close to ours isMamaMwanza.Onetimeherroofcaughtonfireandfellonherandburntupher legsbutnot the rest of her. Thathappened way back yearsago.MamaTatabatoldMama

about it in the kitchen houseand I was listening. Theywon’t talk about the badthings in front ofmy sisters,but me I can listen all thelivelong day while I’mgetting me a banana in thekitchen house and peeling it.Mama Tataba hangs thewhole big family of bananasup in the corner all together,so the tarantula spiders thatuseit for theirhousecanjustmoveonoutwhentheytakea

notion. I sat real still on thefloor and peeled my onebanana like Saint Matthewwould if he was a realmonkey and not gone, and Iheard them talking about thewoman that got burned up.The roofs burn up becausetheyareallmadeoutofsticksand hay like theThreeLittlePigs.Thewolfcouldhuffandpuff and blow your housedown.Evenours. It’s a rightsmart better than the other

ones, but it’s not bricks.Mama Mwanza’s legs didn’tburn all the way off but itlooks like a pillow or justsomething down there she’ssitting on wrapped up in acloth sack. She has to scootaround on her hands. Herhand bottoms look like feetbottoms, only with fingers. Iwentoverthereandhadmeagoodlookatherandherlittlegirlswith no clothes on. Shewasniceandgavemeapiece

of orange to suck on.Mamadoesn’tknow.MamaMwanza almost got

burntplumbtodeathwhen ithappenedbut then she gotbetter.Mama says thatwasthe poor woman’s bad luck,because now she has got togo right on tending after herhusband and her seven oreight children. They don’tcare one bit about her nothaving any legs to speak of.To them she’s just their

mama and where’s dinner?To all the other Congopeople, too. Why, they justdon’t let on, like she was aregular person. Nobody batstheir eyewhen she scootsbyon her hands and goes ondowntoherfieldor therivertowashclotheswiththeotherladies that work down thereeveryday.Shecarriesallherthings in a basket on top ofher head. It’s as big asMama’s big white laundry

hamperbackhomeandseemslike she’s always got abouttenhundredthingspiledupinthere.Whenshescootsdownthe road, not a one of themfalls out.All the other ladieshave big baskets on theirheadstoo,sonobodystaresatMama Mwanza one way oranother.What they do is, they all

stare at us. They look atRacheltheworst.FirstMamaand Father were thinking it

might do Rachel some goodto be cranked down a notchortwo.FathersaidtoMama:“A child shouldn’t thinkherself better than othersbecause she is blonde as awhite rabbit.”He said that. Itold it to Leah and shelaughedoutloud.Iamblondetoo but not as much as awhite rabbit. Strawberryblonde,Mamasays.SoIhopeI don’t have to get crankeddown a notch or two like

Rachel. I like strawberriesabout better thananything.You can keep arabbitforapetoryoucaneatit. Poor Rachel. Everwhenshe goes out, whole bunchesof little Congo children runafter her on the road a-reaching and a-yanking onher long white hair to see ifthey can get it to come off.Sometimes even thegrownups do too. I reckonthey think it’s a right good

sport. Leah told me it’sbecause they don’t believe itisherhairandthinkshe’sgotsomething strange drapedoverherhead.Rachel gets her the worst

sunburns, too. Igetburntbutnot likeher.Pink isRachel’sfavoritecolorand it’sagoodthingbecausethat’swhatsheis.Father says it is the lotofevery youngwoman to learnhumility and God plots foreachherchosenway.

Mamasays,“Butmusttheylook on us as freaks ofnature?” Rachel was MissPriss and now she is a freakof nature. Used to be, Adahwastheonlyoneofusinourfamilywithsomethingwrongwith her. But here nobodystares at Adah except just alittle because she’s white.Nobody cares that she’s badon one whole side becausethey’ve all got their ownhandicapchildrenoramama

withno feet, or their eyeputout.Whenyoutakealookoutthe door, why, there goessomebody with somethingmissing off of them and noteven embarrassed of it.They’llwave a stump at youif they’ve got one, in afriendlyway.At firstMamagot after us

for staring and pointing atpeople. She was all the timewhispering,“DoIhavetotellyou girls ever single minute

don’t stare!” But nowMamalooks too. Sometimes shesaystousorjustherself,NowTata Zinsana is the onemissing all the fingers, isn’the? Or she’ll say, That biggouterlikeagooseeggunderher chin, that’s how IrememberMamaNguza.Father said, “They are

living in darkness.Broken inbodyandsoul,anddon’tevensee how they could behealed.”

Mama said, “Well, maybethey take a different view oftheirbodies.”Father says thebody is the temple. ButMama has this certain voicesometimes. Not exactlysassing back, but just aboutnearly. She was sewing ussomewindowcurtainsoutofdress material so theywouldn’t be looking in at usall the time, and had pins inhermouth.She took thepinsout and said to him, “Well,

hereinAfricathattemplehastodoahatefullotofworkina day.” She said, “Why,Nathan,heretheyhavetousetheir bodies like we usethings at home—like yourclothes or your garden toolsor something. Where you’dbe wearing out the knees ofyour trousers, sir, they justhave to go ahead and wearouttheirknees!”Father looked at Mama

hard for talking back to him.

“Well, sir,” she said, “that isjustwhat it looks like tome.Thatisjustmyobservation.Itappears to me their bodiesjust get worn out, about thesame way as our worldlygoodsdo.”Mama wasn’t really

sassing back. She calls himsirthewayshecallsusSugarand Hon, trying to be nice.Butstill. If itwasme talkingback that way, he’d say,“That is a fine line you are

walking there, young lady.”Andheappearedtobefixingto say just such a thing toMama. He was debatingaboutit.Hestoodthereinthefront doorway with the sunjust squeaking by him on allsides. He is so big he nearabout filled up the wholedoorway. His head almosttouched.AndMamawas justsitting down short at thetable, so she went back tosewing.

He said, “Orleanna, thehuman body is a sight moreprecious than a pair of khakitrousers from Sears andRoebuck. I’d expect you tocomprehendthedifference.”Thenhelookedatherwith

his one eye turnedmean andsaid,“Youofallpeople.”She turned red and

breathed out like she does.She said, “Even somethingpreciouscangetshabbyinthecourseof things.Considering

what they’re up against here,thatmight not be such a badattitudeforthemtotake.”After that Mama put pins

back in her mouth, so nomoretalking.Hedidn’tsayanything,Yes

or No, just turned his backandwent on out. He doesn’tapprove talking back. If thatwasme,oh,boy.That razor strop burns so

bad,afteryougotobedyourlegs still feel stripedy like a

zebrahorse.I’ll tell you one thing that

Fatherhassureworeoutbad:hisoldgreenswivelrockerinthe living roomof our housewherewe live in Bethlehem,Georgia.You can see whitethreads in the shape of abottom. It doesn’t look verypolite. And nobody but himdid it, either.Hesits thereofan evening and reads andreads. Once in a while hereadstousoutloudwhenwe

have our scripture stories.Sometimes I get to pickingmy scabs and think aboutcartoonsinsteadofJesus,andHe sees me doing that. ButJesus loves me and this Iknow: nobody can sit in thatgreen swivel rocker butFather.Mamasays there’s another

man and lady with two littlegirlsandababylivinginourhouseinBethlehem,Georgia.Themanistheministerwhile

we’regone.IhopetheyknowaboutFather’schairbecauseiftheysitinit,oh,

boy.They’llgetit.

AdahIT WAS NEITHER

DIABOLICAL NORDIVINE; it but shook thedoors of the prison house ofmy disposition; and like thecaptives of Philippi, thatwhich stoodwithin ran forth.SofeelI.LivingintheCongo

shakesopen theprisonhouseofmydispositionand letsallthewickedhoodooAdahsrunforth.To amuse my depraved

Ada self during homeworktimeIwrotedownthatquotefrom memory on a smalltriangular piece of paper andpassed it to Leah, with thequery:FROMWHATBOOKOF THE BIBLE? Leahfancies herself Our Father’sstarpupil inmattersBiblical.

Star Pupil: Lipup Rats.MissRat-pup read the quote,nodding solemnly, andwroteunderneath, The book ofLuke. I’m not sure whichverse.Hah!Icanlaughveryhard

without even smiling on theoutside.The quote is from The

Strange Case of Dr. JekyllandMr. Hyde, which I haveread many times. I have astrong sympathy for Dr.

Jekyll’s dark desires and forMr.Hyde’scrookedbody.Before we fled

Bethlehem’s drear libraries Ihad also recently read ThePilgrim’s Progress andParadise Lost, which haveweaker plot lines than Dr.Jekyll,andmanyotherbooksOur Father does not knowabout,includingthepoemsofMiss Emily Dickinson andTales of the Grotesque andArabesque by Edgar Allan

Poe. I am fond of Mr. Poeand his telltale Raven: EromReven!Mother is the one who

notices,and tellsnaught.Shestarted it all, reading thePsalms and various FamilyClassics aloud to Leah andme. Mother has a pagan’sappreciation for the Bible,beingdevotedtosuchphrasesas “purge me with hyssop,”and “strong bulls of Bashanhave beset me round,” and

“thou hast put off mysackclothandgirdedmewithgladness.” Likely she wouldrunthroughthefieldsdressedin sackcloth, hunting hyssopamongstthewildbulls,ifnotobligated to the higher planeof Motherhood. She isespecially beset by Leah’sandmy status as exceptionalchildren. When we enteredthe first grade, we wereexamined by the spinsterprincipal of Bethlehem

Elementary, Miss Leep, whoannounced that we weregifted: Leah, on account ofher nonchalant dazzlingscores on reading-comprehension tests, andmyselfbyassociation,asIampresumed to have the samebrain insofar as the intactpartsgo.ThiswasashocktoMother,whoup to thatpointhad offered us no educationhigher than the names of thewildflowers growing in the

roadside ditches where wewalked barefoot (when OurFather’s scorching eyeswerenotuponus:Sunoputonotuponus!)fromtheparsonageto the corner market. Myearliest Mother memories lielaughing blue-eyed in thegrass, child herself, rollingside to side as Rachel andLeah decorated her all overwith purple-clover jewelry.OnceLeahandIweregifted,though, everything changed.

Mother seemed sobered bythis news from our teachers,asifshehadearnedaspecialpunishment from God. Shebecame secretive andefficient. She reined in ournature walks and settleddown to business with alibrarycard.Sheneednothavetroubled

with secrecy, for all OurFather noticed. On firsthearingMissLeep’snewshemerely rolled his eyes, as if

two dogs in his yard hadreportedly been caughtwhistling“Dixie.”HewarnedMother not to flout God’sWill by expecting too muchfor us. “Sending a girl tocollege is like pouring waterin your shoes,” he still lovesto say, as often as possible.“It’s hard to say which isworse, seeing it run out andwaste the water, or seeing itholdinandwrecktheshoes.”And so I shall never have

opportunity to have myleather wrecked by college,but I do owe a great debt toMiss Leep for saving mefrom the elementary discardheap. A principal lessobservantwould have placedLeah in Gifted, and Adah inSpecial Ed with themongoloids and all six ofBethlehem’s thumb-sucking,ear-pullingCrawley children,and therewould I remain, tolearnhowtopullmyownear.

Overjoyed, null and void,Mongoloid. I still have afellow feeling for thatalmond-tastingword.Oh, but it did unsettle the

matrons of Bethlehem to seethepoor thingboosted into aclass ahead of their ownchildren, there to becomedazzling slick-quick atmathematics. In thirdgrade Ibegan to sumupourgrocerybillinmyhead,silentlywriteit down and hand it over,

faster than Delma Roycecould total it on her cashregister. This became afamouseventandneverfailedto draw a crowd. I had noideawhy.Imerelyfeltdrawnin by those rattling, loosenumbersneeding theircall toorder. No one seemed torealize calculating sumsrequires only the most basicmachinery and goodconcentration. Poetry is farmore difficult. And

palindromes, with theirperfect,satisfyingtaste:Drawa level award! Yet it isalways the thin gray grocerysums that make animpression.My hobby is to ignore the

awards and excel when Ichoose. I can read and writeFrench, which in Kilanga isspoken by all who everpassed through theUnderdowns’ school. Mysisters seem not to have

sloweddown long enough tolearn French. Speaking, as Isaid—along with the rest oflife’sacrobatics—canbeseenin a certain light as adistraction.When I finish reading a

book from front to back, Iread it back to front. It is adifferent book, back to front,andyoucanlearnnewthingsfrom it. It from things newlearn can you and front tobackbookdifferentaisit?

You can agree or not, asyoulike.This isanotherwayto read it, although Iam toldanormalbrainwillnotgraspit: Ti morf sgniht wen nraelnac uoy dna tnorf ot kcabkoob tnereffid a si ti. Thenormal,Iunderstand,canseewords my way only if theyare adequately poetic: PoorDanisinadroop.My own name, as I am

accustomed to think of it, isEcirpNelleHada.Sometimes

I write it this way withoutthinking, and people turn upstartled. To them I am onlyAdah or, to my sisterssometimes, the drearmonosyllabicAde,lemonade,Band-Aid, frayed blockade,switchblade renegade, call aspadeaspade.I prefer Ada as it goes

either way, like me. I am aperfect palindrome. Damnmad!Acrossthecoverofmynotebook I havewritten as a

warningtoothers:ELAPSED OR

ESTEEMED, ALL ADEMEETSERODESPALE!Formytwinsister’snameI

prefer the spelling Lee, asthat makes her—from theback-court position fromwhich I generally watch her—the slippery length ofmusclethatsheis.The Congo is a fine place

tolearnhowtoreadthesamebook many times. When the

rain pours down especially,we have long hours ofcaptivity, inwhichmysistersdeterminedlygrowbored.Butare there books, books thereare! Rattling words on thepagecallingmyeyestodancewiththem.Everyoneelsewillfinish with the singularplowing through, and Adastill has discoveries aheadandbehind.When therainyseasonfell

onusinKilanga,itfelllikea

plague. We were warned toexpectraininOctober,butatthecloseofJuly—surprisingno one in Kilanga butourselves—the sereneheavensabovebegantodumpbuckets. Stekcub pmud! Itrained pitchforks, as Mothersays. It rained cats and dogsfrogs bogs then it rainedsnakes and lizards. Apestilence of rain wereceived, the likes of whichwe had never seen or

dreamedaboutinGeorgia.Under the eave of the

porch our chargeMethuselahscreamed like a drowningman in his cage.MethuselahisanAfricanGreyparrotwitha finescaly look tohishead,a sharp skeptical eye likeMiss Leep’s, and a scarlettail. He resides in aremarkable bamboo cage astallasRuthMay.Hisperchisa section of a sturdy old-fashioned yardstick,

triangular in cross-section.Long ago someone broke offthe inches nineteen throughthirty-six and assigned thesetoMethuselahfortheconductofhisaffairs.Parrots are known to be

long-lived,andamongall theworld’s birds, African Greysare best at imitating humanspeech. Methuselah may ormay not have heard aboutthis, for he mumbles badly.He mumbles to himself all

day long like GrandfatherWharton. Mostly he saysincomprehensible things inKikongobut also speaks likeMr. Poe’s Raven a desultoryEnglish. On the first day ofrain, he raised his head andscreechedthroughtheroarofthestormhisbesttwophrasesin our language: first, inMama Tataba’s side-slantvoice, “Wake up, BrothahFowelslWake up, BrothahFowels!” Then in a low-

pitched growl,”Piss off,Methuselah!” The ReverendPricelookedupfromhisdeskbythewindowandmadenoteof the words “Piss off.” Themorally suspect ghost ofBrother Fowles was thickuponus.“That,” the Reverend

declared,“isaCatholicbird.”Mother looked up from hersewing. My sisters and Ishifted in our chairs,expecting Father to assign

Methuselah“TheVerse.”The dreaded Verse is our

householdpunishment.Otherlucky children might merelybethrashedfortheirsins,butwe Price girls are castigatedwith the Holy Bible. TheReverend will level his gazeand declare, “You have TheVerse.” Then slowly, as wesquirmonhishook,hewriteson a piece of paper, forexample: Jeremiah 48:18.Then say ye good-bye to

sunshine or the Hardy Boysforanafternoonasyou,poorsinner, must labor with apencil inyourgood lefthandto copy out Jeremiah 48:18,“Come down from yourthroneofgloryand sit in themire, O daughter that dwellsin Dibon,” and additionally,the ninety-nine verses thatfollow it. One hundred fullverses exactly copied out inlonghand, because it is thefinal one that reveals your

crime.InthecaseofJeremiah48:18, the end is Jeremiah50:31,“Lo!Iamagainstyou,O Insolence! saith the oracleoftheLord,theGodofhosts;Foryourdayhas come,yourtime of reckoning.” Onlyupon reaching that one-hundredth verse do youfinally understand you arebeingpunished for the sinofinsolence. Although youmightwellhavepredictedit. He sometimes has us

copy from Old King James,but prefers to use theAmerican Translation thatincludes his peculiarlybeloved Apocrypha. That isone pet project of theReverend’s: getting otherBaptists to swallow theApocrypha.I have wondered,

incidentally: doesOur FatherhavehisBiblessoentirely inmind that he can select aninstructiveverseandcalculate

backward to the one-hundredth previous? Or doeshesitupnightssearching out a Verse for

everypotentialinfraction,andstore this ammunition at theready for his daughters?Eitherway,itisasimpressiveas my grocery sums in thePiggly Wiggly. We all,especially Rachel, live interrorofthecursedVerse.But in the case of the

cursing parrot that first long

rainy day, Methuselah couldnot be made to copy theBible.Curiouslyexemptfromthe Reverend’s rules wasMethuselah, in the samewayOur Father was finding theCongolesepeoplebeyondhispower.Methuselahwas a slylittle representative of Africaitself, living openly in ourhousehold. Onemight argue,even, that he was herefirst.We listened to parrot

prattle and sat confined,uncomfortably close to OurFather.Forfivesolidhoursofdownpour we watched smallred frogs with immense,cartoonlike toes squeeze inaround thewindows andhopsteadilyupthewalls.Ourall-weather coats hung on theirsix pegs; possibly they weremeantforallweatherbutthis.Ourhouseismadeofmud-

battered walls and palmthatch, but is different from

allotherhousesinKilanga.Inthefirstplaceitislarger,witha wide front room and twobedrooms in back, one ofwhich resembles a hospitalscene from FlorenceNightingale’s time, as it ischock-full of cots undertriangles of mosquito net forthe family surplus of girls.Thekitchenisaseparatehut,behindthemainhouse.Intheclearing beyond stands ourlatrine, unashamed, despite

thevilecurses rainedupon itdailybyRachel.Thechickenhouse is back there too.Unlike the other villagers’houses, our windows aresquarepanesofglassandourfoundation and floor arecement.Allotherhouseshavefloors of dirt. Curt, subvert,overexert. We see villagewomen constantly sweepingtheir huts and the barrenclearings in front of theirhomes with palm-frond

brooms, andRachelwith herusual shrewdness points outyou could sweep a floor likethat plumb to China andnever get it clean. By thegraceofGodandcementourfamily has been spared thatfrustration.In the front room our

dining table looks to havecomeoffawreckedship,andthere is an immense rolltopdesk(possiblyfromthesameship) used byOur Father for

writinghissermons.Thedeskhaswoodenlegsandcast-ironchicken’sfeet,eachclutchinga huge glass marble, thoughthree of the marbles arecracked and one is gone,replaced by a chink ofcoconuthuskintheinterestofalevelwritingsurface.Inourparents’ room, morefurniture: a wooden bureauand an old phonographcabinet with no workingsinside. All brought by other

brave Baptists before us,though it is hard to seequitehow, unless one envisions atime when other means oftravel were allowed, andmore than forty-four pounds.We also have a dining tableand a rough handmadecupboard, containing ajumble-sale assortment ofglass and plastic dishes andcups, one too few ofeverything,sowesistershaveto bargain knives for forks

while we eat. The cabinetalso contains an ancientcracked platecommemorating the World’sFair in St. Louis, Missouri,and a plastic cup bearing thenose and ears of a mouse.And in the midst of thisrabble, serene as the VirginMother in her barnful ofshepherds and scabbylivestock, one amazing,beautiful thing: a large, ovalwhite platter painted with

delicate blue forget-me-nots,bone china, so fine thatsunlightpasses through it. Itsorigin isunfathomable. Ifweforgot ourselves we mightworshipit.Outdoors we have a long

shadyporchourmotherinherMississippi-born way calls averanda.MysistersandIloveto lounge there in thehammocks,andwelongedforrefuge there even on the dayofourfirstdownpour.Butthe

storm lashed sideways,battering the walls and poorMethuselah. When hisscreaminggot toopathetic tobear, our grim-faced motherbrought inhiscageandset iton the floor by the window,where Methuselah continuedhis loud, randomcommentary. In addition topapism, the Reverendprobablysuspectedthisnoisycreatureoflatentfemaleness.The deluge finally stopped

justbefore sunset.Theworldlooked stepped on anddrenched, but my sisters ranout squealing like the firstfreepigsofftheark,eagertoseewhatthefloodhadleftus.Alowcloudin theair turnedout to be tiny flying antlikecreatures by the millions.They hovered just above theground, making a long, lowhumthatstretched to theendof the world. Their bodiesmade clicking sounds as we

swatted them away from us.We hesitated at the edge ofthe yard, where the muddyclearing grades into a longgrass slope, then charged oninto the grass, until our waywas barred by the thousandcrossed branches of theforest’s edge: avocado,palms, tall wild sugar-canethickets.This forest obscuresourviewoftheriver,andanyother distance. The village’ssingledirtroadskirtsouryard

and runs past us into thevillage to the south; on thenorth it disappears into thewoods.Though we watchMamaTatabavanish thatwayand return again, intact, withher water buckets full, ourmother did not yet trust thepath to swallow and deliverher children. So we turnedand trompedbackup thehilltoward the pair of floweryround hibiscus bushes thatflankthestepstoourporch.

What a landing party wewere as we stalked about,identically dressed in saddleoxfords, long-tailed shirts,and pastel cotton pants, butall so different. Leah wentfirst as always, Goddess ofthe Hunt, her weasel-coloredpixie haircut springing withenergy, her muscles workingtogetherlikepartsofaclock.Then came the rest of us:Ruth May with pigtailsflying behind her, hurrying

mightily because she isyoungestandbelievesthelastshall be first. And thenRachel, our family’s ownQueenofSheba,blinkingherwhite eyelashes, flicking herlong whitish hair as if shewere the palomino horse sheonce craved to own. QueenRachel drifted along severalpaces behind, lookingelsewhere. She was almostsixteen and above it all, yetstill unwilling for us to find

something good without her.Last of all came Adah themonster, Quasimodo,draggingherrightsidebehindher left in her body’spermanent stepsong sing:left...behind,left...behind.This is our permanent

order: Leah, Ruth May,Rachel, Adah. Neitherchronological noralphabetical but it rarelyvaries, unlessRuthMay getsdistracted and falls out of

line.At the foot of the hibiscus

bush we discovered a fallennest of baby birds, alldrowned. My sisters werethrilled by the little naked,wingedbodieslikestorybookgriffins, and by the horriblefacttheyweredead.Thenwefound the garden. Rachelscreamed triumphantly that itwas ruined once and for all.Leah fell to her knees in ademonstrationofgriefonOur

Father’s behalf. The torrenthadswampedtheflatbedandthe seeds rushed out likerunaway boats. We foundthemeverywhereincachesinthe tall grass at the edge ofthe patch. Most had alreadysprouted in the previousweeks, but their little rootshad not held them to theReverend Farmer’s flat-as-Kansas beds against thetorrent.Leahwalkedalongonher knees, gathering up

sproutsinhershirttail,assheprobably imagined Saca-jaweah would have done inthesamesituation.LaterOurFathercameout

to survey the damage, andLeahhelpedhimsort out theseedsbykind.Hedeclaredhewould make them grow, inthenameofGod,orhewouldplant again (the Reverend,like any prophet worth hissalt, had held some seeds inreserve)ifonlythesunwould

evercomeoutanddryupthisaccursedmire.Even at sunset, the two of

them did not come in forsupper. Mama Tataba bentoverthetableinourmother’slarge white apron, whichmade her look’ counterfeitand comic, as though actingtheroleofmaidinaplay.Shewatched him steadily out thewindow, smilingherpeculiardownturned smile, and madesatisfied clicks with her

tongue against her teeth.Weset ourselves to the task ofeating her cooking, friedplantain and the luxury ofsomecannedmeat.FinallyhesentLeahin,but

long after dinner we couldstill hear the Reverend outtherebeatingthegroundwithhishoe,revisingtheearth.Noonecansayhedoesnotlearnhis lesson, though it mighttake a deluge, and thoughhemight never admit in this

lifetime that it was not hisown idea in the first place.Nevertheless,OurFatherhadbeeninfluencedbyAfrica.Hewas out there pushing hisgarden up into rectangular,flood-proof embankments,exactly the length and widthofburialmounds.

LeahIT ONLY TAKES FIVE

DAYS in hot weather for aKentucky Wonder bean to

gather up its vegetablewillpower and germinate.That was all we thought weneeded. Once the rainsabated, my father’s gardenthrived in the heat like anunleashed temper. He lovedto stand out there justwatching things grow, hesaid, and you could believeit.The beanstalks twistedaround the sapling teepeeshe’d built for them, and thenthey wavered higher and

higher like ladies’ voices inthe choir, eachonevying forthetop.Theyreachedoutforthe branches of nearby treesand twined up into thecanopy.The pumpkin vines also

took on the personality ofjungle plants. Their leavesgrew so strangely enormousRuthMaycouldsitstillunderthem and win at “Hide andSeek” for a very long timeafter the rest of us had

stopped playing. When wesquatted downwe could see,alongside Ruth May’s wideblueeyes,yellowblossomsofcucumberandsquashpeeringoutfromtheleafydarkness.My father witnessed the

progress of every new leafand fat flower bud. Iwalkedbehind him, careful not totrample the vines. I helpedhim construct a sturdy stickbarricade around theperiphery so the jungle

animals and village goatswould mot come in andwreck our tender vegetableswhen they came. Motherclaims Ihave themannersofawildanimalmyself,asIama toimboy,but Inever fail tobe respectful of my father’sgarden. His devotion to itsprogress, likehis devotion tothechurch,wastheanchoringforce in my life throughoutthispast summer. Iknewmyfather icould taste those

Kentucky Wonder beans assurely as any pure soul cantasteheaven.Rachel’s birthday came in

late August, but the BettyCrocker cake mix let us alldown. Normal cakeproduction proved out of thequestion.Tobeginwith,ourstoveis

an iron contraption with afirebox so immense a personcould climb right in if theyfelt like it. Mother yanked

Ruth May out by the arm,pretty hard, when she foundher in there;shedreaded thatMama Tataba in one of herenergetic fits might stoke upthe stove with the babyinside. It was a sensibleconcern. Ruth May is sointent on winning Hide andSeek, or any game for thatmatter, she would probablygo ahead and burn up beforeshe’d ever yell and giveherselfaway.

Mother has figured outhowtomakebread“byhookorbycrook,”shelikestosay,but the stove doesn’t reallyhaveaproperoven.Infact,itlooks less like a stove thanamachine hammered togetherout of some other machine.Rachel says it was part of alocomotive train, but she isfamous formaking thingsupout of thin air and statingtheminahigh,knowingtone.The stove wasn’t even the

worstofourcaketroubles.Inthe powerful humidity thepowdered mix gottransfigured like Lot’s poorwife who looked back atGomorrahandgotturnedtoapillarofsalt.Onthemorningof Rachel’s birthday I foundMother out in the kitchenhouse with her head in herhands, crying.Shepickedupthe box and banged it hardagainst the iron stove, justonce, to showme. It clanged

likeahammeronabell.Herway of telling a parable isdifferentfrommyfather’s.“If I’d of had the foggiest

idea,” she said very steadily,holding her pale, weepingeyesonme,“justthefoggiestidea. We brought all thewrongthings.”The first time my father

heard Methuselah say,“Damn,” his body movedstrangely, as if he’d receivedthe spirit or a twinge of bad

heartburn. Mother excusedherselfandwentinthehouse.Rachel, Adah, and I were

left on the porch, and helooked at each one of us inturn. We had known him toforbearwith a silent grimacewhen Methuselah said, “Pissoff,” but of course that wasthedoing of Brother Fowles.

Themoteinhisbrother’seye,not the sin of his ownhousehold. Methuselah had

neversaid“Damn”before,sothis was something new,spokenrightoutverychipperinafemininetoneofvoice.“Which one of you taught

Methuselah to say thatword?”hedemanded.I felt sick to my stomach.

None of us spoke. For Adahthat’s normal, of course, andforthatveryreasonsheoftengetsaccusedwhennoneofusspeaks up. And truthfully, ifanyofuswasdisposedtouse

curse words, it would beAdah,whocouldnotcarelessabout sin and salvation.That’s the main reason I gotMother to cut my hair in apixie, while Adah kept herslong: so nobody would getour attitudes mixed up. Imyselfwouldnotcurse,inorout of Methuselah’s hearingor even in my dreams,becauseIcraveheavenandtohe my father’s favorite. AndRachel wouldn’t—she’ll let

out a disgusted “Jeez” or“Gol!” when she can, but ismainly a perfect lady whenanybody’s listening. AndRuthMayisplaintoolittle.“I fail to understand,” said

Father, who understandseverything, “why you wouldhave a poor dumb creaturecondemn us all to eternalsuffering.”I’ll tell you what, though,

Methuselah is not dumb. Heimitates not just words, but

the voices of people thatspoke them. FromMethuselah we have learnedthe Irish-Yankee voice ofBrother Fowles, whom wepicture as looking like thatFatherFlanagan that runs theBoys Town. We could alsorecognize MamaTataba, andourselves. Furthermore,Methuselahdidn’tjustimitatewords,heknewthem.It’sonething simply to call out,“Sister,Godisgreat!Shutthe

door!”when thespiritmoveshim, but he’ll also call out“banana” and “peanut” asplain as day, when he seesthesethingsinourhandsandwants his share. Oftentimeshe studies us, copying ourmovements, and he seems toknow which words willprovoke us to laugh or talkback to him, or be shocked.We already understood whatwas now dawning on myfather: Methuselah could

betrayoursecrets.Ididn’tsayso,ofcourse.I

haven’t contradicted myfather on any subject,ever.Rachel finally blurted out,

“Father,we’resorry.”AdahandIpretendedtobe

fascinated by our books.Webroughtourschoolbookswithus and study them wheneverMotherthreatenswe’regoingto fall behind and wear theduncecapwhenwegohome,

which there’s no chance ofreally,exceptforRachel,whois the one stubbornlymediocre mentality in ourfamily. I think ourmother isreally just afraidwe’regoingtoforgetaboutnormal thingslike George Washingtoncrossing the Delaware andautumn leaves and a trainspeeding west toward St.Louis at sixty-five miles perhour.Ipeepedupfrommybook.

Oh,dearLord.Hewasstaringdirectly at me. My heartpalpitatedfiercely.“TheLordwillforgiveyou

if you ask,” he said, verydisgusted and quiet, the toneof voice that makes me feelworse than any other. “OurLord is benevolent. But thatpoor African bird can’t berelieved of what you’vetaught it. It’s an innocentcreature that can only repeatwhat it hears.The damage is

done.” He started to turnaway from us. We held ourbreath as he paused on thesteps and looked back, rightin my eyes. I burned withshame.“If there’s anything to be

learned from this,” he said,“it’sabout thestinkand taintoforiginalsin.Iexpectyou’dbetter think about that whileyou do The Verse.” Ourheartsfell.“Allthreeofyou,”he said. “Book of Numbers,

twenty-ninethirty-four.”Then he walked off

abruptly, leaving us likeorphansontheporch.The thought of spending

the rest of the day copyingout the tedious Book ofNumbers sobered me deeplyasIwatchedmyfathergo.Hedirectedhis stride toward theriver.He’d been going downthere nearly every day,tearinghiswalking stick intothe elephant-ear leaves that

curtained the riverbank. Hewas scouting out baptismalsites.I already knew how

Numbers 29:34 came out, asI’d gotten it before.Thehundredth verse winds up at32:32, with how when yousin against the Lord you getfoundout,andtowatchwhatproceedsoutofyourmouth.I hadn’t even considered

the irreversible spoiling ofMethuselah’s innocence,

which just goes to show Ihave much to learn. But I’lladmit Iprayed thatafternoonthat Father had takenRachel’s apology as aconfession, so he wouldn’tthinkthesinwasmine.Itwashard, accepting hisaccusationsbykeepingsilent.Weallknewverywellwho’dbeentheonetoyellthatwordDamn!She’dsaiditoverandoverwhen sheweptover thewreck of her useless cake

mixes. But none of us couldlet him in on that awfulsecret. Not even me—and IknowI’mtheone to turnmybackonherthemost.Once in a great while we

justhavetoprotecther.Evenback when we were veryyoungIrememberrunningtothrow my arms aroundMother’s knees when heregaled her with words andworse, for curtains unclosedorslipsshowing—thesinsof

womanhood. We could seeearly on that all grown-upsaren’t equally immune todamage.My fatherwears hisfaith like the bronzebreastplate of God’s footsoldiers, while our mother’sismorelikeagoodclothcoatwith a secondhand fit. Thewhole time Father wasinterrogatingusontheporch,in my mind’s eye I wasseeing her slumped over inthekitchenhouse,bangingin

mortalfrustrationagainstthatlocomotiveengineofastove.In her hand, Rachel’s AngelDream cake mix, hard as arock; in her heart, itsheavenly, pink-frostedperfection, itscandlesablaze,brought proudly to the tableon that precious bone-chinaplatterwith the blue flowers.She’d been keeping it asecret,butMotherwasgoingto try and have a real sweet-sixteenpartyforRachel.

But Angel Dream was thewrong thing, thewrong thingby amile. I’d carried it overin my own waistband, so itseemed like somepart of theresponsibilitywasmine.

AdahHOLY FATHER, bless us

andkeepusinThysight,”theReverend said. Sight Thyblessed father holy. And allof us with our closed eyessmelled the frangipani

blossomsinthebigrectanglesof open wall, flowers sosweet they conjure up sin orheaven, depending on whichway you are headed. TheReverend towered over therickety altar, his fiery crewcut bristling like awoodpeckers cockade. WhentheSpiritpassedthroughhimhe groaned, throwing bodyand soul into this weeklypurge.The“Amenenema,”asI call it. My palindrome for

theReverend.Mama Tataba’s body next

to mine in the pew,meanwhile,wasa thinggonedead. Her stiffness remindedmeofallthefishlyingcurvedand stiff on the riverbanks,flaking in the sun like oldwhite bars of soap. Allbecause of the modern styleof fishing Our Fatherdreamed up.The Reverend’shigh-horseshowof force.Heordered men to go out in

canoesandpitchdynamite inthe river, stupefyingeverything within earshot.Shotears.Now,wheredidhegetdynamite?Certainlynoneof us carried it over here inour drawers. So from EebenAxelroot, Ihave to think, fora large sum of money. Ourfamily receives a stipend of$50 a month for beingmissionaries. This is not theregular Baptist stipend; OurFather is a renegade who

came without the entireblessing of the MissionLeague, and bullied orfinagled his way into thislesserstipend.Evenso,itisalot of Congolese francs andwouldbeaCongolesefortuneifthatwerethat,butitisnot.The money comes in anenvelope on the plane,brought by Eeben Axelrootand to Eeben Axelroot itmostly returns. Ashes toashes.

To Kilanga’s hungrypeople Our Father promisedat summer’s end the bountyof the Lord, more fish thanthey had ever seen in theirlives. “Theword ofChrist isbeloved!” he cries, standingup precariously in hisboat.”zita Jesus is bangala!”SodeterminedheistowinorforceordragthemovertotheWay of the Cross. Feed thebelly first, he announced at

dinner onenight, seizedwithhis brilliant plan. Feed thebellyand the soulwill come.(Not having noticed, for awife is beneath notice, thatthis is exactly what ourmother did when she killedallthechickens.)Butaftertheunderwater thunder, whatcamewas not souls but fish.They came rolling to thesurface with mouths openedwideby that shockingboom.Round shocked bubbles for

eyes. The whole villagefeastedallday,ate,atetillwefelt bug-eyed and belly-upourselves. He performed abackward version of theloaves and fishes, trying tostuff ten thousand fish intofifty mouths, did theReverend Price. Slogging upand down the riverbank introuserswet to theknees,hisBibleinonehandandanotherstickfuloffire-blackenedfishin the other, he waved his

bounty in a threateningmanner.Thousandsmorefishjerked in the sun and wentbadalongtheriverbanks.Ourvillagewasblessedforweekswiththesmellofputrefaction.Insteadofabundanceitwasaholidayofwaste.Noice.OurFather forgot, for fishing inthe style of modern redneckGeorgiayouneedyourice.Hewas not going to bring

up the loaves and fishes intoday’s sermon, was a good

guess.Hewouldmerelygiveout the communion with theusual disturbing allusions toeating flesh and drinkingblood.Perhapsthisperkedupcongregational interest, butwe Price girls all listenedwith half an ear between us.And Adah with her half abrain. Hah. The churchservice lasts twice as longnow because the Reverendhas tosay itonce inEnglish,and then the schoolteacher

TataAnatole repeats it all inKikongo. Our Father finallycaught on, nobody wasunderstanding his horriblestabs at French or Kikongo,eitherone.“It was lawlessness that

came forth from Babylon!Law less ness!” declared theReverend, waving an armimpressively towardBabylonas if that turbulent localelurked just behind the schoollatrine.

Through the bedraggledroof a ray of sun fell likeGod’s spotlight across hisright shoulder. He paced,paused, spoke, and pacedbehind his palm-leaf altar,giving every impression hewas inventing his Biblicalparables on the spot. Thismorninghewas spinning thetaleofSusanna,beautifulandpious wife of the rich manJoakim. Annasus ho! Whileshebathedinthegarden,two

of Joakim’s advisors spiedhernakedandcookeduptheirvile plan. They leaped fromthebushesanddemandedthatsheliedownwiththem.PoorSusanna. If she refused theywould bear false witnessagainst her, claiming theycaughtherinthegardenwitha man. Naturally therighteous Susanna refusedthem,eventhoughthismeantshe would be accused andstoned for adultery. Stoning

moaning owning deboning.We were not supposed towonderwhatkindofhusbandwas this Joakim, who wouldkillhisownlovelywiferatherthan listen to her side of thestory. No doubt theBabylonianswerealreadyoutscouting around for theirfavoriterocks.The Reverend paused,

resting one hand flat on thealtar. The rest of his bodyrocked almost imperceptibly

inside his white shirt,marking time, keeping hisrhythm. He scrutinized hisparishioners’ blank faces forsigns that they were on theedge of their seats. Therewere eleven or twelve newfacesnow,aregularstampedetoglory.Aboynearmewithhis mouth hanging openclosed one eye, then theother, backand forth.Weallwaited for Tata Anatole theschool-teacher-translator to

catchup.“ButGodwouldnotletthis

happen,” the Reverendgrowled,likeadogawakenedby a prowler. Then rising anoctave like “The Star-Spangled Banner”: “Godstirredup theholy spirit of amannamedDaniel!”Oh, hooray, Daniel to the

rescue. Our Father lovesDaniel, the original PrivateEye. Tata Daniel (he calledhim,tomakehimseemlikea

local boy) stepped in anddemandedtoquestionthetwoadvisors separately. TataDanielasked themwhatkindof tree Susanna wassupposedly standing underwhenshemetthismaninthegarden. “Um, amastic tree,”said one, and the other,“Well, gee, I guess it was alive oak.” How stupid, thatthey had not even conspiredtoget theirstorystraight.Allthe evildoers in the Bible

seemspectacularlydumb.I watched Tata Anatole,

expecting him at least tostumble over “mastic” and“liveoak,”astherecouldnotpossibly be words for thesetrees inKikongo.He did notpause. Kufwema, kuzikisa,kugam-bula, smoothly thewords rolled forward and Irealized this slick trickschoolteachercouldbesayinganything under the sun. Ourfather would never be the

wiser. So they stoned thedame and married two morewives apiece and livedhappily ever after. I yawned,uninspired yet again by thepiousandbeautifulSusanna.Iwasunlikelyevertohaveherproblems.In my mind I invented

snmyhymns, as I call them,my own perverse hymns thatcan be sung equally wellforwardorbackward:Evil,allits sin is still alive! Also I

made use of this rareopportunity to inspectMamaTataba at close range.Normally she moved muchtoo fast. I considered hermyallybecause,likeme,shewasimperfect. Itwas hard to saywhatsheeverthoughtofOurFather’s benedictions, inchurch or out, so I ponderedmore interesting mysteries,suchashereye.Howdidsheloseit?Wassheexemptfrommarriage because of it, as I

presumedmyselftobe?Ihadlittleideaofherageorhopes.Ididknowthatmanywomenin Kilanga were more seriously disfigured and had husbandsnotwithstanding. Standingwith naught. Husbands.Here, bodily damage ismoreorlessconsideredtobeaby-product of living, not adisgrace. In the way of thebody and other people’sjudgment I enjoy a benign

approval in Kilanga that Ihave never, ever known inBethlehem,Georgia.We finished off Susanna

by singing “AmazingGrace”at the speed of a dirge. Theragtag congregation chimedin with every sort of wordand tune. Oh, we were aregular Tower of Babel hereat theFirstBaptistChurchofKilanga, so no one noticedthatImouthedmyownwordstothepropertune:

Evil,all...itssin...isstill...alive!Dogo...Tata...toGod!Sugar don’t... No, drag us

drawnonward,A, he rose ... ye eyesore,

ha!When church was over

MamaTatabatookusbacktothe house, while the cleverReverendandhiswifestayedbehind to smile and shakehandsandbaskinthegeneralholiness. Mama Tataba

stompeddownthepathaheadof my sisters and me.Bringing up the rear, Iconcentrated on trying topass up the dawdlingRachel,whowalkedwithherhands held out slightly fromher thighs as if shehadonceagain,asusual,beencrownedMiss America. “Hold yourhands like you’ve justdropped a marble,” sheinstructs us generally as shefashion-models her way

throughthehouse.Inspiteofallthatstateliness,Icouldnotcatch up. So I watched anorange-and-white butterflythat hovered over her andfinally lit on herwhite head.The butterfly poked its tinyproboscisdownintoherhair,probingfornurture,thenflewaway unsatisfied. MamaTataba saw none of theseevents. She was in a badmood and shouted at usconfidentially, “Reverant

Price he better be give thatup!” Flesh eating and blooddrinking, did shemean? Thesermon had meandered fromthe pious Susanna to Rahab,theharlotofJericho.SomanyBiblical names soundbackward, like Rahab, Iwonder sometimes if thewhole thingwaswrittenbyamental freak like me. But inthe end he got around toemphasizing baptism, asalways.Thiswas likelywhat

disturbedMama Tataba. OurFather could not seem toaccept what seemed clearenougheventoachild:whenhe showered the idea ofbaptism—batiza—on peoplehere, it shrunk them awaylikewateronawitch.Lateronatthedinnertable

hewasstillanimated,though,which is the status quo onSundays.Oncehegetswoundup in the pulpit he seemsunwilling to give up center

stage.“Do you know,” he asked

us,tallandbright-headedlikea candle in his chair, “lastyearsomemendrovehereallthewayfromLeopoldvilleina truck with a broken fanbelt?AMercedestruck.”Ah,me. One of his Socraticmoods. This was notdangerous, for he rarelyactuallystruckusatthetable,but it was designed to showus all up as dull-witted,

bovine females. He alwaysended these interrogationswith an exasperated, loudprivate conversation withGod concerning ourhopelessness.Methuselah was definitely

inthegirls’camp.Hemadeahabitofprattlingatthetopofhis lungs through Sundaydinners at our house. Likemany human beings, he tookthe leastsignofconversationashiscuetomakenoise.Our

mother sometimes threw atablecloth over his cage infrustration. “Mbote! Mbote!”he screamed now, which inKikongo means hello andgood-bye, both. Thissymmetry appeals to me.Many Kikongo wordsresemble English wordsbackward and haveantithetical meanings: Syeboisahorrible,destructiverain,that just exactly does not dowhatitsaysbackward.

WelistenedvaguelytoOurFather’s tale of the putativeMercedes truck. Our onlymaterial goods from theoutside world of late werecomic books, which mysisters cherished like MarcoPolo’sspicesfromChina,andpowdered eggs and milk, towhichwefelt indifferent.Allbrought by Eeben Axelroot.As for this truck-and-fanbeltstory, the Reverend loved tospeak in parables, and we

couldsurelyspotonecoming.“That road,” said our

mother, bemused, gesturingwithalazybentwristoutthewindow. “Why, I can’timagine.” She shook herhead, possibly not believing.Can she allow herself not tobelieve him? I have neverknown.“Itwasat theendofadry

season, Orleanna,” hesnapped. “When it’s hotenough the puddles dry up.”

You brainless nitwit, he didnotneedtoadd.“Buthowonearthdidthey

runitwithoutafanbelt?”ourmother asked, understandingbytheReverend’sirritationthat she was expected toreturn to the subject at hand.She leaned forward to offerhim biscuits from the bone-china platter, which shesometimes, secretly, cradledlikeababyafter thewashingand drying. Today she gave

its rimagentle strokebeforefolding her hands insubmission to Father’s will.She was wearing a jauntyshirtwaist, white with smallredandbluesemaphoreflags.It had been her outermostdresswhenwecameover.Itsfrantic little banners seemedto be signaling distress now,on account ofMamaTataba’svigorous washings in theriver.He leaned forward to give

us the full effect of his redeyebrowsandprominentjaw.“Elephant grass,” hepronouncedtriumphantly.We sat frozen, the food in

our mouths momentarilyunchewed.“A dozen little boys rode

on the back, weaving fanbeltsoutofgrass.”Leah blurted out all in a

rush, “So the plain simplegrass of God’s creation canbejustasstrongas,asrubber

or whatnot!” She sat ramrodstraight as if she were ontelevision,goingforthesixty-four-dollarquestion.“No,” he said. “Each one

wouldn’tlastbuttwoorthreemiles.”“Oh.” Leah was

disconsolate. The remainingnitwits ventured no otherguesses.“Butjustassoonasitgave

out,” he explained, “well,they’dhaveanotheroneatthe

ready.”“Keen,” Rachel said,

unconvincingly. She is themostdramaticmemberofthefamily,andtheworstactress,which in our family is acrucial skill. All of us weregiving diligent attention toour powdered potatoes. Weweresupposedtobereachingan understanding here aboutthe elephant-grass fan beltillustrating God’s vastgreatness; nobody wanted to

becalledon.“A Mercedes truck!” he

saidfinally.“ThepinnacleofGerman invention, can bekept in business by twelvelittle African boys and someelephantgrass.”“Sister, shut the door!

Wenda mbote!” Methuselahcalled out. Then he shouted,“Ko ko ko!” which is whatpeople in Kilanga shout insomeone’s doorway whenthey come visiting, since

generally there is no door toknock on. This happenedoften at our house, but wealways knew it wasMethuselah, since we didhaveadooranddidnot,asarule, have visitors. If anyoneactuallyevercame,usuallyinthe hope of selling us food,they did not knock on thedoor but merely hung abouttheyarduntilwetooknotice.“Well, I expect you could

keep anything going with

enoughlittleboysandenoughgrass,” our mother said. Shedidnotsoundallthatpleasedaboutit.“That’s right. It just takes

adaptability.”“Damn damn damn!”

observedMethuselah.Mother shot the bird a

worried glance. “If thatcreature lives through ninehundred Baptist missions hewillhavequitealottosay.”She stood up then and

started stacking the plates.Her Living Curl had longsince been pronounced dead,and on the whole sheappeared to be adapted towithinaninchofherlife.Sheexcusedherselftogoboilthedishwater.Unable to work either the

dishwater or Methuselah’slong memory into a properending for his parable, OurFathermerelylookedatusalland heaved the great sigh of

theput-uponmale.Oh,suchasigh. It was so deep it couldhave drawn water from awell, right up from beneaththe floor of our nitwithousehold. He was merelytrying,thatsighsuggested,todrag us all towardenlightenment through themarrow of our own poorfemalebones.Wehungourheads,pushed

backourchairs,andfiledouttohelpstokeupthefireboxin

the kitchen house. Cookingmeals here requires half theday,andcleaninguptakestheother half. We have to boilour water because it comesfrom the stream, whereparasitesmultiply in teemingthrongs. Africa has parasitessoparticularanddiverseastooccupy every niche of thebody: intestines small andlarge, the skin, the bladder,the male and femalereproductivetracts,interstitial

fluids, even the cornea. In alibrary book on Africanpublic health, before we lefthome,Ifoundadrawingofaworm as thin as a hairmeandering across the frontof aman’s startled eyeball. Iwas struck through with myown wayward brand ofreverence: praise be the lordof all plagues and secretafflictions! If God hadamusedhimself inventing thelilies of the field, he surely

knocked His own socks offwiththeAfricanparasites.Outside I saw Mama

Tataba, on her way to thekitchen house, dip in a handand drink straight out of thebucket. I crossed my fingersfor her one good eye. Ishuddered to think of thatdoseofGod’sCreationgoingdown, sucking her dry fromtheinside.

Leah

MY FATHER had beengoing to the garden alone,everyday, tositand think. Itdisturbed him that the plantsthrived and filled the fencedpatch with bloom like afuneral parlor, butwould notset fruit. I knew he wasprayingabout it. I sometimeswentouttositwithhim,eventhoughMotherhelditagainstme, saying he needed hissolitude.

He speculated that therewastoomuchshadefromthetrees.Ithoughtlongandhardabout this explanation, as Iam always eager to expandmy understanding ofhorticulture. It was true, thetrees did encroach on ourlittle clearing.We constantlyhad to break and hack offbranches, trying to win backourground.Why,someofthebean vines had woundthemselves all the way into

thevery treetops, striving forlight.Once he asked me

suddenly as we sat mullingoverthepumpkins,“Leah,doyouknowwhattheyspentthelast Bible convention inAtlantaarguingabout?”Iwasn’t reallyexpected to

know, so I waited. I wasthrilled by the mere fact ofhis speaking to me in thisgentle, somewhat personalway.Hedidn’tlookatme,of

course, for he had much onhis mind, as ever. We’dworked so hard for God’sfavor,yetitseemedGodwasstill waiting for some extralabor on our part, and itwasup tomy father to figureoutwhat. With his stronger eyehe stared deeply into apumpkin blossom for thesource of his garden’sdisease. The flowers wouldopen and close, then thegreen fruits behind them

wouldshrivelandturnbrown.There wasn’t a singleexception.Inexchange for our honest

sweat we’d so far earnedflowers and leaves, butnothing we could actuallyhaveforsupper.“The size of heaven,” he

finallysaid.“I’m sorry?” My heart

skippedabeat.HereI’dbeentryingtosecond-guessFather,working out the garden

business. He is always twostepsaheadofme.“They debated about the

size of heaven, at the Bibleconvention. How manyfurlongs it is. How manylong, how many wide—theyset men with addingmachines to figuring it out.Chapter twenty-one ofRevelationsetsitoutinreeds,and other books tell it incubits,andnotaoneofthemquite matches up.”

Inexplicably, he sounded putoutwiththemenwhobroughttheir adding machines to theBible convention, andpossiblywiththeBibleitself.Ifeltextremelyuneasy.“Well, I sure hope there’ll

be room enough foreverybody,” I said. This wasa whole new worry to me.Suddenly I began to think ofall the people already upthere, mostly old, and not inparticularly good shape

either. I pictured themelbowingeachotherasifatachurchrummagesale.“There will always be

room for the righteous,” hesaid. “Amen,” I breathed, on

saferground.“Many are the afflictions

oftherighteous,andtheLorddelivers him out of them all.But you know, Leah,sometimesHedoesn’tdeliverus out of our hardships but

throughthem.”“Heavenly Father, deliver

us,” I said, although I didn’tcare for this new angle.Father had already bent hiswilltoAfricabyremakinghisgarden in mounds, the waythey do here.Thiswas a suresign to God of his humilityandservitude,anditwasonlyfair to expect our reward. Sowhat was this business ofbeing delivered throughhardships?DidFatheraim to

suggest God was notobligated to send us downanybeansorsquashatall,nomatter how we might toil inHis name? That He justproposed to sit up there andconsign us to hardships oneright after another?Certainlyit wasn’t my place toscrutinize God’s great plan,butwhat about the balancingscalesofjustice? Father said nothing to

ease my worries. He just

plucked up another beanflower and held it up to thesky, examining it in theAfrican light like a doctorwithanX-ray,lookingforthesecretthinggonewrong.His first sermon inAugust

waxed great and long on thesubject of baptism.Afterward, at home, whenMother asked Mama Tatabato go put the soup on thestove, Mania Tataba turnedandwalkedsmackdaboutthe

front door in between thewords “soup” and “stove.”She went out and gave myfather a good talking to,shaking her finger at himacross a row of tomatolesstomato plants. Whatever itwas he’d done wrong in heropinion, itwas really the laststraw. We could hear hervoicerisingandrising.Naturallyitshockedushalf

to death to hear somebodycaterwauling at Father this

way.Itshockedusevenmoretoseehimstandingtherered-faced, trying to fit aword insideways.Withall fourofusgirls lined up at the windowwithourmouthsgapingopen,wemusthavelookedliketheLennon Sisters on LawrenceWelk.Mothershooedusfromthewindow,orderingustogohunt upour schoolbooks andread them. It wasn’t theproper time for school, orevenaschoolday,butwedid

everything she said now.We’drecentlyseenherthrowa box of Potato Buds acrossthe room. After a quieteternity of the Trojan War,Mama Tataba burst in andthrew her apron on a chair.Weallclosedourbooks.“Iwon’tbestayhere,”she

declared.“Yousendagirlgetme at Banga you be needhelp.Igoshowyoucookeel.They got a big eel downariver yesterday. That fish a

good be for children.” Thatwas her final advice for oursalvation.Ifollowedheroutthedoor

andwatchedher trompdowntheroad,thepalesolesofherfeet blinking back at me.Then I went to track downmyfather,whohadwandereda little distance from thefencedgardenandwassittingagainst a tree trunk. In hisfingers he carefully stretchedout something that looked

likeawasp,stillalive.Itwasasbroadasmyhandandhada yellow 8 on each clearwing, as plain as if somecareful schoolchild or Godhadpainteditthere.Myfatherlookedlikehe’d

just had a look down MainStreet,Heaven.He told me, “There aren’t

anypollinators.”“What?”.“No insects here to

pollinatethegarden.”

“Why, but there’s a worldof bugs here!” Anunnecessary remark, Isuppose, aswebothwatchedthe peculiar insect strugglinginhishands.“African bugs, Leah.

Creatures fashioned by Godfor the purpose of servingAfrican plants. Look at thisthing. How would it knowwhat to do with a KentuckyWonderbean?”I couldn’t know if he was

rightorwrong. I only faintlyunderstand about pollination.Idoknowthattheindustriousbees do the most of it. Imused, “I guess we shouldhavebroughtsomebeesoverinourpocketstoo.”My father looked at me

with a new face, strange andterrifying to me for what itlacked in confidence. It wasas if a small, befuddledstrangerwerepeeringthroughthe imposing mask of my

father’sfeatures.Helookedatme like I was his spankingnewbornbabyandhedidloveme so, but feared the worldwould never be what any ofushadhopedfor.“Leah,”hesaid,“youcan’t

bring the bees.You might aswell bring the whole worldover here with you, andthere’snotroomforit.“Iswallowed.”Iknow.”We sat together looking

through the crooked stick

fence at the great variety ofspurned blossoms in myfather’sgarden.Ifeltsomanydifferent things right then:elationatmyfather’sstrangeexpressionof tenderness,anddespairforhisdefeat.Wehad‘worked so hard, and forwhat? I felt confusion anddread. I sensed that the sun\vas going down on manythingsIbelievedin.From his big cage on the

porch, Methuselah screeched

at us in Kikongo. “Mbote!”he said, and I merelywondered,Helloorgoodbye?“What was Mama Tataba

so mad about just now?” Idared to ask, very quietly.“Wesawherhollering.”“Alittlegirl.” “She has

one?” “No. A girl from here in

thevillagethatgotkilledlastyear.” I felt my pulse raceahead. “What happened to

her?”He did not look atmenow, but stared off at thedistance. “She got killed andeaten by a crocodile. Theydon’t let their children stepfoot in the river, ever. Noteven to be washed in theBlood of theLamb.”“Oh,”Isaid.My own baptism, and

everyoneIhavewitnessedsofar, took place in somethinglike a large bathtub or small

swimmingpoolintheBaptistChurch. Theworst harm thatcould come to you might bethat you would slip on thestairs.Ihopedtherewouldberoom inheaven for thatpoorlittle girl, in whateverconditionshe’darrivedthere.“I fail to understand,” he

said, “-why itwould take sixmonths for someone toinform me of that simplefact.” The old fire wasseepingbackintothisstrange,

wistful husk of my father. Ifeltgratified.“Ko ko ko!” Methuselah

called.“Come in!” my father

retorted, with impatiencerisinginhiscraw.“Wake up, Brother

Fowles!”“Piss off!”my father

shouted.Iheldmybreath.He shovedhimself straight

to his feet, strode to the

porch, and flung open thedoor of Methuselah’s cage.Methuselah hunched hisshoulders and sidled awayfrom the door. His eyes intheir bulging sockets tickedup and down, trying tounderstandthespecterofthishugewhiteman.“You’re free to go,” my

father said, waiting. But thebirddidnot comeout.Sohereachedinandtookholdofit.In my father’s hands

Methuselah looked likenothing but a feathered toy.Whenhehurledthebirdupatthe treetops it didn’t fly atfirstbutonlysailedacrosstheclearing like a red-tailedbadminton shuttlecock. Ithought my father’s roughgriphadsurelygot thebetterof that poor native creature,and that it would fall to theground.But no. In a burst of light

Methuselahopenedhiswings

and fluttered like freedomitself, lifting himself to thetop of ourKentuckyWondervines and thehighest boughsof the jungle that will surelytakebackeverythingoncewearegone.

BookTwo

THEREVELATION

AndI stoodupon the sand

ofthesea,andsawabeastriseup....Ifanymanhaveanear,let

himhear.REVELATION13:1,9

Orleanna PriceSANDERLING ISLAND,GEORGIA

ONCE EVERY FEWYEARS, even now, I catchthe scent ofAfrica. Itmakesme want to keen, sing, clapup thunder, lie down at thefoot of a tree and let theworms take whatever of metheycanstilluse.Ifinditimpossibletobear.

Ripe fruits, acrid sweat,urine, flowers, dark spices,and other things I’ve nevereven seen—I can’t say whatgoes into thecomposition,orwhyitrisesuptoconfrontmeas I round some cornerhastily, unsuspecting. It hasfoundmehereonthis island,in our little town, in a backalleywheresleekboyssmokeinastairwellamidsttheday’suncollected refuse. A fewyearsback,itfoundmeonthe

Gulf Coast of Mississippi,where I’d returned for afamilyfuneral:Africaroseupto seizemeas Iwalkedon apier past a huddle of turtle-headed old fishermen, theirbait buckets set around themlikeabanquet.OnceImerelywalked out of the library inAtlanta and there itwas, thatscentknockingmedown, forno reason I can understand.The sensation rises up frominsidemeand I knowyou’re

still here, holding sway.You’veplayedsome trickonthe dividing of my cells somybodycanneverbefreeofthe small parts of Africa itconsumed.Africa,whereoneofrnychildrenremainsinthedank red earth. It’s the scentofaccusation.ItseemsIonlyknow myself, anymore, byyourattendanceinmysoul.I could have been a

different mother, you’ll say.Could have straightened up

and seen what was coming,for itwas thick in the air allaround us. It was the veryodor of market day inKilanga. Every fifth daywasmarket day—not the seventhorthirtieth,nothingyoucouldgive a name like “Saturday,”or “The First of theMonth,”but every thumb if you keptthe days in your hand. Itmakes no sense at all, andthen finally all the sense inthe world, once you

understand that keepingthingsinyourhandisexactlyhow it’s done in the Congo.From everywhere withinwalking distance, every fifthday,peoplewithhandsfulloremptyappearedinourvillageto saunter and haggle theirway up and down the longrows where women laid outproduce on mats on theground. The vendor ladiessquatted, scowling, restingtheir chins on their crossed

arms, behind fortresses ofstackedkola nuts, bundles offragrant sticks, piles ofcharcoal,salvagedbottlesandcans, or displays of driedanimal parts. They grumbledcontinually as they built andrebuilt with leathery,deliberate hands theirpyramidsofmottledgreenishoranges and mangoes andcurved embankments of hardgreen bananas. I took a deepbreath and toldmyself that a

woman anywhere on earthcan understand anotherwomanonamarketday.Yetmy eye could not decipherthose vendors: they wrappedtheir heads in bright-coloredcloths as cheerful as a party,but faced the world withpermanent vile frowns. Theyslungbacktheirheadsinslit-eyedboredomwhile theydideach other’s hair intostarbursts of astonishedspikes. However I might

pretend Iwas their neighbor,they knew better. I was paleand wide-eyed as a fish. Afish in the dust of themarketplace, trying to swim,while all the other womencalmly breathed in thatatmosphere of overripe fruit,driedmeat,sweat,andspices,infusing their lives withpowersIfeared.One particular day haunts

me.Iwastryingtokeeptrackofmygirlsbutcouldseeonly

Leah. I recall shewas in thepale blue dresswith the sashthattiedbehindherback.AllthegirlsbutRachelgenerallyranragged,sothismusthavebeen—for our family—aSunday,acoincidenceofourbigdayandthevillagers’. Leah had a basket in her

arms, carrying for me someburden that held her backfrom her preferred place atthe head of the pack. Theothers had moved out of

sight. I knew Nathan wouldbeimpatientforourreturn,soI beckoned toLeah. She hadto cross over a row ofproducetogettome.Withouta thought, as the twinwhoselegs never failed her, sheshifted the basket to her lefthipandtookagiantstepovera pyramid of oranges. Istretchedoutmyhandtoher.Rightthereasshereachedforit, though, she got stucksomehow, mid-straddle over

the oranges, unable to bringtheotherfootover. Thewoman squatting beside theoranges leaped up hissing,slicingherhandslikescissorsblades at the two of us,scorchingmewitheyessohotthe angry chocolate irisesseemedtobemeltingintothewhite. A row of men on abench looked up from theirbowlsofnewbeerandstaredat us with the same cloudedeyes,allmotioning forme to

movemychild:stupidghost!non-person! straddling awoman’s market-day wealth.I can’t stop beingembarrassed by the memoryofmyselfandLeahtherewithher genitals—bare, for allanyone knew—suspendedover a woman’s oranges. Aforeign mother and childassuming themselves incharge, suddenly slappeddowntonothingbywhattheyallsawustobe.

Until that moment I’dthought I could have it bothways: tobeoneof them,andalso my husband’s wife.What conceit! I was hisinstrument, his animal.Nothingmore.Howwewivesandmothers do perish at thehands of our ownrighteousness. Iwas just onemore of those women whoclamp their mouths shut andwave the flag as their nationrollsofftoconqueranotherin

war.Guilty or innocent, theyhaveeverythingtolose.Theyare what there is to lose. Awife is the earth itself,changing hands, bearingscars.We would all have to

escape Africa by a differentroute. Some of us are in theground now and some areabove it, but we’re allwomen, made of the samescarred earth. I study mygrown daughters now, for

signstheyarerestinginsomekind of peace.How did theymanage? When I remainhounded by judgment? Theeyes in the trees open ontomy dreams. In daylight theywatch my crooked handswhileIscratchthesoilinmylittle damp garden. What doyou want from me? When Iraise up my crazy old eyesand talk to myself, what doyouwantmetotellyou?Oh, little beast, little

favorite.Can’tyouseeIdiedaswell?SometimesIpray toremember,other times Iprayto forget. It makes nodifference. How can I everwalk free in the world, aftertheclapofthosehandsinthemarketplacethatwereplainlytryingtosendmeaway?Ihadwarnings.HowcanIbearthescent of what catches up tome?

Therewas so little time to

ponderrightandwrong,whenI hardly even knew where Iwas. In those early months,why, half the time I wouldwake up startled and think Iwas right back in Pearl,Mississippi.Beforemarriage,before religion, beforeeverything. Mornings in theCongo were so steamy youcouldn’tseeathingbutcloudcome to earth, so you mightas well be anywhere. MamaTataba would appear to me

standing in the bedroomdoorway in her olive-greencardigan half buttoned up,with the five-dollar holes inthe elbows, a knit cap ofpilled wool pulled down tohereyebrows,herhandsthickas hide; she could have beenawomanstandinginthealleydoor of Lutton’s GeneralStore in theyearofourLordandmychildhood,1939.Then she’d say, “Mama

Prize, a mongoose be got in

thewhiteflour,”andIwouldhave to hold on to the bedframe while the landscapeswirled like water down adrain and pulled me back tothe center. Here. Now. Howin theworlddidapersongettobewhereIwas?Everything turned on the

daywelostthemboth,MamaTataba and the accursedparrot, both released byNathan.Whatadaythatwas.For the native members of

our household, IndependenceDay. The bird hung around,casting his vexed eye downon us from the trees, stillneeding tobe fed.Theother,she on whom our livesdepended, vanished from thevillage. And the rain poureddown and Iwondered, “Arewe lost right now withoutknowing it? It had alreadyhappened so many times inmy life (my wedding daycomestornind)thatIthought

I was out of the woods, notrealizing I’d merely pausedontheedgeofanothernarrowprecipice in the midst of along,longfall.I can still recite the litany

of efforts it took to push ahusband and children aliveand fed through each day inthe Congo. The longestjourney always began withsitting up in bed at therooster’s crow, parting themosquito curtain, and

slipping on shoes—for therewere hookworms lying in“wait on the floor, itching toburrow into our bare feet.Shoes,then,slidingmeacrossthefloortogreettheday.

Dreaming of coffee. I’mafraid I didn’t miss thephysical presence of myhusband in his absences asmuchasImissedcoffee.Outthebackdoor, into the shockof damp heat, straining for a

lookattheriver:resistingtheurgetorun.Oh, that river of wishes,

the slippery crocodile dreamof it, how it might havecarried my body downthrough all the glitteringsandbars to the sea. Thehardest work of every daywas deciding, once again, tostay with my family. Theynever even knew. When Ipried open the lockmeant tokeep the beasts and curious

children out of our kitchenhut, I nearly had to lock itagain behind me, to keepmyself in. The gloom, thehumidity, thepermanentsourbreathofrainyseasonallboredown on me like abothersome lover. The freshstench of night soil in thebushes.Andour own latrine,which was only one stepremoved.StandingattheworktableI

wouldleavemyownthoughts

and watch myseF murderingoranges with our single dullknife,slittingtheirbelliesandsqueezing out the red blood.But no, first the fruit had tobewashed; these strange, so-called blood oranges weregatheredwildfromtheforest.When I bought them fromMamaMokala Iknewthey’dpassed through the hands ofher boys, all of whom borewhitecrustsontheireyesandpenises.Washed,then,witha

drop of precious Cloroxbleach,measuredout like theBlood of the Lamb. It’scomical,Iknow,butIcarriedthroughthosedaystheimageof a popular advertisingcampaign from home thatpictured teamsofvery soiledchildren under the boldinvocation: CLOROXNEEDEDHERE!Very well then, the juice

wrenched from thedisinfectedskin,and then the

pulpyliquidhadtobedilutedwithwaterifIhopedtomakethe precious oranges last atall.It’shardtosaywhichcostme more dearly: bleach,oranges,orwater.BleachandorangesbothIhadtobargainfor, or beg for in the case ofsuppliesflownintousbytheawful man Eeben Axelroot.Every few weeks he turnedupwithoutwarning,asuddenapparitioninrottenbootsandsweat-stained fedora,

smoking Tiparillos in mydoorway and demandingmoney for things that werealready ours, donated by theMission League. He evensold us our mail! But thennothing came to us free.Noteven water. It had to becarriedamileandahalf,andboiled. “Boiled,” a smallword, meant twenty minutesoveraroaringfireonastovethat resembled the rustedcarcass of an Oldsmobile.

“Fire” meant gathering up apileofsticks inavillagethathad already been gatheringfirewood for all the yearssince God was a child,picking its grounds clean ofcombustiblesasefficientlyasan animal combing itself forlice. So “fire” meant longerand longer forays into theforest, stealing fallenbranches from under theblunt-eyed gaze of snakes,just for one single bucket of

drinkable water. Every smalleffort at hygiene wasmagnified by hours of laborspent procuring the simplestelements: water, heat,anything that might pass fordisinfectant.Andfood,thatwasanother

song and dance. Finding it,learning its name, cutting orpounding or dashing itsbrains to make it intosomething my family wouldtolerate. For a long time I

could not work out how allthe other families weregetting by. There seemed tobeno food to speakof, evenon a market day -wheneverybody came around tomake the tallest possible pileoutofwhattheyhad.Itdidn’tseem to stack up to enoughsustenance for the twodozenfamilies in our village.Yes, Icould see there was charcoalfor cooking it, and shriveledred pili-pili peppers for

spicingit,andcalabashbowlstoputitin,butwherewastheit,whatever itwas?What onGod’searthdidtheyeat?At length I learned the

answer: a gluey paste calledfufu. It comes from astupendous tuber, which thewomencultivateanddigfromtheground, soak in the river,dryinthesun,poundtowhitepowder inhollowed-out logs,andboil.It’scalledmanioc,Iwas informed by Janna

Underdown. It has thenutritional value of a brownpaper bag, with the addedbonus of trace amounts ofcyanide. Yet it fills thestomach. It cooksup into thesort of tasteless mass onemight induce an Americanchildtotryonce,afteralongroundofpulled-upnosesanddouble-dogdares.Butforthepeople of Kilanga fufu wasthe one thing in life, otherthantime,thatappearedtobe

taken for granted. Therewillalways be manioc. It is thecenter of life.When the tall,narrow women dressed intheir sarongs returnedserenelyfromthefields, theytoted it in huge parcelsimpossibly balanced on theirheads: manioc-root bundlesthe size of crumpled horses.After soaking and peeling it,they arranged the longwhiteroots into upright sprays inenameltubsandpassedsingle

file through the village likeimmense lilies on slender,moving stalks.Thesewomenspent theirdays in thesteadylabors of planting, digging,andpoundingmanioc,thoughthe dreamy way they movedthrough that work made itseem entirely separate fromany end product. Theyremindedmeofthegroupsofblack men called gandydancers in the Old South,who would come along the

railroad track chanting,nodding, stepping forwardand back in unison, bangingout a rhythmwith their steelrods,captivatingchildrenandmoving on before yourealized they had also,incidentally, repaired thetrack. That is how thesewomenproducedmanioc,andthat is how their children ateit: with no apparent thoughtto the higher purposes ofproduction and consumption.

Fufu was simply anotherword for food. Any otherthing a person might eat—abanana, an egg, the beancalledmangwansi, a pieceoffire-blackened antelope flesh—was just the opposite, anditsconsumptionwasseenasaremarkable, possiblyuncalled-foroccasion.My family required

remarkable occasions threetimes a day. They couldn’tunderstand that the sort of

meal they took forgranted,athirty-minute production inthe land of General Electric,translatedheretoalifetimeoftravail. A family might aswell sit waiting for Motherand her attendants to comeout of the kitchenwith threeThanksgiving dinners a day.And Mama Tataba managedto do it, complaining all thewhile.Shemutteredwhilesheworked, never resting, onlypausing from time to time to

hike up the waist of herwraparound pagneunderneathherwoolsweater.Sherolledhereyeswhenevershehadtoundomymistakes:the tin cans I forgot towashout and save, the bananas Ifailed tocheckfor tarantulas,the firebox I once stokedentirely with sticks ofbdngala—the poisonwoodtree! She slapped the matchout of my hand as I bent tolight it, then pulled out the

green sticks one by onewitha potholder, explainingtersely that the smoke alonewouldhavekilledusall.InthebeginningIknewno

Kikongobeyondthepracticalwordsshetaughtme,soIwasspared knowing how shecursed our mortal souls asevenhandedly as shenourished our bodies. Shepampered my ungratefulchildren, and resented usutterly. She could reach her

fingers deep into a moldybag, draw out a miraculousounceofwhiteflour,andslapout biscuits. She renderedgoat fat into something likebutter, and pulverizedantelope meat intohamburgers with a device Ithink had been rigged fromthe propeller of amotorboat.She used a flat rock and theforce of her will to smashgroundnuts into passablepeanut butter. And at the

terminusofthislonglaborsatRachel at the foot of thetable: sighing, tossing herwhitehairfromhershoulders,announcing that all shewished for in thisworldwas“Jiffy,smooth.Notcrunchy.”Fufu nsala, MamaTataba

called us. I gathered this hadto do with fufu, the foodstaple, not yet knowingKikongoisa languagethat isnot exactly spoken but sung.Thesamewordslantedupor

down the scale can havemany different meanings.WhenMamaTataba incantedthis hymn to all of us, underher breath, she was notcalling us fufu eaters or fufushunners or anything I couldhaveguessed.Fufunsalaisaforest-dwelling, red-headedratthatrunsfromsunlight.I’d thought I was being

brave. The very first time Iwentintothekitchenhouse,asnakeslitheredawayfromthe

doorstepandatarantulaeyedme from the wall, hunkeringdownonhisbandylegslikeafootball player on theoffensive line. So I carried abigstick.ItoldMamaTatabaI’dgrownupknowinghowtocook, but not to be a circustrainer. Heaven only knowshow she must have despisedher pale rat of a coweringmistress. She couldn’t haveimagined the likes of anelectricrange,oralandwhere

womenconcernedthemselveswith something called waxyyellow buildup. As much assheheldmeincontempt,shemayneverhavehadany realinkling of my truehelplessness. I like to thinkshewouldn’thaveleftushadsheknown.Asitwas,sheleftapitchedwakeinwhichIfeltIwoulddrown.Strange to say, it was

Nathan’s frightful confidenceinhimself thatdroveheroff.

He believed, as I did, wewere supposed to have comeprepared. But there is nopreparing for vipers on thedoorstep and drums in theforest, callingupanend to acentury of affliction. By thetime summer trailed off intotheseasonofendlessrains,itwas clear therewas going tobe trouble. I couldn’t stopimagining the deaths of mychildren. I dreamed themdrowned, lost, eaten alive.

Dreamed it, and woke in astone-coldfright.Whensleeprefused to return, I lit thekerosene lamp and sat aloneuntil dawnatourbigdining-room table, staring at thewordsof thePsalmstonumbmymind:Lord, I have lovedthe habitation of thy house,and the place where thinehonour dwelleth. Gather notmysoulwithsinners,normylifewithbloodymen.Redeemme.

AtsunriseIsometimesleftthe house to walk. To avoidthe river, I took the forestpath. More than once Istartled elephant familiesbrowsing in the clearings.Woodland elephants aredifferent from their grandcousinswhostompacrossthegrasslands: they’re smallerand more delicate, nuzzlingthrough the leafy soil withrosy-pink tusks. Sometimesin the dawn light I also saw

families of Pygmies movingamong the shadows,wearingnothing but necklaces offeathersandanimalteeth,andon rainy days, hats made ofleaves.Theyweresosmall—trulylessthanhalfmysize—and so gaily decorated, Ithought for a long time theywerechildren.Imarveledthatwholebandsofboysandgirlswere out in the forest all ontheir own, with knives andspearsandinfantsstrappedon

theirbacks.Perhaps it was reading the

Biblethathadsetmymindinsuchanopen frame, ready tobelieve in any bizarrepossibility.That,andthelackof sleep. I needed to tiemyselfdownbysomekindofmoorings, but there was noone at all to talk to. I triedporing over the Americannewsmagazinessenttousviathe Underdowns, but I onlyfound them disturbing.

President Eisenhower spokeof having everything undercontrol;theKennedyboysaidUncleIkewasallwashedupand we need look no fartherthantheCongo——Congo!—for evidence of poor U.S.leadership, the missile gap,and proof of the Communistthreat. The likes of EleanorRoosevelt declared we oughtto come forth with aid andbringthosepoorchildrenintothe twentieth century. And

yet Mr. George F. Kennan,the retired diplomat, allowedthat he felt “not the faintestmoral responsibility forAfrica.” It’s not ourheadache, he said. Let themgo Communist if they feellikeit.Itwasbeyondmetoweigh

such matters, when mydoorstepharboredsnakesthatcould knock a child dead byspittinginhereyes.But Nathan wouldn’t hear

myworries.Forhim,our lifewas as simple as paying incash and sticking the receiptinyourbreastpocket:wehadtheLord’sprotection,hesaid,becausewecametoAfricainHis service.Yet we sang inchurch “Tata Nzolo”!Whichmeans Father in Heaven orFatherofFishBaitdependingon just how you sing it, andthat pretty well summed upmy quandary. I could neverworkoutwhetherwewereto

view religion as a life-insurance policy or a lifesentence. I can understand awrathful God who’d just assoon dangle us all from ahook.AndIcanunderstandatender, unprejudiced Jesus.But I could never quitefeaturethetwoofthemlivingin the same house.You windup walking on eggshells,never knowing which TataNzoloishomeatthemoment.Under that uncertain roof,

where was the place for mygirls?Nowondertheyhardlyseemed to love me half thetime—Icouldn’tstepinfrontof my husband to shelterthemfromhisscorchinglight.They were expected to lookstraightathimandgoblind. Nathan, meanwhile,

wrapped himself up in thesalvation of Kilanga. Nathanas a boy played football onhis high school team inKilldeer, Mississippi, with

great success evidently, andexpected his winning seasonto continue ever after. Hecould not abide losing orbackingdown.Ithinkhewaswell inclined towardstubbornness, andcontemptuousoffailure,longbefore his conscription intothe war and the strangecircumstancesthatdischargedhim from it. After that,houndedbywhathappenedina Philippine jungle and the

ghosts of a thousand menwho didn’t escape it, hissteadfast disdain forcowardice turned toobsession. It’s hard toimagine a mortal man moreunwilling to change hiscourse thanNathanPrice.Hecouldn’t begin tocomprehend, now, how faroff the trackhewaswithhisbaptismal fixation. Thevillage chief, Tata Ndu, wasloudly warning people away

from the church on thegrounds that Nathan wantedto feed their children to thecrocodiles. Even Nathanmight have recognized thiswas a circumstance thatcalledforreconciliation.But reconciliation with

TataNduwasamightycrossto bear.When he granted usanaudience,hesat inachairinhisfrontyardlookingawayfrom us. He adjusted his tallhat made of sisal fibers. He

took off and examined hislarge black glasses frames(which bore no lenses), andmade every other effort atscholarly disinterest, whileNathan talked. He flicked atflieswith theofficial staff ofhis office—some sort ofstiffenedanimaltailthatendsinasilkywhitetassel.Duringthe second interview,Nathaneven retracted baptism as aspecific program, andsuggestedwemight organize

somekindofsprinkling.We eventually received a

formal reply, via the elderNdu son, stating thatsprinkling was all very wellbut the previous BrotherFowles had disturbed thechief with peculiar ideasabouthavingonlyonewifeata time. Imagine, Tata Ndusaid,ashamefacedchiefwhocould only afford one singlewife! The chief expected usto disavow any such

absurdities before he couldendorseourchurch.My steadfast husband tore

his hair in private. Withoutthe chief’s blessing he couldhavenocongregation.Nathanburned.Thereisnootherwayto say it. Many are theafflictions of the righteous:but the Lord delivereth himoutofthemall,hedeclaredtothe sky, squinting up at Godanddemandingjustice.Iheldhim inmy arms at night and

saw parts of his soul turn toash. Then I saw him reborn,with a stone in place of hisheart. Nathan would acceptno more compromises. Godwas testing him like Job, hedeclared,andthepointofthatparticular parable was thatJob had done no wrong tobeginwith.Nathanfeltithadbeen a mistake to bend hiswill, in any way, to Africa.To reshape his garden intomounds; to submit to Tata

Ndu on the subject of riverbaptism; to listen at all toTataNduoreventherantingsof Mama Tataba. It had allbeen a test of Nathan’sstrength, and God wasdispleasedwith the outcome.Hewouldnotfailagain.

He noticed the childrenlessandless.Hewashardlyafather except in thevocational sense, as a potterwithclaytobemolded.Their

individual laughter hecouldn’t recognize, nor theiranguish. He never saw howAdah chose her own exile;howRachelwasdyingforthenormallifeofslumberpartiesand record albums she wasmissing. And poor Leah.Leah followed him like anunderpaidwaitresshopingforthe tip. It broke my heart. Isent her away from him onevery pretense I knew. It didnogood.

While my husband’sintentionscrystallizedasrocksalt, andwhile I preoccupiedmyself with private survival,the Congo breathed behindthe curtain of forest,preparing to roll over us likeariver.Mysoulwasgatheredwithsinnersandbloodymen,andallIwasthinkingofwashow to get MamaTataba tocome back, or what weshould have brought fromGeorgia. I was blinded from

the constant looking back:Lot’s wife. I only ever sawthegatheringclouds.meThingsWeLearnedKlLANGAJUNE30,1960

LeahPriceIN THE BEGINNING we

were just about in the sameboat as Adam and Eve. Wehad to learn the names ofeverything. Nkoko, mongo,

zulu—river,mountain,sky—everythingmustbecalledoutfromthevoidbythewordweuse to claim it. All God’screatures have names,whether they slither acrossour path or show up for saleat our front stoop: bushbuck,mongoose, tarantula, cobra,the red-and-black monkeycalled ngonndo, geckosscurrying up the walls. Nileperch and nkyende andelectric eel dragged from the

river. Akala, nkento, a-ana:man,woman, and child.Andeverything that grows:frangipani, jacaranda,mangwansi beans, sugarcane,breadfruit, bird of paradise.Nguba is peanut (close towhatwecalledthemathome,gooberpeas!);malalaare theorangeswithblood-red juice;mankondo are bananas.Nanasi is a pineapple, andnanasi mputu means “poorman’s pineapple”: a papaya.

All these things grow wild!Our very own backyardresembles the Garden ofEden. I copydowneachnewword inmy school notebookand vow to remember italways,when I am a grown-up American lady with abackyardgardenofmyown.Ishall tell all the world thelessonsIlearnedinAfrica. “We’ve learned from the

books left behind byBrotherFowles, field guides to the

mammals and birds and theLepidoptera, which are thebutterflies. And we’velearned from anyone (mostlychildren) whowill talk to usand point at the same time.We’veevenhadasurpriseortwo from our own mother,who grew up way deeper inDixie than we did. As thebuds on the trees turn toflowers, she raises her blackeyebrows in surprise aboveher wide blue eyes and

declares: hougainvillea,hibiscus,why,treeofheaven!Who would have thoughtMother knew her trees? Andthe fruits—mango, guava,avocado—these we hadbarelyglimpsedbefore,inthebig Kroger store in Atlanta,yet now the trees reach rightdownanddeliversuchexoticprizesstraightintoourhands!That’s one more thing toremember -when I’m grown,to tell about theCongo: how

the mango fruits hung -waydownonlong,longstemslikeextension cords. I believeGod felt sorry for theAfricans after putting thecoconut so far out of reach,andaimedtomakethemangoeasiertogetahandon.I look hard at everything,

and blink, as ifmy two eyeswere a Brownie camerataking photographs to carryback.Atthepeople,too,whohave names to be learned.

Gradually we’ve begun tocall out to our neighbors.Closest by is poor lameMamaMwanza,whoscurriesdown the road on her hands.And Mama Nguza, whowalks with her head heldstrangely high on account ofthegiantgoiternestled likeagooseeggunderherchin.TataBoanda, the old fisherman,goes out in his boat everymorning in the brightest redpairof trousersyoueversaw

in your life. Peoplewear thesame thing day in and dayout, and that’s how werecognizethem,byandlarge.(Mother says if they reallywantedtoputoneoveronus,they’d all swap outfits for aday.)On coolmorningsTataBoanda also wears a lightgreen sweater with a whiteborder on the placket—he’squite a sight, with hismuscular chest as manly asall get-out framed by the V-

neck of a ladies’-wearsweater! But if you thinkabout it, how would he oranyonehereeverknow it’salady’s sweater? How do Ieven know? Because of thestyling, though it’s nothingyou could plainly describe.Soisitevenalady’ssweater,hereintheCongo?Iwonder.There is something else I

must confess about TataBoanda: he’s a sinner. Rightin the plain sight of God he

has two wives, a young andan old one. Why, they allcome to church! Father sayswe’re to pray for all threeofthem,butwhenyougetdownto the particulars it’s hard toknow exactly what outcometo pray for. He should droponewife,Iguess,butforsurehe’d drop the older one, andshealreadylookssadenoughas it is.Theyoungeronehasallthekids,andyoucan’tjustpray for a daddy to flat-out

dump his babies, can you? Ialways believed any sin waseasilyrectifiedifonlyyouletJesus Christ into your heart,buthereitgetscomplicated.Mama Boanda Number

Two doesn’t seem fazed byher situation. In fact, shelooks like she’s fixing toexplodewithsatisfaction.Sheand her little girls all weartheir hair in short spikesbursting out all over theirheads,givinganeffectsimilar

toapincushion.(Rachelcallsit the“haywirehairdo.”)AndMama Boanda always wrapsherpagnejustso,withahugepinkstarburstradiatingacrossherwiderump.Thewomen’slong cloth skirts are printedso gaily with the oddestthings: there is no tellingwhen a raft of yellowumbrellas, or the calico catand gingham dog, or anupside-down image of theCatholic Pope might just go

saunteringacrossouryard.Late in the fall, the milky

green bushes surroundingevery house and pathsuddenlyrevealedthemselvesas poinsettias.They bloomedtheirheadsoffandChristmasrangoutinthestickyheat,assurprising as if “Hark theHeraldAngels”weretocomeonyourradioinJuly.Oh,it’sa heavenly paradise in theCongoandsometimesIwantto live here forever. I could

climb up trees just like theboys to hunt guavas and eatthem till the juice runsdownand stains my shirt, forever.Only I am fifteen now. Ourbirthday, in December,caught me off guard. Adahand I were late-bloomers interms of the bad things, likegetting breasts and themonthly visit. Back inGeorgiawhenmy classmatesstarted turning up in trainingbrassieres, one after another,

likeitwasacatchingdisease,I bobbed off my hair andvowed to remain a tomboy.With Adah and me doingcollege algebra and readingthefattestbookswecouldgetourhandson,whiletheotherkids trudged through eachtaskinitsorder,Iguesswe’dcountedonalwaysbeing justwhatever age we wanted tobe. But no more. Now I’mfifteen and must think aboutmaturing into a Christian

lady.To tell the truth, it’s not

purely paradise here, either.Perhaps we’ve eaten of thewrong fruits in the Garden,because our family alwaysseemstoknowtoomuch,andat the same timenot enough.Whenever something bighappens we’re quite takenaback, but no one else is theleast bit surprised. Not by arainy season come and gonewhere none was supposed to

be, nor by the plain greenbushes changing themselvesbang into poinsettias.Not bybutterflieswithwingsasclearas little cats-eye glasses; notby the longest or shortest orgreenest snake in the road.Evenlittlechildrenhereseemtoknowmorethanus,justaseasilyastheyspeaktheirownlanguage. I have to admit,that discouraged me at first:hearing the little kidsjabbering away in Kikongo.

How could little babiessmallerthanRuthMayspeakthis whole other language soperfectly? It’s similar to theway Adah will sometimesturnupknowingsomeentire,difficult thing like French orthesquarerootofpiwhenI’dbeen taking for granted Iknew everything she did.After we first arrived, thechildren congregated outsideour house each and everymorning, which confused us.

We thought there must besomethingpeculiar,suchasababoon,onourroof.Thenwerealized the peculiar thingwas ws.They were attractedto our family for the samereason people will pull overtowatchahouseafireoracarwreck.Wedidn’thavetodoathing in the world to befascinating but move aroundin our house, speak, wearpants,boilourwater.Our life was much less

fascinating frommy point ofview. Mother gave us a fewweeks leeway on theschoolbooks, what with allthe confusion of our settlingin,buttheninSeptembersheclapped her hands togetherand declared,”Congo or not,it’s back to school for yougirls!” She’s determined tomake us scholars—and notjust the gifted among us,either. We were all chainedtogether in her game plan.

Eachmorning after breakfastand prayers she sat us downat the table and poked thebacks of our heads with herindexfinger,bendingusoverour schoolbooks (and RuthMayhercoloring),gettingusin shape for Purgatory, I’dreckon. Yet all I couldconcentrateonwasthesoundof thekidsoutside, thequeerglittery syllables of theirwords. It sounded likenonsensebutcarriedsomuch

secret purpose. Onemysterious phrase called outbyanolderboycouldroutthewhole group in shrieks andlaughter.After lunch she’dallowus

a few precious hours to runfree. The children wouldscream and bolt in terrorwhen we came out, as if wewerepoisonous.Then after aminute or two they’d creepforward again, naked andtransfixed, thrilled by our

regular habits. Before longthey’d have reassembledthemselves in a semicircle atthe fringe of the yard,chewing on their pinksugarcane stalks and staring.Abraveonewouldtakeafewsteps forward, hold out ahandandscream,“Cadeau!!”before running away inhorrified giggles. That wastheclosestthingtofellowshipwe had achieved so far—ashrieked demand for a gift!

And what could we givethem? We hadn’t given asingle thought to themwantingearthlygoods, inourplanning ahead. We’d onlybrought things for ourselves.So I just tried to ignore thewholebusinessasIlayinthehammockwithmynoseinthesame book I’d already readthreetimes.Ipretendednottocare that they watched melike a zoo creature orpotentialsourceofloot.They

pointed and talked amongthemselves, lording it overmethattheirwholeworldleftmeout.My mother said, “Well,

but,sugar,itgoesbothways.You know how to speakEnglishandtheydon’t.”Iknewshewasright,butI

tooknoconsolationfromthat.Speaking English wasnothing. Itwasn’t a skill likebeing able to name all thecapitals and principal

productsofSouthAmericaorrecite Scripture or walk ontop of a fence. I had nomemoryofeverhavinghadtowork hard for my nativetongue.ForatimeIdidworkhardtolearnFrench,butthenAdahranawaywiththatprizeso I dropped the effort. Shecould know French for theboth of us, as far as I wasconcerned.ThoughIdohaveto say it seems an odd talentfor someone who just on

general principles refuses totalk. Back home, the idea ofFrench had seemed like aparlor game anyhow. Afterwegothere,itstilldid.Thesechildren have nothing to dowith je suis, vous etes. Theyspeakalanguagethatburglesand rains from their mouthslike water through a pipe.And from day one I havecoveteditbitterly.Iwantedtogetupfrommyhammockandshout something that would

flush themup like a flockofscaredducks.Itriedtoinventor imagine such a stout,snappyphrase.“Bukabuka!”Iimagined myself shouting.“We like Ike!” Or, from aspaceship movie I had seenonce:”Klatubaradanikto!”

Iwantedthemtoplaywithme.I suppose everyone in our

family wanted the same, inonewayoranother.Toplay,

tobargainreasonably,toofferthe Word, to stretch a handacross the dead space thatpillowed around us. RuthMaywasthefirstoneamongustogetherway.Thatshouldhave been no surprise, asRuth May appears to becapable of leaping tallbuildings with the force ofher will. But who’d havethought a five-year-old couldestablish communicationswith the Congolese? Why,

she wasn’t even allowed outofouryard!Itwasmyjobtokeep her there, usually, withone eye always on thelookoutforhertofalloutofatree andcrackherheadwideopen. That really is the kindofthingRuthMaywoulddo,justfortheattention.Shewasbound and determined to runoff, and sometimes I had tothreaten her with catastrophejusttokeepherincheck.Oh,I said awful things. That a

snake might bite her, or thatone of those fellowswalkingbyandswinginghismachetemightjustcuthergizzardout.AfterwardIalwaysfeltguiltyand recited the RepentancePsalm: “Have mercy uponme, O God, according untothe multitude of thy tendermercies.”But really,with allthose multitudes of tendermercies, He has got tounderstand sometimes youneedtoscareapersonalittle

forherowngood.WithRuthMayit’sallornothing.As soonas Ihadhergood

andterrifiedI’dslipaway.I’dgohuntforthePygmies,whoare supposed to be dwellingright under our noses in theforest,orformonkeys(easierto spot). Or I’d cut up fruitfor Methuselah, still hangingaround begging, and catchgrasshoppers for Leon, thechameleon we keep in awooden crate.Mother lets us

keep him on the condition -we never bring him in thehouse.Which is funny,because I found him insidethe house. His bulging eyesockets swivel whicheverwaytheyplease,andweloveto get his eyes going so onelooksupandtheotherdown.He catches the grasshopperswe throw in his box bywhipping out his tongue likeaslingshot.I could also try to talk

Father into letting me tagalong with him. There wasalwaysthatpossibility.Fatherspends his days makingrounds through the village,trying to strikeup chatswiththeidleoldmen,orventuringfarther afield to inspect thestate of grace in theneighboring villages.Thereare several little settlementswithin a day’swalk, but I’msorry to report they all fallunder the jurisdiction of our

samegodlesschief,TataNdu.Father never lets me go

that far, but I beg himanyhow. I try to avoid thedrudgery of housekeepingchores, which is more upRachel’s alley if she canstoop to being helpful on agiven day. My view of thehomeis,itisalwaysbettertobe outside. So I loiter at theedge of the village, waitingfor Father’s return. There,where the dirt road makes a

deep red cut between highyellow walls of grass, younever know what might becoming toward you on dustyfeet. Women, usually,carrying the world on theirheads:ahugeglassdemijohnfull of palm wine, with acalabashbowlperchedontoplikeanupside-downhat;orabundle of firewood tied upwith elephant grass, toppedoffwithabigenameltubfullof greens. The Congolese

sense of balance isspectacular.Most of the girls my age,

orevenyounger,havebabies.They appear way too youngtobemarried,tillyoulookintheireyes.Thenyou’llseeit.Their eyes look happy andsad at the same time, butunexcited by anything,shifting easily off to the sideas if they’ve already seenmost of what there is.Married eyes. And the

youngergirls—iftheyaretooyoung to bemarried and tooold to be strapped onsomeone’sback(whichisnota wide margin)—why, theycomestridingalongswingingtheir woven bags over theirshoulders and scowl at you,as if to say,Out ofmy road,can’tyouseeI’mbusy!Theymay only be little girlstagging after their mothers,but believe you me, withthem it’s all business.The

girls are usually just aboutbald, like the boys. (Mothersaysit’sfromnotgettingtheirproteins.)Butyoucantellthegirls by their stained, frillydresses, castoffs from somedistant land. It took meaback for months that theylook somuch like little boysin ruffly dresses. No girl orwomanwearspants, ever.Weare the odd birds here.Apparently they think we’reboys, except maybe Rachel,

andcan’ttellaoneofusapartfrom the other. They call usallBeelezi,whichmeansBelgians! I mean to tell

you, theycallus that right toourfaces.It’showtheygreetus:“Mbote,Beelezil”! The women smile, but

then cover their mouths,embarrassed.The little babiestake one look and burst outcrying. It’s enough to giveyou a complex. But I don’tcare, I’m too fascinated to

hide indoors or stay coopedup in our yard. Curiositykilled the cat, I know, but Itrytolandonmyfeet.Right smack in themiddle

ofthevillageisahugekapoktree,which iswhere theygettogether and have theirmarket every fifth day. Oh,that’s something to see! Allthe ladies come to sell andbicker. They might havegreen bananas, pink bananas,mounds of rice and other

whitishthingspiledonpaper,onions or carrots or evenpeanuts if it’s our lucky day,or bowls of little redtomatoes, misshapen thingsbuthighlyprized.Youmighteven see bottles of brightorange soda pop thatsomeone walked here all theway from Leopoldville, Iguess, and will walk a longway more before they’re allsold.There’saladythatsellscubes of caramel-colored

soap that look good to eat.(Ruth May snitched one andtook a bite, then cried hard,not so much from the badtasteas thedisappointment, Iimagine.There’ssolittleherefor a child in the way ofsweets.) Also sometimeswe’llseeawitchdoctorwithaspirins, pink pills, yellowpills, and animal pieces alllaid out in neat rows on ablackvelvet cloth.He listensto your ailments, then tells

youwhetheryouneedtobuya pill, a good-luck charm, orjustgohomeandforgetaboutit. That’s a market day foryou. So far we’ve onlypurchasedthingsfromaroundtheedges;wecan’tgetupthenerve towalk in therewholehoganddoourshopping.Butit’s fascinating to look downthe rows and see all thoselong-legged women in theircolorful pagnes, bent overalmost double to inspect

thingslaidoutontheground.Andwomenpullingtheirlipsup to their noses when theyreach out to take yourmoney.You watch all thatnoiseandbusiness, then lookpastthemtotherollinggreenhills in the distance, withantelopes grazing under flat-toppedtrees,anditdoesn’tfittogether.It’s liketwostrangemovies running at the sametime.On the other days when

there’snomarket,peoplejustcongregateinthemainsquarefor one thing and another:hairdos, shoe repair, or justgossiping in the shade.There’s a tailor who sets uphis foot-pedal sewingmachine under the tree andtakes their orders, simple asthat. Hairdos are anothermatter, surprisinglycomplicated, given that thewomen have no real hair tospeak of.They get it divided

into rows of long parts inveryintricatepatternssotheirheads end up looking likeballsofdarkwoolmadeofahundred pieces, very fancilystitched together. If they’vegot an inch or two to workwith, the hairdresser willwrap sprigs of it in blackthreadsoitstandsupin littlespikes, like Mama BoandaNumber Two’s. The hairdobusiness always draws anaudience.Themottoseemsto

be, If you can’t grow yourown, supervise somebodyelse’s. The elderly womenand men look on, workingtheirgums,dressedinclothesexactly the same color astheir skin, from all themanyground-in years of wash andwear. From a distance youcan’t tell they have onanything at all, but just thefaintest shadow of snow-white hair as if Jack Frostlightlytoucheddownontheir

heads.Theylookasoldastheworld. Any colorful thingthey might hold in theirhands, like a plastic bucket,stands out strangely. Theirappearancedoesn’t sit squarewiththemodernworld. Mama Lo is the main

hairdresser. She also runs apalm-oilbusinessontheside,gettinglittleboystosquashitout of the little red oil-palmnuts in her homemade pressand selling it to the other

villagersjustalittleeachday,for frying their greens andwhat not. Mama Lo doesn’thave any husband, thoughshe’sasindustriousasthedayislong.Withthewaytheydohere, it seems like somefellowwouldsnapherupasavaluableadd-ontohisfamily.She isn’t awhole lot to lookat,I’llgrantyou,withhersadlittle eyes and wrinkledmouth she keeps shut,morning till night, while she

does everybody’s hair. Thestate of her own hair is amystery, since she alwayswraps her head in a dazzlingcloth printed with peacockfeathers.Those lively feathersdon’t really match herpersonality, but like TataBoanda in his ladies’-wearsweater, she seems unawarethatheroutfitisironic.IfIsettledownonastump

somewhereattheedgeofthevillage square, they’ll forget

aboutmesoonerorlater,I’vefound. I like to sit there andkeep an eye out for thewoman with the great bigwhitepurse,exactlylikewhatMamie Eisenhower mighttake shopping, which shecarries proudly through thevillage on her head. And Ilove towatch theboysclimbuppalmtreestocutdowntheoil nuts. Way high up therewith the sunlight fallingreddish-brown on the palm

trunks and the boys’ narrowlimbs, they look beautiful.They seem touched by theLord’s grace. In any event,they never fall.The palmfronds wave around theirheadslikeostrichplumes.Twice I’ve seen the honey

man who comes out of theforest carrying a block ofhoneycomb dripping withhoney—sometimes bees andall!—in his bare hands. Asmoking roll of leaves juts

from his mouth like a giantcigar. He sings softly to thebees ashewalks through thevillage, and the children allrunafterhim,mesmerizedbythe prospect of honey, theireagernessforasweetcausingthem tovibrateandhum likethebees.On the rare days when

Eeben Axelroot is in hisshack at the end of theairplane field, I’ve beenknown to go down there and

spy on him, too. SometimesAdah comes, although shegenerally prefers her owncompany to anyone else’s.ButMr. Axelroot provides agrave temptation, as he issuchanabominablecuriosity.We hide amongst the bananatrees that have sprung up allaroundhislatrine,evenwhileitgivesusthecreepsknowingall this lush growth isfertilizedbysuchadisgustingman’s night soil. The big

banana-treeleavesgrowrightup against the shack’s filthybackwindow,leavingnarrowgaps perfect for spying. Mr.Axelroothimself isboring towatch; on a typical day hesleeps till noon, then takes anap.Youcanjusttellheisn’tsaved. But his clutter isfascinating:guns, tools,armyclothes,evenaradioofsomekind, which he keeps in anarmy foot-locker. We canhearthefaintstaticemanating

from the trunk, and thespooky, distant voicesspeakingFrenchandEnglish.Myparents toldus therewasnot a radio within a hundredmiles of our whole village(they wanted to get one forsafety’s sake, but neither theMissionLeaguenor theLordhas so farprovided).So theyaren’t aware of Mr.Axelroot’s radio, and since Ionly learned of it throughspying,Ican’ttellthemabout

it.My parents shun him

completely.Ourmother is sosurenoneofuswouldwanttogo near his house she hasn’tbothered to forbid it. That’sgood luck for me. If no onehas said outright that spyingonMr.Axelrootisasin,thenGod probably couldn’ttechnicallyholditagainstme.The Hardy Boys did spyingfor the cause of good, and Ihave always felt mine is in

thissamevein.It was midway through

September when Ruth Maymade her inroads. I cameback from my spying forayone afternoon to find herplaying “Mother May I?”with half the village’schildren. Iwasflabbergasted.There stood my own littlesister in the center of ouryard, the focal point of agleaming black arc ofchildren strung from here to

there, silently sucking theirsugarcane sticks, not evendaring to blink. Their facesconcentrated on Ruth Maythe way a lens concentratessunlight. I half expected hertogoupinflames.“You,thatone.”RuthMay

pointed and held up fourfingers. “Take four scissorssteps.”The chosen child opened

his mouth wide and sang arising four-note song: “Ma-

da-meh-yi?”“Yes,youmay,”RuthMay

replied benevolently. Thelittle boy crossed his legs atthe knees, leaned back, andminced forward twice plustwice more, exactly like acrabthatcouldcount.Iwatchedforalongwhile,

astonished to see what RuthMay had accomplishedbehindmyback.Everyoneofthese children could executegiant steps, baby steps,

scissorssteps,andafewotherabsurd locomotions inventedbyRuthMay.Shegrudginglylet us join the game, andgrudgingly we did. Forseveral afternoons under thegathering clouds, all of us—including the generallyabove-it-all Rachel—played“Mother May I?” I tried topicture myself in amissionaryrole,gatheringthelittle children unto me, as itwas embarrassing to be

playing this babyish gamewith children waist-high tome. But we were so tired ofourselves and each other bythen the company wasirresistible.We soon lost interest,

though, for there was nosuspenseatall:theCongolesechildren always passed usright by on their march tovictory. In our efforts to ekethe most mileage out of ascissorssteporwhatever,my

sistersandIsometimesforgotto ask (or Adah to mouth)“Mother May I?” Whereastheotherchildrennever,everforgot. For them, shouting“Ma-da-me-yi” was one rotestep inamemorizedchainofsteps, not a courtesy to beused or dropped the way“yes, ma’am” and “thankyou” are for us. TheCongolese children’sunderstanding of the gamedidn’t even take courtesy or

rudeness into account, if youthinkabout it, anymore thanMethuselah did when herailed us with hell anddamnation. This came as astrange letdown, to see howthe game always went tothose who knew the ruleswithout understanding thelesson.But “Mother May I?”

broketheice.Whentheotherchildren got wise to RuthMay’sbossywaysanddrifted

off,oneboystayed.HisnamewasPascal,orsomethingnearit, and he captivated us withfrantic sign language. Pascalwasmynkundi:my first realfriend in the Congo. Hewasabout two-thirds my size,though much stronger, andfortunately for us both heownedapairofkhakishorts.Twofrayedholesinthebackgave a generous view of hisbuttocks, but that was allright. I rarely had to be

directly behind him exceptwhen we climbed trees. Theeffect was still far lessembarrassingtomethanpurenakedness. I think I wouldhavefounditimpossibletobefriends with a purely nakedboy.“Beto nki tutasala?” he

would ask me by way ofgreeting. “What are wedoing?” It was a goodquestion.Our companionshipconsisted mainly of Pascal

telling me the names foreverythingwe saw and somethings I hadn’t thought tolook for. Bangala, forexample,thepoisonwoodtreethat was plaguing us all halfto death. Finally I learned tosee and avoid its smooth,shinyleaves.Andhetoldmeabout ngondi, the kinds ofweather:mawalala is rain faroff in the distance thatdoesn’t ever come. When itbooms thunder and beats

down the grass, that is nunindolo,andthegentlerkindisnkazi ndolo. These he called“boy rain” and “girl rain,”pointing right to his privateparts and mine withoutappearing to think a thing inthe world was wrong withthat. There were other boyand girl words, such as rightand left: the man hand andthe woman hand. Thesediscussions came several‘weeks into our friendship,

afterPascalhadlearnedIwasnot, actually, a boy, butsomething previouslyunheard of: a girl inpants.Thenewssurprisedhimgreatly, and I don’t like todwell on how it came about.Ithadtodowithpeeinginthebushes. But Pascal quicklyforgave me, and it’s a goodthing, since friends of myownageandgenderwerenotavailable,thegirlsofKilangaall being too busy hauling

around firewood, water, orbabies. It did crossmymindto wonder why Pascal had afreedomtoplayandroamthathis sisters didn’t. While thelittle boys ran aroundpretending to shoot eachother and fall dead in theroad, it appeared that littlegirls were running thecountry.But Pascal made a fine

companion. As we squattedface to face, I studied his

wide-set eyes and tried toteach him English words—palm tree, house, run, walk,lizard, snake. Pascal couldsay these words back to meall right, but he evidentlydidn’t care to rememberthem. He only paid attentionif it was something he’dnever seen before, such asRachel’s Timex watch withthe sweep second hand. Healso wanted to know thename of Rachel’s hair. Hen,

herr, he repeated over andover,asifthiswerethenameof some food he wanted tomake sure he never got holdofbymistake.Itonlydawnedon me later, I should havetoldhim“blonde.”Once we’d made friends,

Pascal borrowed a macheteand cut sugarcane for me tochew on. With hard,frighteningwhackshecutthecane into popsicle lengthsbefore replacing themachete

besidehis father’shammock.The cane-sucking habit inKilanga was no doubtconnectedtotheblackstumpsof teeth most everyoneshowedoffwhentheysmiledat us, andMother never lostan opportunity to remarkupon that connection. ButPascalhadafinesetofstrongwhite teeth, so I decided totakemychances.I invited Pascal into our

kitchen house when Mother

wasn’t there. We skulkedabout in the banana-smellingdarkness, examining thewallover theplankcounterwhereMother tacks up pictures shetears out ofmagazines. Theyare company for her, Isuppose, these housewives,children, and handsome menfrom cigarette ads, of whichFather would disapprove iftheLord’spatheverchancedto lead him through thekitchen, which isn’t likely.

Mother even has a photo ofPresident Eisenhower inthere. In the dimness thePresident’s pale, bulboushead shines out like alightbulb. Our substitute forelectricity! But Pascal isalways more interested inpoking through the floursacks, and he sometimestakes small handfuls ofCarnationmilkpowder.Ifindthat substance revolting, yetheeatsiteagerly,asifitwere

candy.In exchange for his first

taste of powdered milk,Pascal showed me a tree wecould climb to find a bird’snest. After we handled andexamined the pink-skinnedbabybirds,hepoppedoneofthem in his mouth like ajujube. It seemed to pleasehim a lot.He offered a babybird tome,pantomiming thatI should eat it. I understoodperfectlywellwhathemeant,

butIrefused.Hedidnotseemdisappointed to have to eatthewholebroodhimself.On another afternoon

Pascal showed me how tobuild a six-inch-tall house.Crouched in theshadeofourguava, he planted uprighttwigs in the dirt. Then hebuiltthetwigsintowallswitha sturdy basket -weave ofshredded bark all the wayaround.Hespat in thedirt tomake red mud, then patted

this onto thewalls until theywerecovered.Finallyheusedhis teeth to square off theends of palm fronds in abusinesslike manner, for theroof.Finallyhesquattedbackonhis heels and looked overhis work with an earnest,furrowed forehead. Thissmall house of Pascal’s, Irealized, was identical inmaterial and design to thehouse in which he lived. Itonlydifferedinsize.

It struck me what a wideworldofdifferencetherewasbetween our sort of games—”Mother May I?,” “Hideand Seek”—and his: “FindFood,” “RecognizePoisonwood,” “Build aHouse.” And here he was aboy no older than eight ornine.Hehadayoungersisterwhocarriedthefamily’sbabyeverywhere she went andhacked weeds with hermother in themanioc field. I

couldsee that thewhole ideaand business of Childhoodwas nothing guaranteed. Itseemed to me, in fact, likesomething more or lessinventedbywhitepeopleandstuck onto the front end ofgrown-uplifelikeafrillonadress.ForthefirsttimeeverIfeltastirringofangeragainstmy father for making me awhite preacher’s child fromGeorgia. This wasn’t myfault.Ibitmylipandlabored

onmyownsmallhouseundertheguavatree,butbesidetheperfect talents of Pascal, myownhandslumberedlikepaleflippersonawalrusoutofitselement. My embarrassmentran scarlet and deep, hiddenundermyclothes.

RuthMayPriceTHEVERYDAYMAMA

SAID,You’regoing tocrackyour headwide open, but nosir.Ibrokemyarminstead.

HowIdiditwasspyingonthe African Communist BoyScouts. Way up there in thetreeIcouldseethembuttheycouldn’tseeme.Thetreehadgreenalligatorpearsthattastelikenothingmuch.NotaoneofusbutMamawilleatthem,andtheonlyreasonisshecanremember how they tastedback home from the PigglyWiggly with salt andHellman’s mayonnaise.“Mayonnaise,” I asked her.

“Whatcolorwasthejar?”Butshe didn’t cry. SometimeswhenIcan’trememberthingsfromGeorgia,she’llcry.They looked like regular

Congo Boy Scouts to me,marching, except they didn’thaveanyshoes.TheBelgiumArmymenallhaveshoesandgunsandtheycomemarchingright straight through heresometimes, on their way tosomewhere. Father said theyare showing everybody

Congolese, like Tata Undo,that Belgium is still callingtheshots.But theotherarmyis just boys that live aroundhere. You can tell thedifference. There aren’t anywhite ones in charge, andthey don’t have all the sameclothes.They’vejustgottheirshorts and barefooted orwhatever they’ve got. Onehas got him a red Frenchiehat.Boy, I like that hat. Theothers have red hankies tied

around their necks. MamasaidtheyarenotBoyScouts,they are JeuneMou-Pro.Shesays, “RuthMay, sugar, youdon’t have a speck ofbusinesswiththeJeuneMou-Pro, so when you see them,why, you run on into thehouse.” Mama does let usplay with little children andboys,even if theyaremostlynaked, but not those ones inthe red hankies. Mbote fe-Thatmeans no good. That is

how I come to climb up thealligatorpeartreewhenIsawthem. For a long time Ithought Mama was sayingtheyweretheJimmyCrow,anameIknewfromhome.In the morning we can’t

spy.Mysistershavetositandhave their school, and Ihavetocolorandlearnmyletters.Idon’t like having school.Father saysagirl can’tgo tocollege because they’ll pourwater in your shoes.

Sometimes I can play withmypetsinsteadofcoloring,ifI’m quiet. Here aremy pets:Leonandthemongoose.Alsothe parrot. My father let theparrot go because weaccidentally taught it to saybad words, but it didn’t goplumbaway.Itgoesandthenit comes back because itswingsaren’tanycount;itgottoo tamed and forgot how tofly away and eat by itself. Ifeed it sour limes from the

dima tree to make it sneezeandwipeitsbilloff,onesideand then the other side.Mbote ve! Dima, dimba,dimbama. I like to say allthose words because theycome out of yourmouth andlaugh. My sisters feel sorryfor the parrot but I don’t. IwouldhavemeasnaketooifI could, because I’m notscaredofthem.Nobodyeverevengaveme

themongoose. It came to the

yardandlookedatme.Everyday it got closer and closer.One day themongoose camein the house and then everydayafter that. It likesme thebest. It won’t tolerateanybody else. Leah said wehad to name it Ricky TickyTabby but no sir, it’s mineand I’m a-calling it StuartLittle. That is a mouse in abook. I don’t have a snakebecauseamongoosewantstokill a snake. Stuart Little

killed the one by the kitchenhouse and that was a goodbusiness,sonowMamaletsitcomeoninthehouse.Dimbameanslisten!Youlistenhere,Buster Brown! The snake bythekitchenhousewasacobrathat spits in your eyes. Yougoblind, and then it can justrare back and bite you anyoldtimeitfeelslikeit.We went and found the

chameleon all on our own.Leah mostly found that one

onherbed.Mostanimalsarewhatever color God madethem and have to stay thatway, but Leon is whateverderncolorhewantstobe.Wetake him in the house whenMama and Father are still atchurch and one time we puthim onMama’s dress for anexperiment and he turnedflowered. If he gets out andruns away in the house, ohboy Jeez old man. Then wecan’tfindhim.Wendambote

— good-bye, fare ye well,and amen! So we keep himoutside in a box that thecomic books came in. If youpokehimwithastickheturnsblack with sparkles andmakes a noise.We do that toshowhimwho’sboss.When I broke my arm it

wasthedayMr.Axelrootwassupposedtocome.Fathersaidthat was good timing by thegrace a God. But when Mr.Axelrootfoundoutwehadto

go to Stanleyville he turnedaround and took right offagain up the river orsomething,nobodyknew,andhe’d be back tomorrow.Mama said, “That man.”Father said, “Whatwere youdoingshimmyingupthattreeinthefirstplace,RuthMay?”IsaidLeahwassupposetobewatchingmeso itwasn’tmyfault.IsaidIwashidingfromtheJimmyCrowboys.“Oh, for Pete’s sake,”

Mama said. “Whatwere youdoing out there at allwhen Itold you to run insidewhenever you see themcoming?” She was afraid totell Father because he mightwhipme,bustedarmandall.ShetoldhimIwasalambofGod and it was a pureaccident, so he didn’t whipme.Notyet.MaybewhenI’mallfixed,hewill.Thatarmhurtbad.Ididn’t

cry, but I held it right still

over my chest. Mama mademe a sling out of the sameboltofclothshebroughtoverto make the bed sheets andbaptizing dresses for theAfrican girls. We haven’tbaptized any yet. Dunkingthem in the river, theywon’thaveit,nosir,nothingdoing.Crocodiles.Mr. Axelroot did come

back next day at noontimeand smelled like when thefruitgoesbadonyou.Mama

said it could wait one moredayifwewantedtogettherein one piece. She said,“Lucky it was just a brokenboneandnotasnakebite.”Whilewewerewaitingfor

Mr. Axelroot to sit in hisairplane and get to feelingbetter, the Congolese ladiescameondowntotheairplanefield with great big old bagsofmaniocon theirheadsandhe gave them money. Theladies cried and yelled when

he gave them the money.Father said that was becauseitwastwocentsonthedollar,but they don’t even haveregular dollars here.They usethatpinkmoney.Someoftheladies yelled hard at Mr.Axelroot and went awaywithoutgivinghimtheirstuff.Thenwegotintheplaneandflew to Stanleyville: Mr.Axelroot, Father, and mybroken arm. I was the firstone of my sisters ever to

break any bone but a toe.Mama wanted to go insteadofhimbecauseIwasawasteof Father’s time. If shewentI’dgettorideonherlap,soIsaid that to him, too, I wasgoing towastehis time.But,no, then he decided after allhe wanted to go walk on acity street in Stanleyville, sohe went and Mama stayed.Thebackof theairplanewassofullofbagsIhadtositonthem. Big scratchy brown

bags with manioc andbananas and little cloth bagsof something hard. I lookedinside some of them: rocks.Sparkly things and dirtyrocks. Mr. Axelroot toldFather that food goes for theprice a gold in Stanleyville,butitwasn’tgoldinthelittlecloth bags. No, sir, it wasdiamonds. I found that outand I can’t tell how. EvenFatherdoesn’tknowwerodein a airplane with diamonds.

Mr. Axelroot said if I told,why then God would makeMama get sick and die. So Ican’t.After I went to sleep and

wokeupagainintheairplaneMr.Axelroottolduswhatallwe could see from up therelooking down: Hippos in theriver. Elephants runningaroundinthejungle,awholebunch of them. A lion downby thewater, eating. Itsheadmovedupanddown likeour

kitty in Atlanta. He told usthere’s little tiny Pygmypeopledowntheretoobutwenever saw any. Maybe toolittle.Isaidtohim,“Whereisall

thegreenmambasnakes?”I know they live up in a

tree so they candroponyouandkillyou,andIwanted tosee some.Mr.Axelroot said,“There’s not a thing in thisworld hides as good as agreenmamba snake. They’re

just the same color as whatthey layupagainst,”he said,“and they don’t move amuscle.Youcouldberightbyoneandnotknowit.”We landed nice as you

please on the grass. It wasbumpier up in the sky thandown on the grass. The bighuge house right there wasthehospitalandtheyhadalotof white people inside, andsome other ones in whitedresses. Therewere somany

white people I forgot tocount. I hadn’t seen any butjustusforacoon’sage.

Thedoctorsaid,”Whatwasa nice preacher’s girl doingup a tree?” The doctor hadyellowhaironhisarmsandabigfaceandsoundedforeign.But hedidn’t giveme a shotsoIlikedhimallright.Father said, “That is just

whathermotherandIwantedtoknow.”

I said I didn’t wantanybody a-throwing me in abig pot and eating me, so Ihad to hide. The doctorsmiled. Then I told him forreal I was hiding from theJimmyCrow, and the doctordidn’tsmile,hejustlookedatFather. Then he said to me,“Climbing trees is for boysandmonkeys.”“Wedon’thaveboysinour

family,”Itoldhim.Helaughedatthat.Hesaid,

“Nor monkeys either, Ishouldnotthink!”HeandFathertalkedabout

man things.The doctor wassurprised about the JimmyCrow boys being in ourvillage. He didn’t talk plainEnglish like us; he said , “cannotinsteadofIcan’t,andtheyareanddidnotandsuch.They have heard, is what heasked Father. “They haveheard of our PatriceLumumba all the way down

toKilanganow?”Father said, “Oh,wedon’t

see too much of them. Wehear rifle practice onoccasion.”“Lord help us,” said the

doctor.Fathertoldhim,“Why,the

Lord will help us! We’llreceive His divine mercy ashis servants who bringsuccor.”The doctor frowned then.

Hesaidtoforgivehimbuthe

did not agree. He called myfather Reverend. He said,“Reverend, missionary workisagreatbargainforBelgiumbut it is a hell of a way todeliverthesocialservices.”He said that word: hell. I

sucked in my breath andlistenedwithmyears.Father said: “Why, doctor,

Iamnocivilservant.Someofusfollowcareersandsomeofusgetcalledout.Myworkisto bring salvation into the

darkness.”“Salvation my foot!” is

what that doctor said. I dobelievethatmanwasasinner,the way he sassed back atFather.Wewatchedhimmixup the white plaster and layoutstrips.Ihopedheandmyfatherwouldn’tgetinafight.Or, if they did, I hoped Icouldwatch.IsawFatherhitamanone time,whodidnotpraisetheLord.Without looking up from

myarm,thedoctorsaid,“WeBelgiansmadeslavesofthemandcutoff theirhands in therubber plantations. Now youAmericans have them for aslave wage in the mines andlet them cut off their ownhands. And you, my friend,are stuck with the job oftryingtomakeamens.”He was wrapping up my

arm while he said all thatabout cutting off hands. Hekept on wrapping the cool

white strips around andaround till itwas all finishedup andmy arm inside like ahot dog in a bun. Iwas gladnobodywanted tocutoffmyhands. Because Jesus mademe white, I reckon theywouldn’t.He told me, “That will

bother you. We will take itoffinsixweeks.”“Okay,”Isaidtohiswhite

coat sleeve.Therewasbloodonit.Somebodyelse’s.

But Father wasn’t donewith the doctor yet. He washopping fromone foot to theotherandcried,“Uptometomakeamens?Iseenoamensto make! The Belgians andAmerican business broughtcivilization to the Congo!American aid will be theCongo’s salvation.You’llsee!”The doctor held my white

brokenarmlikeabigboneinhis two hands, feeling how

myfingersbent.Heraisedhisyellow eyebrows withoutlooking up at Father, andsaid, “Now, Reverend, thiscivilization the Belgians andAmericans brought, whatwouldthatbe?”Father said,”Why, the

roads!Railroads...”The doctor said, “Oh. I

see.”Then he bent down inhisbigwhitecoatandlookedat my face. He asked me,“Did your father bring you

here by automobile? Or didyou take the passengerrailway?”Hewas just being a smart

aleckandFatherand Ididn’tanswerhim.Theydon’thaveanycarsintheCongoandheknewit.He stood up then and

clappedthewhitestuffoffhishands,andIcouldseehewasalldonewithmyarm,evenifFatherwantedtoarguetillhewent blue in the face. The

doctorheldthedooropenforus.

“Reverend,”hesaid.“Sir?”askedmyfather.“Idonotliketocontradict,

but in seventy-five years theonly roads the Belgians everbuiltare theones theyuse tohaul out diamonds andrubber.Betweenyouandme,Reverend, I do not think thepeople here are looking foryourkindofsalvation.Ithink

they are looking for PatriceLumumba, the new soul ofAfrica.”“Africa has a million

souls” is what Father toldhim. And Father ought toknow, for he’s out to savethemall.“Well, yes, indeed!” the

doctor said. He looked outinto the hallway and thenclosed the door with us stillinside. He said in a lowervoice, “And about half of

them were right here inStanleyville last week tocheer on their TataLumumba.”Father said, “Tata

Lumumba, who from what Ihear is a barefoot post officeworker who’s never evenbeentocollege.”“That is true, Reverend,

butthemanhassuchawayofmoving a crowd he does notseem to need shoes. Lastweekhespokeforanhouron

the nonviolent road toindependence. The crowdloved it so much they riotedandkilledtwelvepeople.”Thedoctorturnedhisback

on us then. He washed hishands in a bowl and wipedthem on a towel like Mamaafter the dishes. Then hecamebackandlookedhardatmy arm for a minute, andthen at Father. He told myfather there were only eightCongolese men in all this

land who have been tocollege. Not one singleCongolese doctor or militaryofficer, nothing, for theBelgiansdon’t allow them toget an education. He said,“Reverend,ifyouarelookingfor Congo’s new leaders, donotbotherlookinginaschoolhall.Youmightbetterlookinprison—Mr. Lumumbalandedhimself thereafter theriots last week. By the timeheisoutIexpecthewillhave

a larger following thanJesus.”

Hoo,boy!Myfatherdidn’tlike the doctor one bit afterthat.SayinganythingisbetterthanJesusisabadsin.Fatherlooked up at the ceiling andout thewindowand triednotto hit anything until thedoctor opened the door andtimeforustogo.Theceilinglight was a clear glass bowlhalf full of something dark,

likeacoffeecup,onlyitwasdeadbugs.Iknowwhy.Theylike to come up to the lightbecauseitisso,soprettylikesomething they want, andthentheygettrappedinthere.I know how they would

feel if you touched them.Like somebody’s eyelashesrightupagainstyourfingers.When we came home my

sisters had to cut up mydinnereverydayandhelpmeget dressed. It was the best

thingthathappened.IshowedLeah where you could getintothealligatorpeartreeandshe boosted me up. I couldstillclimbjustdandywithmyotherarm.IhavetoplaywithLeah the most because theothers inmy familyhavegotsomething wrong with themor else they’re too grown-uptoplay.Wehadtowaituptherein

the tree. I told her, “Mr.Axelroot drinks redwhiskey.

Hehasitundertheseatofhisairplane. I rolled it out withmyfootandthenputitback.”I was the youngest, but I

hadsomethingtotell.You don’t ever have to

wait around for the BelgiumArmy. They always come atthe same time. Right afterlunch, when it isn’t rainingyet and all the women withtheirbucketsand thingshavegone down to the river andthe fields and the men are

home sleeping. It’s quiet.Then the army boys willcome a-marching down theroadsayingasonginFrench.Thatwhite one knowswho’sbossandalltheothershavetoyellbackbecausetheyaretheTribes of Ham. But, boy ohboy, letme tell you, they allhave shoes. They walktogetherhard in the roadandthen stop so fast the dustcomesdownontheirshoes.The JimmyCrowboysare

hardertosee.Theydon’tcarefor the Belgium Army, sotheyhideout.Theycomejusteverynowandthenandhavemeetings in a place backbehind our chicken house.They squat down to listen tothe main one that talks, andtheir legs and arms are soskinnyyoucan tell justwhatshape a bone is. And noshoes, either. Just whitescabby dust on the tops oftheir feet, and all of them

with those dark black soresand scars. Every scar showsup good. Mama says theirskin bears scars differentfrom ours because their skinisamapofallthesorrowsintheirlives.Wewerewaitingtospyon

them back there behind thechicken house when theycame. Leah told me Mamasays Mrs. Underdown saysdon’t even look at them, iftheycome.Theywanttotake

over the whole country andthrowoutthewhites.Isaid,“I’dliketohaveme

aredhatlikethat.”“Shhh,shutup,”Leahsaid.

But then she said, “Well, Iwould too.That’sagood redhat.” She said that because“Shutup”hurtmyfeelings.The boys said, “Patrice

Lumumba!”I toldLeah thatmeans the

new soul ofAfrica, and he’sgone to jail and Jesus is real

mad about it. I told her allthat! I was the youngest onebut I knew it. I lay so stillagainst the tree branch Iwasjust the same everything asthe tree. I was like a greenmambasnake.Poison.Icouldbe right next to you and youwouldn’teverknowit.

RachelWELL, HALLELUJAH

and pass the ammunition.

Company fordinner!Andaneligible bachelor at that,without three wives or evenoneasfarasIknow.Anatole,the schoolteacher, is twenty-fouryearsofage,withallhisfingersstillon,botheyesandbothfeet,andthatisthelocalidea of a top-throbdreamboat.Well, naturally heis not in my color category,but even if I were aCongolese girl I’m afraid I’dhave to say thanks but no

thanks on Anatole. He hasscars all over his face. Notaccident scars, but thin littlelines, the type that some ofthem here get done to themon purpose, like a tattoo. Itriednot tostarebutyouendup thinking, How didsomebody get all the cuts toline up so perfect like that?What did they use, a pizza-piecutterorwhat?Theywerefine as a hair and perfectlystraight,approximatelyablue

millionofthem,runningfromthemiddle of his nose to thesides of his face, like theridges on a black corduroyskirt sewn on the bias, withthe seam running right downthemiddle. It is not the kindofthingyouseeverymuchofhere in our village, butAnatole is not fromhere.HeisCongolese all right, buthehas a different kind of eyesthat slant a little bit like aSiamese, only more

intellectual. We all had tomakeeveryeffortnottostare.There he sat at our dinnertablewithhis smoothhaircutand a regular yellow button-downshirtandhis intelligentbrown eyes blinking verynormal when he listened toyou,butthen,allthosenerve-jangling scars. It gave him amysteriousair,likeaputativefrom the law. I kept stealingglances at him across a plateof antelope meat and stale

Potato Buds, which I guessjust goes to show you howunaccustomed to the malespeciesIhavebecome.

AnatolespeaksFrenchandEnglish both, and single-handedly runs the school allby himself. Six mornings aweek,littlenoisydirt-kickingcrowds of boys from ourvillageand thenextoneovercome straggling in for theireducation. It’sonly theboys,

and not all of them either,since most of the parentsdon’t approve of learningFrenchortheforeignelementin general. But when thoselucky few show up everymorning, Anatole lines themup, littlest to biggest. If everyou happen to be out andabout in our village at thecrackofdawn,asI trynottobe,youcanwatchthemdoit.Each boy stands with hishand on the shoulder of the

taller boy ahead, creating abig long slope of arms.Leahdrew a picture of them.Grantedmysisterismentallydisturbed. She titled it “TheInclinedPlaneofMales.”After the lineup Anatole

marchesthemintothechurchand urges them, I guess, towrestle with their numbersand their Frenchcongregations and what not.But they only take it so far,you see. If they haven’t

already lost interest by thetime they are twelve or so,their education is over andout. It’s more or lesssomething like a law.Imagine: no school allowedafter age twelve. (I wouldn’tmind!)Mrs.Underdown toldus the Belgians have alwayshadthepolicyofsteeringtheCongolese boys away fromhigher education.Girls too, Iguess that goes withoutsaying, because the girls

around here, why, all theyever do is start having theirown babies when they’reaboutten,andkeeponhavingthemtill theirboobiesgoflatas pancakes. Nobody hastheireyeonthatall-importantdiploma,letmetellyou.Andyet here Anatole speaksFrench,English,Kikongoandwhatever all he first startedout with, plus knowingenough to be the one all-purpose schoolteacher. He

must have been busy as abeaver during his fleetingschooldays.Anatole was born up

around near Stanleyville, butat a tender age with hismotherbeingdeadgotsenttowork on the rubberplantations nearCoquilhatville, where moreopportunities both good andbad present themselves—thatwas his way of putting itwhen he told us his personal

life autography at dinner.Healso spent some time at thediamondminesdownsouthinKatanga,where he says one-quarter of all the world’sdiamonds come from. Whenhe spoke of diamonds Inaturally thought of MarilynMonroe in her long glovesand pursey lips whispering“DiamondsAreaGirl’sBestFriend.” My best friend DeeDee Baker and I have snuckoff to seeM.M. and Brigitte

Bardot both at the matinee(Fatherwouldflat-outkillmeif he knew), so you see Iknow a thing or two aboutdiamonds.ButwhenIlookedat Anatole’s wrinkled brownknucklesandpinkishpalms,Ipictured hands like thosedigging diamonds out of theCongo dirt and got tothinking, Gee, does MarilynMonroe even know wherethey come from? Justpicturing her in her satin

gown and a Congolesediamond digger in the sameuniverse gaveme theweebiejeebies. So I didn’t thinkaboutitanymore.I inspected Anatole’s

special kind of face scarringinstead. It is evidentlyconsideredbeautifyinginthatregion, or one of the placeshe’slivedatanyrate.Aroundhere thepeople seemcontentto settle for whatever scarslife whangs them with as a

decoration. That plus thesplectacular hairdos on thewomen, which, man alive,don’tevengetmestarted.ButAnatolenotbeingfrom

here, that explains why hedoesn’t have his mother andfather and fourteen hundredcousins living with him likeeverybody else does. We’dalready heard part of thestory, that hewas anorphan.TheUnderdownstookhimonas a project because his

family all got killed in somehorriblewaytheylovetohintatbutneverexactlytell.Backwhen they used to live here,they heard about Anatolefromsomeothermissionariesand saved him from thefamous diamond mines andtaught him to love Jesus andhow to read andwrite. Thenthey installed him as theschoolteacher. Father saysAnatole is “our only ally inall this,”which is as clear as

mud to me, but apparentlyFather’s say-so was a goodenough reason to invite himto dinner.At least it gave ussomething to lookforward tobesides thesewonderfuldeadanimalsweget toeat.And itprovided Mother somethingtogetallfrantickyabout.Shedeclaredshewasatherwits’end to come up with apresentable meal. She’dcooked up some antelopemeat and tried tomake fried

plantains that turned intosomething like black horse-hoofglueinthepan.Shetriedto make up for the food byusingthewhitetableclothandserving those pitiful blackplantains in the bone-chinaplatter with the forget-me-notsthatshewassoproudof—heronepretty thing in thisbigoldmesswehave to livein.AndIwillsayshedidherbest to be the gracefulhostess. Anyways Anatole

gave her compliments rightandleft,whichtellsyourightthere he was either a politeyoung man or mentallycracked.The small talk and

complimentswentonsolongI was fixing to croak. Mysisters gawked at thefascinatingstrangerandhungon his every syllabus ofEnglish, but as far as I wasconcerned itwas just exactlylike dinner with Father’s

prissy Bible-study groupsback in Georgia, only withmorerepulsivefood.Then all of a sudden the

firehitthepan.Anatole leaned forward

and announced, “Ourchief,Tata Ndu, is concernedaboutthemoraldeclineofhisvillage.”Father said, “Indeed he

should be, because so fewvillagers are going tochurch.”

“No,Reverend.Becausesomany villagers are going tochurch.”Well, that stupefied us all

foraspecialmomentintime.But Father leaned forward,fixingtorisetothechallenge.Whenever he sees anargument coming, man ohman,doeshegetjazzedup.“Brother Anatole, I fail to

seehowthechurchcanmeananything but joy, for the fewherewho chooseChristianity

over ignorance anddarknessl”Anatole sighed. “I

understand your difficulty,Reverend.TataNduhasaskedme to explain this. Hisconcerniswiththeimportantgods and ancestors of thisvillage, who have alwaysbeen honored in certainsacred ways. Tata Nduworries that the people whogo to your church areneglectingtheirduties.”

“Neglecting their duties tofalse idolatry, you mean tosay.”Anatole sighed again.

“Thismaybedifficultforyouto understand. The people ofyour congregationaremostlywhat we call in Kikongo thelenzuka. People who haveshamed themselves or hadvery bad luck or somethinglike that. Tata Boanda, forexample.He has had terribleluckwithhiswives.Thefirst

one can’t get any properchildren, and the second onehas a baby now who keepsdying before birth andcoming back into herwomb,over and over. No one canhelpthisfamilyanymore.TheBoandaswereverycareful toworshiptheirpersonalgodsathome, making the propersacrifices of food and doingeverything in order. But stilltheir gods have abandonedthemforsomereason.Thisis

what they feel. Their luckcould not get any more bad,you see? So they areinterested to try makingsacrificestoyourJesus.”Father looked like he was

chokingonabone.Ithought:Isthereadoctorinthehouse?But Anatole went right onmerrily ahead, apparentlyunawarehewasfixingtokillmy father of a heart attack.“TataNduishappyforyoutodraw the bad-luck people

away,” he said. “So thevillage’sspiritprotectorswillnotnoticethemsomuch.Buthe worries you are trying tolure too many of the othersinto following corrupt ways.Hefearsadisasterwillcomeifweangerthegods.”“Corrupt, did you say,”

Father stated, rather thanasked, after locating wherethecathadputhistongue.“Yes,ReverendPrice.”“Corrupt ways. Tata Ndu

feels that bringing theChristian word to thesepeople is leading them tocorruptways’’“ThatisthebestwayIcan

think of to translate themessage. Actually he saidyou are leading our villagersdownintoahole,wheretheymayfailtoseethepropersunandbecometrappedlikebugsonarottencarcass.”Well, that did it! Father

was going to keel plumb

over. Call the ambulance.And yet, here was Anatolelooking back at Father withhis eyebrows raised veryhigh,like“Doyouunderstandplain English?” Not tomention my younger sisters,who were staring at Anatolelike he was the Ripley’sBelieve It or Not Two-Headed Calf. “Tata Nduaskedyoutorelayallthat,didhe?”“Yes,hedid.”

“And do you agree that Iam leading your fellowvillagers to partake of themeatofarottencorpse?”

Anatole paused.You couldsee him trying out differentwords inhishead.Finallyhesaid, “Reverend Price, do Inot stand beside you in yourchurch every Sunday,translating the words of theBibleandyoursermons?”My Father did not exactly

sayyes or no to that, thoughof course it was true. Butthat’s Father, to a tee. Hewon’t usually answer aquestion straight. He alwaysacts like there’s a trapsomewhere and he’s notabout to get caught in it.Instead he asked, “And,Anatole,doyounotnowsitatmy table, translating thewordsofTataNdu’sbibleoffalse idolatry and his sermonaimedatmeinparticular.”

“Yes,sir,thatiswhatIamdoing.”Father laid his knife and

fork crossways on his plateand took a breath, satisfiedhe’d gained the upper hand.Father specializes in theupper hand. “BrotherAnatole,Iprayeverydayforunderstandingandpatienceinleading Brother Ndu to ourchurch,” he said. “Perhaps Ishouldprayforyouaswell.”This was Big Chief Ndu

they were talking about, or“Mister Undo” as Ruth Maycalls him. And I don’t mindsayinghe isapieceofwork.It is hard to muster up theproperrespectforachiefwhowearsglasseswithnoglassinthem(heseems to think theyraise his intelligencequotient), and the fur of asmall animal clasped aroundhisneck,afashiontrademarkhe shares with the elderlychurchgoing ladies of

Georgia,charmedI’msure.“If you are counting your

enemies, you should notcount me among them, sir,”Anatole said. “And if youfeartherivalsofyourchurch,you should know there isanother nganga here, anotherminister.Peoplealsoputtheirtrustinhim.”Fatherloosenedhistieand

thecollarofhisshort-sleevedSunday shirt. “First of all,youngman,Idonotfearany

man in Kilanga. I am amessenger of God’s greatgood news for all mankind,and He has bestowed uponmeagreaterstrengththanthebruteoxor themost stalwartamongtheheathen.”Anatole calmly blinked at

that. I reckon he waswondering which one Fatherhadhimpeggedfor,bruteoxorstalwartheathen.“Second,” Father went on,

“I’ll point out what you

clearly must know, which isthat Brother Ndu is not aminister of any kind. Hisbusiness concerns thegoverningofhumanrelations,notmatters of the spirit. Butyou are quite right, there isanother preacher aside frommyselfguidingmyownrighthand. The Lord is ourShepherd’’ Naturally Fatherhadtogivetheimpressionheknew who, or what, Anatolewas talking about, even if he

didn’t.What with him beingtheFatherKnowsBestof alltimes.“Yes, yes, of course, the

Lord is our Shepherd,”Anatole said quickly, like hedidn’tbelieveitallthatmuchandwas justgetting it outofthe way.”But I am speakingof the ngangaTatuKuvudundu.”Weallstaredatthemiddle

of the table like somethingdeadwithfeethadjustturned

upthere.Why,weknewTataKuvudundu. We’d seen himbabbling and walkingcockeyed down the road,leaning over so far you keepthinkinghe’llplumbfallover.Hehassixtoesononeofhisfeet, and that’s not even halfthebattle.Somedayshesellsaspirins in the market, alldignifiedlikeDr.Kildare,yetother days he’ll turn upwithhis body painted top tobottom (and I do mean

bottom) in some kind ofwhitewash. We’ve also seenhim squatting in his frontyard surroundedbyotheroldmen, every one of themfalling over from drinkingpalm wine. Father told usTataKuvudunduconductsthesin of false prophecy.Supposedly he and hisgrown-up sons tell fortunesby throwing chicken bonesintoacalabashbowl.“Anatole, what do you

mean by calling him apreacher?” Mother asked.“We kind of thought TataKuvudundu was the towndrunk.”“NoMamaPrice,heisnot.

He is a respected nganga, apriest of the traditions, youmightsay.HeisquiteagoodadvisortoTataNdu.”“Advisor, nothing” said

Father,raisinghalfwayupoutofhischairandstartingtogethis Baptist voice. His red

eyebrows flared above hisscowling eyes, with the badone starting to squint a littlefromthestrainofitall.“Heisararenut,iswhatheis.Anutofthetypethatneverfallsfarfrom the tree-Where I comefrom,sir,thatiswhatwecallawitchdoctor!”Anatole took one of

Mother’s cloth napkins andblotted his face. Dots ofperspiration were runningintothelittleridgesalonghis

nose. My sisters were stillstaring at him with all theirmight, and no wonder. Wehadn’t had any companysince Mother vanished Mr.Axelroot from our table waylastsummer—merelybecausehespatandcursed;wedidn’teven knowyet that hewas acriminal element that wouldchargeusforourownthings.Since that time we hadn’theardwordoneofEnglishatour dinner table from any

mouth but a Price’s. Sixmonths is a long time for afamily to tolerate itselfwithout any outsidedistractions.Anatole seemed to be

getting ants in his pants butwas still bound anddetermined to argue withFather. In spite of the sevenwarningsignalsof“You’llbesorry” written all overFather’s face. Anatole said,“TataKuvudundu looks after

many practical matters here.Men go especially to himwhen their wives are notgettingchildren,oriftheyareadulterous.” He glanced atme, of all things, as if I inparticular were too young toknow what that meant.Really.Mother suddenly snapped

outofit.“Helpmeout,girls,”she said. “The dishwater isboiling away on the stove, Iforgot all about it.You all

clear the table and startwashing up. Be careful anddon’tgetburned.”Tomy surprise,my sisters

practicallyranfromthetable.Theywere curious, I’m sure,but the main considerationhad to be Father. He was asfrustrated as it gets andlooked like he was fixing tothrow a rod. I, however,didn’t leave. I helped clearthedishesbut thenIsatbackdown.IfanybodypresumedI

was too young for aconversation about adultersand not getting babies theyhad another think coming.Besides, this was the mostexciting occasion that hadhappened to us since RuthMayfelloutofa tree,whichgoes to show you howfascinatingourlifewas.IfbigDaddy-O was going to blowhisstackoverawitchdoctor,here’s one cat that wasn’tgoingtomissit.

Anatole told Father heought not to think of TataKuvudundu as competition.He said barrenness andadulterywere seriousmattersthatprobablyoughttoremainseparatefromTataJesus.Buthe assured us that manypeople in Kilangaremembered the missionarytimes, when Brother Fowleshad gotten practically thewhole townpraying to Jesus,and it was their recollection

that thegodshadn’tbeen tooangry over it, since no morebad things had happened inKilangathanusual.

Well, that did it.Remembered the missionarytimes? This was a nerveshockeventome,tohearthatthe villagers thoughtChristianity was like someold picture show that wasway out of date. What didthat make Father then,

Charlie Chaplin, waddlingaround duck-footed, wavinghis cane and talking withoutany sounds comingout?MotherandIwatchedhim,

expecting thedreadedatomicblowup. Father actually didopenandclosehismouthlikea silent-picture version of“What!” or “Waaa!” and hisneck turned red.Thenhegotvery still.You could hearRuth May’s creepy pet

mongoose scurrying aroundunder the table looking forsomebodytodropsomething.Then Father’s whole facechanged and I knew he wasgoing to use the special wayof talking he frequentlyperpeturates on his familymembers,dogsthathavepeedin the house, and morons,with his words saying onethingthat’sfairlyniceandhistone of voice saying anotherthing that is not. He told

Anatole he respected andvalued his help (meaning:I’ve had about enough ofyour lip, Buster Brown) butwas disappointed by thevillagers’ childlikeinterpretations of God’s plan(meaning:youare justasbigof a dingwit as the rest ofthem). He said he wouldworkonasermonthatwouldclear up all themisunderstandings. Then heannounced that this

conversation had come to anend, and Anatole couldconsider himself excusedfromthetableandthishouse.Which Anatole did,

withoutdelay.“Well, that puts a whole

new outlook on things,doesn’t it?”Motherasked, inthe very quiet silence thatfollowed. I kept my headdown and cleared off all thelast things except the bigblue-flowered platter in the

middle of the table, which Icouldn’t reach withoutcrossing into Father’s atomicdangerzone.“I wonder what outlook

you might think that to be,”he said to Mother in thatsame special voice, for baddogsandmorons.Shebrushedherhairoutof

herfaceandsmiledathimasshe reached across for thechina platter. “Well, for onething, sir, you and the good

Lordbetterhopenolightningstrikesaroundhereinthenextsixmonths!”

“Orleanna, shut up!” heyelled,grabbingherarmhardand jerking the plate out ofherhand.Heraiseditupoverher head and slammed itdown hard on the table,cracking it right in two. Thesmaller half flipped upsidedown as it broke, and laytheredribblingblackplantain

juice like blood onto thetablecloth. Mother stoodhelplessly, holding her handsout to the plate like shewished she could mend itshurtfeelings.“Youweregettingtoofond

ofthatplate.Don’tyouthinkI’venoticed?”Shedidn’tanswerhim.“I had hoped you might

know better than to wasteyourdevotiononthethingsofthis world, but apparently I

wasmistaken. I am ashamedofyou.”“You’re right,” she said

quietly. “I was too fond ofthatplate.”He studied her. Father is

not one to let you get awaywith simply apologizing. Heasked her with a mean littlesmile, “Who were youshowing off for here, -withyour tablecloth and yourfancy plate?” He said thewords in a sour way, as if

theywerewell-knownsins.Mothermerely stood there

before him while all thesparkle drained out of herface.“And your pitiful cooking,

Orleanna? The way to ayoung Negro’s heart isthrough his stomach—is thatwhatyouwerecountingon?”Her light blue eyes had

goneblank,likeshallowpansofwater.Youcouldhonestlynot tell what she was

thinking. I always watch hishands to see which waythey’re going to strike out.But Mother’s shallow-watereyes stayed on his face,withoutreallylookingatit.Finally he turned away

from, her and me both withhis usual disgust. He wentandsatathisdesk,leavingusall in a silence even greaterthanbefore.Isupposehewasworking on the famoussermonhe’dpromised,which

would clear up allmisunderstandings.Andsinceit’s none other than Anatolehimself who stands besideFather and translates thesermons into their language,I’m sure he figured Anatolewouldbetheveryfirstoneofthechildlikedog-peedingwitcongregation to be touchedbyGod’spurelight.

AdahPrice

WALKTOLEARN.IandPath. Long one is Congo.CongoisonelongpathandIlearn to walk. That is thename of my story, forwardandbackward.Manene is theword for path: Maneneenenam, amen. On theCongo’s one long maneneAda learns to walk, amen.One day she nearly does notcome back. Like Daniel sheenters the lions’ den, butlacking Daniel’s pure and

unblemished soul, Ada isspicedwiththeflavorsofvicethat make for a tasty meal.Pure and unblemished soulsmusttasteverybland,withanaftertasteofbitterness.Tata Ndu reported the

newsofmydemise.TataNduis chief of Kilanga andeverything past it in severaldirections.Behindhisglassesand striking outfit hepossesses an imposing baldforehead and the huge,

triangular upper body of acomic-book bully. Howwouldhe evenknowabout aperson like me, the whitelittle crooked girl as I wascalled? Yet he did. The dayhe visited my family I hadbeen walking alone, makingmy way home on the forestpath from the river. It was asurprising event for him tocome to our house. He hadnevergoneoutofhisway tosee my father, only to avoid

him, though he sometimessent us messages throughAnatole, his own sons, orotherminorambassadors.Thisday was different. He camebecausehehadlearnedIwaseatenbyalion.Early that afternoon, Leah

and I had been sent to bringbackwater.Senttogether,thetwin and the niwt, chainedtogether always in life as inprelife. There was littlechoice, as Her Highness

Rachelisabovemanuallabor,andRuthMaybeneathitsotospeak, so Leah and I wereconsideredbyourmother,bydefault, disposed for hererrands. It is always the twinandtheniwtshesendsouttothemarcheonmarketday,towalk among all thosefrighteningwomen and bringback fruit or a kettle orwhateverthingsheneeds.Sheeven sends us sometimes tobring back meat from the

butcher marche, a placewhereRachelwillnotsetfooton account of the intestinesandneatlystackedheads.Wecan look out our door andknow when the butchermarche is open for business,if the big kapok tree downthere is filled with blackbuzzards. This is the truth.We call them the Congolesebillboard.But above all else and

everyday,shewouldsendus

to get water. It was hard forme to carry the heavy pailwithmyonegoodhand,andIwent too slowly. Slow leetwowent I.Myhabiton thatpath was reciting sentencesforward and back, for theconcentration improved mywalking. It helped me forgetthe tedium of moving onlyone way through the world,the way of the slow, slowbody. So Leah took all thewaterandwentahead.Asall

ways.The forest path was a live

thing underfoot that went alittle farther every day. Forme, anyway, it did. First, itwent only from one side ofour yard to the other: whatour mother could see anddeemsafe if she stood in themiddle.Atfirstweonlyheardstories about what happenedto it on the north, after theforest closed down on it: astream, a waterfall, clear

pools for swimming. It wentto a log bridge. It went toanother village. It went toLeopoldville. It went toCairo. Some of these storieswere bound to be true, andsome were not; to discoverthelinebetween,Idecidedtowalk.Ibecamedeterminedtoknowafewstepsmoreofthatpath every day. If we stayedlongenough Iwouldwalk toJohannesburgandEgypt.Mysisters all seemeddetermined

to fly,or inRachel’scase, toascend to heaven directlythrough a superior mind-set,but my way was slowly andsurelytowalk.WhatIdonothave is kakakaka, theKikongo word for hurryingup.ButIfindIcangoalongway without kakakaka.Already I had gone as far asthe pools and the log bridgeon the north. And south, toclearings where womenwearingbabiesinslingsstoop

together with digging sticksand sing songs (not hymns)and grow their manioc.Everyoneknowsthoseplaces.But without kakakaka Idiscover sights of my own:howthewomenworkingtheirfield will stand up one afteranother,unwrap thepagneofbright cloth tied under theirbreasts, stretch it out widebefore retying it. Theyresemble flocks of butterfliesopening and closing their

wings.Ihaveseen the little forest

elephants that move in quietbands,nudgingthetreeswiththeir small, pinkish tusks. Ihave seen bands of Pygmies,too. When they smile theyreveal teeth filed to sharppoints, yet they are gentle,and unbelievably small. Youcanonlybelievetheyaremenand women by their beardsandbreasts,andthegrown-upway they move to protect

their children. They alwaysseeyoufirst,andgrowstillastreetrunks.I discovered the bidila

dipapfumu, the cemetery ofwitch doctors. I discovered abird with a black head andmahogany-colored tail aslongasmyarm,curvedlikeabow. In the Field Guide toAfrican Birds left by ourfowl-minded patron BrotherFowles,mybird iscalled theparadise flycatcher. In the

notebook I keep in mypillowcase, in which I drawpicturesofallthingsIknow,Iputasmileonthefaceoftheparadise flycatcher andprinted underneath, in mybackwardcodeforsecrecy:NEVAEH NI SEILF FO

FOORP WENREHCTACYLFESIDARAP I also made a habit of

following Methuselah as hemade his way around ourhouse in insecure spirals.He

roostsrightinsideourlatrine,which is near where hisempty cage was thrown bytheReverend into theweeds.Its hulk rots there like ashipwreck. Methuselah, likeme,isacripple:theWreckofWild Africa. For all timesincethearrivalofChrist,hehadlivedonseventeeninchesof ayardstick.Nowhehas aworld.What can he possiblydowithit?Hehasnomuscletone in his wings. They are

atrophied, probably beyondhope of recovery.Where hispectoral muscles should be,hehasabreastweigheddownwith the words of humanbeings: by words interred,free-as-a-bird absurd,unheard! Sometimes he flapshis wings as if he nearlyremembersflight,ashedidinthe first jubilant terror of hisrelease.Buthisindependencewas frozen in that moment.Now, after stretching his

wingsheretracts themagain,stretches out his head, andwaddles, making his tediouswayuponebranchanddownanother. Now Methuselahcreeps each morning out ofthelittleholeundertheraftersofourlatrinehouse,cockshishead, and casts one nervouseye upward as if in prayer:Lord of the feathers, deliverme this day from thecarnivores that could tearmebreast from wishbone! From

there, I track his path. I setout small offerings of guavaand avocado I have pickedand broken open, exposingthemtohimasfood.Idonotthink he would recognizethese fruitswholly concealedin their own skins. After helearns to do that, it will b eanother whole step to makehim see that fruit is not athing he must rely on thehands of mankind for, butgrows on trees. Treason

growsbutforkindman.In following Methuselah

on his slow forays throughthe forest, I discovered theboys and men practicingdrills. This was not theBelgian Army, officialconscripted protectors of“whitepeople,butagroupofyoung men who held secretmeetingsinthewoodsbehindour house. I learned thatAnatole is more than ateacher of schoolboys and

translator of sermons. AhAnatole, the lot an aha!Anatolecarriednogunintheclearing where I spied him,but he spoke to armed menwho listened. Once he readaloud a letter about theBelgians setting a timetablefor independence. Anatolesaid 1964. “Mil neuf centsoixante quatre!”The menthrewbacktheirheadsatthisand laughed ferociously.Theycriedoutasiftheirskin

hadbeentorn.I feared not, and grew

accustomedtowalkingalone.Ourmotherdidnot thinksheallowed it, especially neardark. It was my secret. Shenever did realize thatwhenever she sent meanywherewithLeah, such asto thecreek thatday tocarrywater, itwouldmeancomingbackalone.It was already late

afternoon, and I passed

through spotted light, thenbrighter clearings,with grasssotallitbentfrombothsidesto form a tunnel overhead,then back under trees again.Leah long gone ahead ofmewith thewater. But someonewas behind, some one orsome thing. I understoodperfectly well that I wasbeingfollowed.IcannotsayIheardanything,but Iknew.Iwanted to think: Methuselahis playing a trick on me. Or

the Pygmies. But I knewbetter. I paid attention to thesmallhairsrisingonmynape.Ididnotfeelafraidbecauseitdoes no good in my case. Icannot run away on themuscular effects ofadrenaline, but I could tastefear in thebackofmy throatandfeelitsdespairingweightinmyslack limbs.Forsome,Iamtold,thisweighted-downhelplessness comes indreams.Forme it ismy life.

In my life as Adah I mustcome to my own terms withthePredator.I stopped, slowly turned,

looked back. The movementbehind me also stopped: afinalswishinthetallgrassbythepath,liketheswingingofa velvet curtain dropped.Each time I paused, thishappened.ThenIwouldwaitin the still and growingdarkness,tillIcouldnotwaitanymoreandhadtowalkon.

Thisiswhatitmeanstobevery slow: every story youwould like to tellhasalreadyended before you can openyourmouth.When I reachedourhouseitwasnighttimeinanotherlife.Sunset at six o’clock

means that life does go onafter dark: reading bylamplight on the porch, ourfamily’s evening event.Leahhad come home with thebucketsofwater,Motherhad

boileditandsetitouttocoolwhile she worked on dinner,Rachel had dipped a cloth inittodrapeacrossherforeheadwhileshelayinthehammockexaminingherporeswith thehand mirror. Ruth May hadattempted to convince everyfamily member in turn thatshe could lift a full waterbucket by herself with heroneremainingunbrokenarm.Iknowallthiswithouthavingbeenthere.Somewhereinthis

subdued family din I waspresumed to have beenmindingmyownbusinessformany hours. When I finallydid return home it was as if,asusual,Ihadshownuplatefor my own life, and so Islipped into the hammock atthe end of the porch andrested under the darkbougainvilleas.A short while later Tata

Nduemergedoutofdarkness.He came up the steps to

explain in his formal Frenchthatthetracksofalargelion,a solitary hunting male, hadbeenspottedonthepathfromthe river. Tata Ndu’s eldestsonhad just comeback fromthereandbrought this report.Hehadseenthemarksofthelittlegirlwhodragsher rightfoot,andtheliontracks,veryfresh, covering over herfootprints.Hefoundthesignsof stalking, the sign of apounce, anda smearof fresh

blood trailing into the bush.And that is how they knewthelittlecrookedwhitechild,the little girl withoutkakakaka,hadbeeneaten.Lapetite blanche tordue a etemangee.ThiswasTataNdu’ssad news. Yet he lookedpleased. As a favor to myparents, a party of youngmen, including his sons, hadgoneinsearchofthebody,orwhatmightbeleftofit.IfoundIcouldnotbreathe

asIwatchedhisfacetell thisstory, and the faces of theothers as they received thenews. My sisters could notcomprehendTataNdu’swordsaladofFrenchandKikongo,soweremerelyspellboundbythepresenceofacelebrityontheporch.Iwasthelastthingon their minds, even Leah’s.Leahwho had leftme to thelion’s den in question. Butmy mother:Yes. No! Sheunderstood. She had hurried

out to the porch from thecookinghutandstillcarriedalarge wooden paddle in herhand,whichdrippedsteamingwater onto the floor. Part ofherhair fell inawaveacrossher face. The rest of herseemed unalive, like a palewaxmodelofmymother:thewoman who could not fightfirewithfire,eventosaveherchildren.SuchafflictionIsawonher faceIbrieflybelievedmyself dead. I imagined the

lion’s eyes on me like theeyes of an evilman, and feltmy own flesh being eaten. Ibecamenothing.OurFatherroseandsaidin

acommandingvoice,“LetusallpraytotheLordformercyandunderstanding.”Tata Ndu did not bow his

headbutraisedit,nothappilybut proudly. Then Iunderstood that he had won,andmy father had lost. TataNdu came here personally to

tell us that the gods of hisvillagedidnot takekindly totheministerofcorruption.Asa small sign of Theirdispleasure, They ate hisdaughteralive.It was very nearly

impossible to make myselfstand and come forward.ButI did. Our Father stoppedpraying, for once. Tata Ndudrew back, narrowing hiseyes. Perhaps it was not somuch that he wanted me

eaten,butthathedidnotlikebeing wrong. He said nomore than mbote—fare theewell.Thenturnedonhisheelinadignifiedwayandleftusto ourselves. He would notcomebacktoourhouseagainuntil much later, after manythingshadchanged.Thenextmorningweheard

the search party had foundwhat the lion killed in myplace: a yearling bushbuck. Iwonder about its size and

tenderness, whether the lionwasgreatlydisappointed,andwhether the bushbuck loveditslife.Iwonderthatreligioncanliveordieonthestrengthofafaint,stirringbreeze.Thescent trail shifts, causing thepredator to miss the pounce.One god draws in the breathof life and rises; anothergodexpires.

Leah

SOME PEOPLE WILLSEND a bread-and-butternoteafteryouhavethemoverto dinner.Well,Anatole sentus a boy. He arrived at ourdoor with a written notestating that his name wasLekuyu but we were kindlyrequested tocallhimNelson.Hewastobegivenhismeals,the privilege of sleeping inour chicken house (where ahandful of wary hens hadcreptbackhome,afterhiding

from Mother’s killing spreefor the picnic), and a basketof eggs to sell eachweek sohecouldstartsavingupforawife. In exchange, Nelsonwould chop our firewood,boil up steaming pots oflumpy manioc, and bring usfruit,greens,andbarkpotionscollected from the forest. Heconcocted a headache curethat Mother came to relyupon. He identified oursnakes according to the

categoriesofdeaththeylikedto inflict,which he acted outfor us in action-packeddramasonthefrontporch.Heundertook other surprisingtasks in our household, too,on his own incentive. Forexample, one day heconstructed a bamboo frametoholdRachel’shandmirror,sowecouldhangitupontheliving-room wall for betterviewing. SubsequentlyNelson began each day by

standing with his face threeinches from the framedmirror and laboriouslycombinghisscanthair inourlivingroom,whilesmilingsobroadlywe fearedhismolarswould pop out. Other peoplealso began stepping into ourhouse to avail themselves ofour mirror in the same way.Evidently, what we hadhanging up on our wall wasKilanga’sonlylookingglass.As he peers at his

reflection, I catch myselfstudying Nelson: his elbowsdarkened by use, his skinmany tones of brown, likeantique mahogany furniture.Owingtohissugarcanehabit,his stubby front teeth are allprettymuchgonetothesweethereafter. There’s adisturbing, monkeylike glintof canines off to the sideswhenhegrins.Butstill,whenhesmilesyouknowhereallymeans it. He’s cheerful and

tidy and came to us with nopossessions we could seeotherthananintactseattohishuge brown shorts, a red T-shirt he wears every day ofhis life, a leatherbelt, apinkplastic comb, a Frenchgrammar book, and amachete.Nelsontravelslight.He keeps his hair cut veryclose and has a perfectlyround, pink scar on the backof his neck. Anatole choseNelson to help us because,

likeAnatole, he’s an orphan.Some years ago Nelson’sentire family, including bothparents, numerous olderbrothers, and a spankingnewbornbabysister,drownedall together on a trip upriverwhen their boat overturned.The Congolese pirogues aremade of a dense wood thatsinkslikepigironwhengivenhalf a chance. Since mostCongolesecan’t swim,you’dthink they would consider

this a drawback to rivertravel, but evidently theydon’t. Merrily up the riverand down they go,without athought to capsizing. Nelsonwas left behind that fatefulday by accident, he claims.He says his mother was soexcitedaboutshowingoffthebabytotheupstreamrelativeshe got jealous and hid out,and sheplumb forgot to takehim. Consequently Nelsonplaces great stock in signs

and superstitions. And nowhehadfoundhimselfatlooseends,havingnofamilyofhisown to help support andbeing twelve years of age,finishedwithschool.Anatole wrote in his note

thatherewashisbeststudentandwewould soon seewhy.We did. The day Nelsoncame to us he only spoke,“How are you, thank youplease,”forEnglish,butaftera few weeks he could say

about anything thatmattered,without turning it all on itshead the way Mama Tatabausedto.IwouldsayNelsonisgifted.But I’ll tell youwhat,gifteddoesn’tcountforahillofbeansintheCongo,whereeven somebody as smart asNelson isn’tallowed togo tocollege, any more than usPrice girls are. According totheUnderdowns,theBelgiansarebentonprotectingagainstindependent thought on

nativeground.Ifthatisso,Iwonderabout

Anatole—how theUnderdowns got away withputting him in as aschoolteacher, for instance. Ihave scenes in my mindsometimes where I ask him.When my sisters and I arelying down after lunch andmy mind is idle, I think ofthese scenes. Anatole and Iare walking on the pathtoward the river. There is

some good reason we’redoing this, either he’s goingto help me carry somethinghomeormaybeheinvitedmeto discuss some point of theScripture he’s not totallyclearon.Andsothereweare,andwetalk.Inmyimaginaryscene, Father has forgivenAnatole and encourages hisfriendship with our family.Anatole has a veryunderstanding smile, with aslightgapbetweenhisperfect

front teeth, and I imaginefeelingsoencouragedbythatsmileIevengetupthenervetoaskhimabouthisamazingface: how did they makeevery scar so perfectlystraight? Did it hurt verymuch? And then he tells meabout the rubber plantations.What were they like? I readinabookthattheycutofftheworkers’handsiftheyhadn’tcollected enough rubber bythe end of the day. The

Belgianforemenwouldbringbaskets full of brown handsbacktotheboss,pileduplikeamessof fish.Could thisbetrue of civilized whiteChristians?InmyimaginationAnatole

and I talk inEnglish, thoughin real life he mostly speaksKikongo to his schoolboys.His Kikongo accent isdifferentfromeveryoneelse’s—even I can hear that. Hepulls his mouth into broad,

exactshapesaroundhis teethas if he’s forever worriedabout beingmisunderstood. Ithink Anatole helps out ourfamily because he is anoutsiderhere too, likeus.Hecan sympathize with ourpredicament.AndFatherdoesseem grateful that he’s stillwilling to translate thesermons, even after the twoof them had words. Anatolecouldbemyfather’sfriend,ifonlyhehadabettergraspof

theScripture.We were stumped as to

why he was kind enough tosend us Nelson, though. Thefirst time Nelson fetched thewaterandboileditbyhimselfMother was so grateful shesatdowninachairandcried.A prize pupil is a very largegift. My theory is it wasbecause of two thingsAnatole saw in our house:one, plenty of books for asmartboy to read,even ifhe

can’t go to school anymore.Andtwo,weneededthehelpaboutasbadlyasthechildrenof Moses needed Moses.Somewhere aroundThanksgiving, Mother hadbegun praying out loud infront of my father for theLord to please deliver us outof here all in one piece. Hedid not care for her displaysoffalteringfaith,andsaidso.It’s trueRuthMaygaveus abad scare, but he reminded

Mother sensibly that a childcan break an arm inGeorgiaor Kansas City or anywhere.Andtotellthetruth,ifanyofuswasmeant todo it, itwasRuthMay. She tears throughher life like she plans onliving out the whole thingbeforeshehits twenty.AndIhatetosayitbutAdahisjustas ornery and bent ondestruction, in her ownslowpoke way. No one tellsher togooff trailing through

the jungle all alone. Shecould have stayed with me.TheLordisourShepherdandthe very least we sheep cando iskeepupwith the flock,byourowndevices, Ishouldthink.Especiallysincewearepracticallygrown-upsnow,tohearotherstellit.Youalwayssee twins dolled up togetheraskids,butyouneverseetwogrown women runningaround in identical outfits,holdinghands.AreAdahand

I expected to go on beingtwin sisters forever?Nevertheless,webothhad todo the Verse, Genesis 4,about Cain and Abel, afterher so-called brush with thelion, and what with all thatand the broken arm, Motherfearedforourliveswithfreshvigor. The rainy season hadgotten heavier and thewholevillage was coming downwith the kakakaka. We’dthoughtthisjustmeant“hurry

up.” When Mama Mwanzatold us all her children weregetting it, we thought shemeant they were gettingrestless or were finallyscolded into doing theirchores.ButNelsonsaid,“No,no, Mama Price, kakakaka!”Evidentlyit’sadiseasewhereyou have to go to thebathroom a thousand times aday. (He acted it out in apantomime that made RuthMay laugh fiercely.)He said

you go so many times youdon’t have anything left ofyour insides.Then thechildren sometimes will die.Well, Nelson says a lot ofthings. For example, if yourun across two sticks in theshape of an X you have tohop over it backwards onyour left foot. So we didn’tknowwhether tobelievehimabout the disease. But then,nextthingweknew,thelittlehouse right down the road

from us turned up with afuneral archmade of braidedpalm fronds and flowers andsad, sad faces in the yard. Itwasn’t a baby dead, but themotherofthemall,whowereleft looking just that muchmoreskinnyandforlorn,asifthe wind got knocked out ofthe family when the mamawent.Youdohavetowonderwhat she died of, and if it’scatching.Well, that putMother in a

whole new frame of mind.Contagion, why, this wasworse than snakes, sinceyoucouldn’t see it coming! Shedreamed up a hundred andone excuses for keeping usinsidethehouseevenwhenitwasn’t raining. She invented“rest time,” a period ofendless inactivity stretchingoutafterschoolandlunch,inwhich we were ordered tostay in our beds, under ourmosquito-net canopies.

Mother called it siesta time,which at first I mistook as,fiesta time, a puzzlement tome since it was not at allfestive.RuthMayusuallyfellasleep, open-mouthed in theheat, with her hair plastereddown across her sweaty faceliketheposterchildforfever.The rest of us just sweatedlike swine as we sprawledside by side in our metal-frame beds, separated by theghostlywallsofourmosquito

nets, insulting each other outof a senseofgeneral outrageandwishingwecouldgetup.IhadnothingtoreadbutTheBobbsey Twins in EskimoLand, a childish book withnothing whatsoever to holdmy interest. I just enviedthose dumb Bobbseys forhaving a superior adventureto ours, in that cool, snowyplace, where no one had toendureanenforcedfiesta.I missed my freedom.

Therewere somany things Ineededtokeepupwithinthevillage. Foremost amongthem,EebenAxelroot.Hewasup to something. The lasttimeAdah and I spied downthere we heard the radioshriekingbloodymurder,andfor once we actually got tosee him answer it. He rolledoff his cot and mutteredwords I knew I could go tohelljustforhearing.Hekneltby theroaringfootlockerand

putawirecontraptionagainsthis head. He said, “Got it,”many times over, and “Asgoodasdead if theydo,sir.”Oh, mercy, I had to tearmyselfaway!And now I might never

find outwho orwhatwas asgoodasdead,foritlookedasif we were going to have tolanguish on our cots foreverwhile the rain poured down.At least Rachel was useful,for once in her life. In

desperatestraitsshecanmakeuslaugh,withhermaintalentbeing radio commercialsoozed out in a fabulousfashion-model voice:“Medically testedOdo-ro-no,stops underarm odor andmoisture at the source!”She’d tossherhead then andthrow her arms into the air,exposing her dark-stainedunderarms. She also didvarious hair products,swirling herwhitemane into

acowpieontopofherhead,“For today’s new look ofluxury! “And she loved toremind us of Carnationinstantnonfatdrymilk(“Newmagic crystals dissolveinstantly!”), which hadbecome our mainstay foodanddidnotdissolveinstantlybut clotted up like whitebloodinourglasses.Wewereall so sick of thosecrystallized lumps theychokedusinourdreams.

Sooner or later she alwaysran out of commercials,though, like a toy windingdown. Then all would goquiet and we’d returncheerlesslytoourbooks.Ourreadingmaterialwas randomand inappropriate, deliveredto us in unlabeled cardboardboxesfromLeopoldville.Wesuspected Mr. Axelroot ofhaving better boxes that hetook to luckier childrenelsewhere. Back in

Bethlehem,weourselveshadorganizedbookdrivesfortheunderprivileged, and now Ipitied thosechildrenwhogotslogged with our dustysecond-rate novels andoutmoded home-carpentrymanuals, and were expectedtobegrateful about it.Whenwe get back home, I vow Ishall give all my very bestbooks to theunderprivileged,onceIhavereadthem.From the same nursery-

school lot that brought theBobbsey Twins I chose aNancy Drew, out of pureboredom, feeling guilty, andoutragedtobereducedtothatcircumstance, as a youngwomanwhomenstruates andreads at the college level.ThoughImustconfess,someof theNancyDrewsheldmyattention.One of them had astrange, secret-basement plotthatledmeastray,whileIlayin bed trying to fall asleep,

into long fantasies that feltsinful.Ithinkmaybeitistruethat the idle mind is theDevil’sworkshop. IdidhavethoughtsoftheDevilatthesetimes. I imagined Nancydescending a long ironstaircaseintothenetherworld,andamanwhowaitedforherat the bottom. Sometimes hewas just a shadowy facelessman in a hat. Sometimes hehad a gap-toothed smile andan elegant, scarred face.

Other times he was that redDevil who lurks on theUnderwood ham cans, self-satisfied and corrupt in hisbow tie, mustache, andarrow-point tail. The firsttimeIdreamedthisscenarioIcan’treallysaywhetherIwasstill awake or had fallen intoafeverish,colorfulsleep.AllI know is that suddenly Isnappedoutof it, surroundedbythesharpodorofmyownsweat, and felt prickled and

exquisitelywideawakebelowthewaist. Iknew this feelingwas very wrong. Even so, Ihad more such dreams—andsometimes, I’m sure, I wasstill half awake when theybegan.After a few weeks my

fevers became morepronounced, and my motherrealized that because I amlarge and active for my ageshe’d been underestimatingmydosageof quinine.Those

feelings below my waist, itturns out, were a side effectofmalaria.ForChristmasMothergave

us all needleworkthings.We’d known not toexpect much, and lest weforget, Father’s Christmas-morning sermon was allabout having grace in yourheart,whichdisplacesthelustfor material things. But still.ForaChristmastreewehadapalm frond stuck in a bucket

of rocks. As we gatheredarounditandwaitedour turnto open our meager,constructive gifts, I stared atthat pitiful frond decoratedwith white frangipani angelsgoing brown around theedges,anddecidedthewholethingwouldhavebeenbetteroff ignored. Even whenyou’verecentlyturnedfifteenwithout a birthday cake, it’shard to be that mature aboutChristmas.

Mother announced thatnow we girls could use ouridletimetobuildupourhopechests. I’d heard of this kindof thing before, withoutgivingitasecondthought.I’dseen those Mark Edenadvertisements in the backsof comic books, whichpromised things embarrasingto look at, and so I assumedthatbuildingahopechestwasa question of exercising themuscles of the chest to get

busts.Butno,thatwasn’titatall. Mother meant the otherkind of chest, like a steamertrunk, in which a girl wassupposed to put everythingshe hoped she’d get to useonedayaftershegotmarried.Thiswasher rationale foralltheembroideryfloss,pinkingshears, and so on that wetoted (secretly or otherwise)acrosstheAtlantic.Nowwewere supposed to

get enthusiastic about long-

range marriage plans, whilelying here in bed watchingourshoesmildew.RachelandAdah were assigned anynumber of hope-chestprojects to work on, but thedomesticarenawasnevermylongsuit,soIwastofocusona single, bigproject: a cross-stitch tablecloth. It’s nothingbut a thousand tinyx’s to bemadeupindifferentcolorsofthread.Thetableclothhasthepattern stamped straight on

thelineninwashableink,likeapaint-by-numberspicture.Amonkeycoulddoit, ifhegotbored enough. Certainly notalent is required for cross-stitch. The hopeful part, Iguess, is that after you’redone with it all, you’ll findsomeone who’d want tomarryyou.Personally I can’t see it as

likely. In the firstplace I amflat-chested, just plain tooskinny.WhenAdahandIgot

moved up two grades, it justmadethingsthatmuchworse.We were preacher’sdaughters to begin with, andnowwewerereallyonionsinthepetuniapatch,amongstallthose ninth-grade girls withflirty eyes and foundationmakeup and bosoms pokingout thefrontsof theirmohairsweater sets. No boy everlooked at me except forhomework help. And to tellthe truth, I can’t say that I

care. Kissing looks like toomuch of somebody else’sdentalhygieneifyouaskme.If you want to see stars—which is what Rachel claimsit’s all about—then why notjustgoclimbupa tree in thedark? When I try to picturethe future, I can’t seemyselfas anything but amissionaryor a teacher or a farmer,telling others how the Lordhelps those that helpthemselves. Some kind of a

life of piety, at any rate(which should guarantee thatAdah’s nowhere within ahundredmiles); and I shouldliketospendasmuchtimeasI can outdoors, exulting inGod’s creation, and wearpantsifatallpossible.I do sometimes picture

myselfwithchildren,forwhyelse am I keeping mynotebook,withallthelessonsof my childhood in Africa?Yetyoucan’tsaybootoyour

own children without ahusband first. It does seem adreadfulobstacle.My father says a girl who

failstomarryisveeringfromGod’splan—that’swhathe’sgot against college for Adahand me, besides the wastedexpense—and I’m sure whathe says is true. But withoutcollege, how will I learnanything of any account toteach others? And what red-blooded American boy will

look twice at a Geographywhizwithscabsonherknees,when he could have aSweater Girl? I suppose I’lljusthavetowaitandsee.Godmust know his arithmetic.He’dplan it outwell enoughtoplunkdownahusband foreverywifethatHeaimsfortohave one. If the Lord hasn’tgot a boyfriend lined up forme to marry, that’s Hisbusiness.Rachel, on the other hand,

has never had any doubts inthisdepartment.Onceshegotover the initial shock of nonew record album by thePlatters, no mohair twin set,nor any place to wear ordance to either one, she wasthrilled by the notion of ahope chest, or pretended tobe.Why, she’d throwherselfbelly down on her bed withher knees cocked and feetsticking up and her busyhands five inches in front of

hereyes,plowingthroughherhope-chest projects inearnest. She seemed to thinkshe needed to have it allfinished up in the next weekorso.Oh,shemonogrammedguest towels and crochetedcollarsforhertrousseauandIdon’t know what all. It wasthe only time she everstopped rolling her eyes andflicking her hair, to settledown to a piece of honestwork.

Adah and I dragged oursewing projects out to theporch so we could still keepan eye out for interestinggoings-on in the world.SomethinghadcomebetweenAdah and me for the worse,since the day she wassupposed to have beenfollowed by that lion, whichthe whole village was stilltalking about. They loved topoint Adah out when theysawus,pantomimingalion’s

roar,which didn’t help us toput the affair behind us. Buton the bright side, the eventprovided a great boost forFather’schurch.Peopleseemto think that if Jesus couldstop a lion fromgobbling upa poor lame girl, hemust bestayingawakeprettygoodfortheChristians—ha!Justwheneverybodywas thinking theirregular African gods wereaggravatedwithusandfixingtoteachusalesson.Theway

they see it, it was kind of awrestling match between thegods, -with Jesus and Adahcomingout on top. Father ofcourse says this issuperstitious andoversimplifying matters. Butas luck would have it, he’dpreached the parable ofDanielandthelions’denjusta few days before, sonaturally now they areknocking each other over togettochurchonSunday.And

Adah is the cause. Father ispleasedaspunchwithAdah,Idon’t care what he says—heput his arm around hershoulder in public!Which isnotentirelyfair.But we still had to go on

being each other’s maincompany. Chained to theporch by Mothersinstructions,likegrumpytwinbears in captivity, weenviouslywatchedNelson ashe went about his business,

free to go back and forth tothe village and contract thekakakaka any time he had amind to.As hewalked awaywe could see his round pinkscar spying back at usthroughthetreeslikeasmall,laughing eye. We alsowatched Methuselah, whoafter four months ofliberation still hung aroundour house mumbling. It wasvery strange to hear thevoices of our own family

members coming from thetreebranches,asifwe’dbeentransformedintoflyingspiritsof a type preoccupied withpeanuts, bananas, andcommon phrases of greeting.Sometimes at night he’dstartleus,whenwe forgothespenthis lonelynights in thelatrine. Believe me, it givesyou a queer feeling to sitdown in the dark to pee andhearavoicerightbehindyoudeclare, “Sister, God is

great!” But we felt sorry forhim and took to leaving himpieces of fruit in there. Wewere careful to keep thelatrine door shut and latchedat night, so no mongoose orcivet cat would find its wayinandpolishhimoff.At first I wanted

Methuselahtocomebackandlive in his cage, until Fatherexplained to me that thiswhole arrangement waswrong.WeletMethuselahgo

because his captivity was anembarrassmenttous.Itmadethe parrot into a less noblecreature than God intended.So I had to root forMethuselah to learn to befree.Idon’tknowwhatAdahrootedforaswelayouttherewith our needlework,watching himwaddle up anddown thebranches. I have tosay she probably didn’t careone way or the other, really,andwasjustfascinatedtosee

what would happen next.Adah is that way. She feelsno obligation to have goodthoughts on behalf of hermortal soul in the hereafter,oreventhehereandnow.Shecan simply watch life,withoutcaring.Certainly she wasn’t

puttinginanyeffortonbehalfof her future womanhood.Adah did weird, morbidthings for her hope chest,

black borders on clothnapkins and the like, whichexhausted our mother. AndRuth May was exempt fromhope chest, but was allowedto lie in a hammockwith usandmakecat’scradlesoutofyarn if she promised not torunoffandbreaksomething.I lolled on my back and

worked on my tableclothlistlessly, to preserve mymother’s fantasy that I’d begettingmarried one day, and

afterawhileitbegantodrawme in. The cross-stitch itselfwastedious,buttheprospectswere beautiful; Mother hadthe foresight to give me abotanicalmotif,knowinghowI love green and growingthings. Bunches of pansiesand roses were meant tobloominthefourcorners,allconnected by a border oftwining green vines. And inthe very sameway theSpiritlong ago becamemanifest in

the Body of Christ, the firstcabbage rose began tomaterialize onmy tablecloth.From there, I could envisionthewholegarden.Still, the project seemed

impossibly large. Rachelpolishedoffacompletesetofdinner napkins in the time ittook me to fill in one pinkrose. The humidity was sothick it dripped off oureyelashes, and in this dampatmosphere the first bouquet

took so long that my metalembroidery hoops rusted inplace.The hope-chest program

didn’t last long as our mainpreoccupation. Rachel hopedtoo much and ran out ofmaterial,while the rest of ushopedtoolittleandranoutofsteam.OnceinagreatwhileIstilldopulloutmytableclothandtrytogetreinspired.I’veevenprayedforGodtomakememorefittobeawife.But

the rusted embroidery hoopsleft an unsightly orange ringon the linen that may havedamaged my prospects forgood.

RuthMayTRIEDTOSEENELSON

NAKED.Idon’tknowwhyIwanted to. When he gets upinthemorningfirsthewasheshis faceoutof adingered-upbowl in the chicken house

andputsonhispantsandhisshirt. Hewashes the back ofhisneckwiththepinkholeinit till his skin shines andwater runs all down.Then helooks at his clothes real hardandsaysahexbeforeheputsthemon.Brownpants,redT-shirt.That’s all the clothes hehas. Everybody here has justone clothes. My friends aretheonewith thebluepajamashirt, the one with thecheckeredpantswiththelegs

rolledup,theonewithshortswith big white pocketshanging out the bottom, andtheonewiththepinkishshirtdown to his knees and nopants.The girls don’t ever,everwearpants.Andthelittlebabies don’twear a speck ofclothessotheycanjustsquatdownandpee-peeever-whentheytakeamindto.Thechickenhouseismade

out of sticks. The wall hassquare little holes and I just

wanted to see Nelson. I wasbad. Sometimes I prayed forBaby Jesus to make me begood,butBabyJesusdidn’t.The chickens were setting

on eggs. Good little mamas,we said, making us somemore chickens. Their housewas nothing but a shack.They tried tohide their nestsin thebushesbutNelsonandI found them. He said theywerebadhens trying to stealtheirbabiesfromus.Itriedto

scold them, but he saidchickens don’t understandEnglish.He showedme howtosingtothem:Kuyibadiaki,kuyiba diaki, mbote velMboteve!Thenwetookbackall those eggs. I got to helpNelson in the morning whenRachel and themhad school,if I promised Mama Iwouldn’t go near any otherchildren.They are all sick.They have to go to thebathroom number two in the

bushesandwemightcatchit.We took the eggs in to

Mama and she floated theminabucket.Somesankonthebottom, and some floated ontop like when you bob forapples.The sinkers are okaytoeatandthefloatersare therotten ones. When you say,Last one in is a rotten egg! Ireckon that means you’regoingtofloat.NelsonwantedthoseandMamaworriedhe’dgetsickifheatethembutshe

said, “Oh, go ahead,” and sohe took them. But he didn’teat them. He hid them in aplace. He said the witchdoctor Tata Kuvudunduwanted those eggs for thedeadpeoplethatneededtoliedown. Nganga means witchdoctor. Tata Kuvudundu isone because he has six toeson one of his feet. Nelsonsaid Nganga Kuvudunducouldmake livepeopledead,and dead people come back

alive. Nelson thinks TataKuvudundu is probably soimportant he could run thearmy,buthe’stooold.Maybeone of his sons instead.Nelson knows who PatriceLumumbais,too,likeme.Hesayssomeofthemaresayingto bury rocks in your gardenrightnow,andafterthewhitepeoplearealldead,dig themup and those rocks will beturned intogold.Nelson saidhe didn’t believe that.

Nobody really believes it, hesaid, except the people thatwant to. I said,Whywill allthe white people be dead?Nelsondidn’tknow.There’s all these extra

people going to church now.Nelson says it’s because theliontriedtoeatupAdah,butJesus turned her into abushbuckrightjustatthelastminute. Like in the Bible.And right when the lion’smouthbit downon theAdah

that turned into a bushbuck,the real Adah disappearedfrom there and turned upokayonourporch.Nelson says everybody’s

got their own littleGod hereto protect them, specialAfrican ones that live in thelittle tiny thing they weararound their necks. Agree-gree is what you call it. It’slike a littlebottle, onlymadeout of sticks and shells andthings. Sometimes I think

about all those little teenyGods riding around onpeople’s necks, a-hollering:Help! Let me out of here!LikethegenieintheLaddin’slamp.Youjustrubitandsay,Here, little God, you betterwatchoutformeoryou’llgeteatupbythelionrightalongwithme!

All thelittleGodsaremadatJesusrightnow,andthey’dlike to hurt one of us if they

could. If Jesus doesn’t lookout.ItoldNelsonthatJesusis-waytoobigtoridearoundinalittlegree-gree.Heisbigasaman,with long brown hairand sandals, size extra-large.Nelson says yes, everybodyhas figured out that He is arightgoodsize.They’vealotof themstartedgoing tohearFather talk about Jesus andfigure out what’s what. ButNelson says they’ve got onefootinthedoorofthechurch

and one foot out. Ifsomething bad happens tooneofus,outthey’llgo.Afterwefoundalltheeggs

in the bushes and took them,Baby Jesus made all thechickens be good and laytheireggs in theonebignestwemade in thecornerof thechicken house.Mama took apencil and marked thirteeneggswithX.Wekeptthoseinthe nest, and when the henslaidfreshones,wetookthose

for eating. Sometimesscrambled, sometimes hard-boiled.Wedon’tevereat theX-markeggs,becausethey’rea-going to turn into babychickens.Whentheygrowupthey’ll be our new layinghens, someof them.And theotheroneswillgrowuptobefried chicken! The not-luckyones. They’ll get their neckschoppedoffandjumparoundsquirting blood, ha ha ha,poor them. The chickens

better get their own littlegree-grees to wear on theirnecks,Ireckon.EverydayIlookedtoseeif

the babies hatched out, and Iwasthefirstonetofindthem.Theyallhatchedoutbutsavefor one, and it got squashed.It was flat against the mudwall behind the nest like apicture hanging up. Nelsonlived in there with a deadbaby chicken picture on thewall. I was sorry and didn’t

try to lookathispeeweeanymoreafterthat.Ifit’sdarkoutsideandyou

see a snake, or even if youjust want to talk about one,youcan’tsaysnake.Youhaveto say string.You say,Rememberthatdaywesawalittle black string cominghome from thepicnic? If it’snighttime, that’s how youtalk.Nelsongotsomadatmeforsayingsnakewhen itwasdark, because he says after

the sun goes down a snakecanhearyoucallingitsnameand it’ll come a-running.Other animals too. They canhearrealgoodinthedark,sowatchout.Nelson got mad at Leah,

too,forkeepingheraowlforapet.Theowlwasababythatcouldn’t fly right when wefound it, so Leah made it acageandfeditbugsandsomemeat. Its fur is white andsticks out all over. Leah

named it a word in thatlanguage they have here:Mvufu. It means owl. ButLeah’s friend Pascal hates it,and Nelson hates it worse.MamaMwanzahatesitwhenshe comes over scooting onherhandstotradeusorangesfor eggs.AndMamaBoandadoes.She’stheonethatwearsthe black skirtwith the greatbig pink star across herbottom and a hairdo thatlooks like stars too, sticking

upeverwhichaways.Theonethat does people’s hairdos isold Mama Lo, who’s onlyjust got the two teeth, oneupstairsandonedown,soshechews crossways. She hatesour owl the most of all, andhollered at us for having it!Because her sister just diedhere awhile back.Everybodythat ever sees our owl justplumb hates it. Nelson saidtakeitoutof thehouseorhewasn’tcominginandthat

was that. Well, Mamamadehertakeitoutside,eventhough Leah pitched a fitbecause itwas still yet just ababy. That’s true, it was. Itwas getting feathers butmostlyitstillhadwhitebabyhairandwastame.Nelson went and got

Anatole, pulling on him bythe hand like he was a notefrom home. Anatole said theCongopeopledon’tlikeowlsbecauseanowlfliesaroundat

nightandeatsupthesoulsofdeadpeople.And there’s justway too many of them herelately,hesaid.Toomanysickchildren for people to abidean owl hanging around andlookingatthemwithhiseyesstill hungry. Even if the owlwas just a baby himself.Maybe he’d want otherbabiesforcompany.Fathersaidthatwasjustall

superstitions. So Leah wentandfetchedtheowlbackand

sashayed around the housewithitsittingonhershoulder,sayingFatherwasstickingupforhersideof things.Uh-oh.He smacked her hard for thesinofpride,andmadeherdoThe Verse. She sat thereholding the side of her neckwhile shewrote itout.Whenshe put her hand down youcould see the bruise just asplain. It looked like Fatherwasholdinghishandinfrontof the kerosene light and

makingashadowonher.Buthewasn’t,hewasintheotherrooma-readinginhisBible.When she got done with

her Verse, she went waydown in the jungle to turnthat baby owl loose, and wethought she never wouldcome back. We were allscared half to death and satup waiting for her, exceptFather. It was so quiet youcould hear the second handonRachel’sTimexgoingsit-

sit-sit. The flames in thelanternwentupanddownandtheshadowsjiggledevertimeyou’d go to blink your eyes.Itwaswayafterdarkbythen.So whatever you werethinkingmighthavegotaholdof Leah out there, snake orleopard, you couldn’t sayanything out loud but stringor spotted cloth. I said, “Ihopeastringdidn’tbiteher!”Father already went in his

bedroom, way way earlier.

HeholleredfinallyforMamatoputustobedandcomeonherself. He said our sisterwould be back, so we’d justas well go on about ourbusinessbecauseshewasjustlooking for the attention. Hesaidnot topayher anymindor we’d get the samemedicine.Thenhesaid,“Ifanowlcaneatupasouloutright,he is one step ahead of theDevil, for the Devil has topurchasethemfirst,andIsee

he hasmade some purchasesright here in my ownhousehold.” Father was madandwantedtoget thesubjectoffofLeah,since itwashimthatranheroff.Wedidn’t say boo to him,

norgo tobedeither.We justsatthere.Mamastaredouttheopen doorway with all hermight,waitingonLeahtogethome. The mosquitoes andbigwhitemoths came in thedoor and went out the

windows. Some of themdecidedtotakeofftheircoatsandstayawhile,sotheyflewin thekerosene lampandgotburned up. That is whathappens toyou if you’rebadand don’t go to heaven, yougo and get burned up in thebad place instead. So thatnight our house was the badplacefortheCongolesebugs.Haha.Father is trying to teach

everybody to love Jesus, but

what with one thing andanother around here, theydon’t. Some of them arescared of Jesus, and somearen’t, but I don’t think theyloveHim.Eventheonesthatgo to church, they stillworship the false-eye dollsandgetmarriedtoeachothertime and again. Father getsrightputoutaboutit.I’mscaredofJesus,too.Whenshecamebackfrom

the woods, we hooped and

holleredand ran to theporchandjustjumpedupanddownand pulled her inside by hershirttails. But uh-oh, there“was Father in his darkbedroom doorway lookingout.Allyoucouldseewashiseyes. We didn’t want to getthesamemedicine,sowejustlookedatLeahrealhardwithI’m sorry for you eyes andtried to get a nice messageacross.AfterwewenttobedIreached over through the

mosquito net and held herhand.Mama didn’t sleep in her

room.Mamasaysbirdsaregoing

tobeherdeath.I’dsoonersayitwassnakes.ButIguessifabird is going to eat up thedeadchildren’ssouls,thatisaworry. That is one moresound to listen for at night.Onemorethingyoucan’tsayoutloudafterdark.

RachelIN JANUARY the

Underdowns showed up as acomplete surprise fromLeopoldville.They came inMr. Axelroot’s plane, whenthe most we were reallyexpecting was Potato Budsand Spam. The Underdownsdon’tliketocomeouthereinthe boondoggles, so believeyoumethiswasanoccasion.They looked like they had

nervous-tension headaches.Mother was upset becausethey’re our bosses from theMission League, and they’dcaught her red-handed doinghousework in her old blackCapri pants with the kneesworn through. She was asight to behold there on thefloor, scrubbing away, withher flyaway hair sticking outand dark bruise-coloredcircles under her eyes fromall her worrying about us

catching the kamikazedisease. What with themongooses and lizardstraipsing in and out of thehouse as they pleased, shehad a lot more to beembarrassed about than justgetting caught in her oldclothes,itseemstome.Butatleast that horrible owl wasgone.Thankgoodness to that,evenifFatherdidcomedowntoo hard on Leah about it.That was a bad scene. We

were all tiptoeing around ontheeggshells evenmore thanusual,after that.But thatowlstank of rotten meat so I dohavetosay,Goodriddance.But listen, why should we

havetoputontheRitzfortheUnderdowns? They aren’tevenBaptists, I heard Fathersay; they just oversee thefinancial affairs for theMission League since somanypeoplehavepulledout.They are Episcopotamians,

andtheirrealnameisactuallysomething foreign like On-tray-don. We just sayUnderdown because it’seasier. To tell you the truth,the two of them are just acouple of the plainest Janesyou ever saw, in theireconomical home haircutsandkhakitrousers.Thefunnything about Frank and JannaUnderdown is that they lookexactly alike except for theaccessories: he has a

mustache, she has little goldcross earrings and glasses ona chain.Mr. andMrs. PotatoHead.They sat at our table

sweating while Mother ranand squeezed the orangeadeand served it. Even theglasses were dripping withsweat. Outside, the sky wasgetting its regular afternoonstorm organized: windwhacking the palm leavestogether, red dust ghosts

flyingupfromtheroad,littlekids running like bansheetsfor cover. Mother was toonervous to sit downwith thecompanysoshestoodbehindFather’schair, leaningon thewindowsill, waiting for himto finish the newspaperthey’d brought. All of thempassed it around. ExceptMr.Axelroot, the pilot, whoprobablywouldn’tknowwhatto do with a newspaperexcept wipe his you-know-

what.Yes, he was thereamong our numbers too. Hestood leaning in the backdoorway and spitting until Ithought I would croak. Hestaredrightatme,undressingme mentally. I have saidalready my parents areentirely in the dark aboutcertainthings.Imadefacesathim and finally he wentaway.While Father was reading

the latest news, Mrs.

Underdown tried to makefriends with Mother bycomplaining about herhouseboy in Leopoldville.“Honestly, Orleanna, hewould steal anything exceptthe children. And he wouldhavethose, too, ifhethoughthecouldsell them.IfI try tolock things up, he slaps hishandsoverhisheartasifI’veaccusedhimofmurder.Eventhough I just caught him thenight before with four of

Frank’s handkerchiefs and akilo of sugar tucked into thefront of his shirt. He alwaysclaims he has no idea howtheygotthere.”“Well, my stars,” Mother

said,withoutseemingall thatinterested.Mrs. Underdown stared at

Mother, puzzled. “Yourstores’?” She always implieswe have an accent, byrepeating our words andexpressions like little jokes.

Withherbeingsomewhatofaforeigner herself, that’s thepotcallingtheskilletblackifyouaskme.For once,my sisters and I

got excused from spendingthe whole livelong morningplaying Ding DongSchoolhouse with Mother.But we were curious aboutthe Underdown visit anddidn’treallywant to leave.Wewere so

deprived of company,

honestly. I lingeredabout theroom checking my hairdoonce or twice in the mirrorand tidying up the desk, andfinallyendedup loiteringouton the veranda with mysisters, close enough to thedoorway so that we couldkeep tabs. We stared at theglassesoforangeade,wishingMother had had the simpleconfederation to makeenoughforallofus,whilewelistenedinandtriedtogetthe

picture of what had causedthem to comeouthere.Eventhough I knew before it wasover I would probably goboredoutofmygourd.Sure enough, when they’d

finished passing around thenewspaper article, theydropped the subject of theUnderdowns’ criminal-elementhouseboyandmovedontothesubjectofeverythingdull under the blue sky: newsheets, malaria pills, new

Bibles for the school. Thatjazz.Isashayedinandpickedup

the newspaper after Fatherhad thrown it down on thefloor.Well,whyshouldn’t I?Itwaswritten in red-bloodedEnglish, fromNewYork, theUnited States of America. Iread the page they’d foldedback: “Soviet Plan MovesForward in Congo.” It saidKhrushchev wanted to takeover the Belgian Congo and

deprive the innocent savagesofbecomingafreesociety,aspart of his plan for worlddomination. Jeez Louise, ifKhrushchevwantstheCongohecanhaveit,ifyouaskme.ThenewspaperwasfromlastDecember,anyway.Ifhisbigplan was going so well,seems like we would haveseen hides or tails of theRussiansbynow.The articletoldhowtheBelgiansaretheunsungheroes,andwhenthey

come into a village theyusually interrupt the cannibalnatives in the middle ofhumansacrifice.Huh.If theycame to our village that daythey would have interruptedMother in the middle ofscrubbingthefloorandabouttwelve little naked boyshaving a pee-pee contestacross the road. I gave thenewspapertoAdah,andLeahread it over her shoulder.They turned some pages and

showedmeacartoon:big,fat,bald-headed NikitaKhrushchev in hisCommunist uniform washolding hands and dancingwithaskinnycannibalnativewithbiglipsandaboneinhishair. Khrushchev wassinging, “Bingo BangoBongo, I don’twant to leavetheCongo!”I stared out the window, -

wondering who wouldn’twant to leave the Congo

before you could say JackRobinson if they had half achance.TheUnderdownsandmotherwerejustfinishingupwiththefascinatingsubjectofquininepills,andthenitwentquiet for, as they say, anuncomfortablesilence. The Underdowns went

“Ahem, ahem” and crossedtheir legs and got around towhatappearedtobetheirbignews: the Congo is going tohave an election inMay and

declare their independence inJune. As far as I amconcernedyoucanchalk thatonerightupwithmalariapillsand Bibles for a teduloustopic, butMother and Fatherseemed to take it as a shock.Mother’swholefacedroppedout of its socket. She lookedlike Claire Bloom in Beautyand the Beast when shefinally gets a look at whatshe’sgoingtohavetomarry.I kept waiting forMother to

snap back to her oldEverything Is Just Fineattitude, but she stayedblanched out and kind ofstopped breathing. She puther hand on her throat likeshe’d swallowed a shot ofMr. Clean, and that lookscared me. I started payingattention.“ThisJune,”Mothersaid.“Belgium won’t possibly

accept the outcome of anelection,” Father said. Oh,

well, naturally he alreadyknew all about it. NomatterwhathappensonGod’sgreenearth, Father acts like it’s amovie he’s already seen andwe’re just dumb for notknowing how it comes out.Leah,ofcourse,wasabouttofall out of her hammock,hanging on his every word.Ever since Father smackedher over the owl, she’s beentrying twice as hard to winhimbackover.

“Belgium absolutely will,Nathan. This is the newofficial plan. King Baudouininvited eighty Congoleseleaders toBrussels to chart acourse for independence.”Sosaid Mr. Potato Head, whohas no elocution in his voicewhatsoever. I am positive heisforeign,orusedtobe.“When?”Motherasked.“Twoweeksago.”“And might we ask what

happened to the old official

plan?”Fathersaid.Healwayshas to say, “And might weask?”Insteadofjustasking.“Leopoldville and

Stanleyville have been shutdown with riots and strikes,in case you haven’t heard.The old official plan did notgooversowell.”:“Whataboutthethreatofa

Soviet takeover?” Motherwantedtoknow.“Frankly, I think Belgium

is more concerned about the

threat of an Africantakeover,” he said. ReverendUnderdown, whose name isFrank, says “Frankly” a lot,and he doesn’t even see thehumor. “The Russians are atheoreticalthreat,whereastheCongolese are quite actualand seem to mean business.We say in French, if yourbrother isgoing to stealyourhen,saveyourhonorandgiveittohimfirst.”“So they would just hand

over independence to theCongolese?” Mother leanedforwardoverFather’sheadtospeak. She looked likeFather’s guardian angel withiron-poortiredblood.“Frank,what leaders are you talkingabout, getting invited toBrussels? Who on eartharound here is eligible for athinglikethat?”“Tribal chiefs, heads of

unions,andthelike.Theysayit was a pretty motley

assembly. Joseph Kasavubuwavered between boycottingand trying to run the show.Lumumbagotoutof jail justfortheoccasion.Theysettledonaparliamentary systemofgovernment.Electionswillbemid-May. Independence day,Junethirtieth.”Methuselah had sidled up

into the bougainvillea bushright behind us, muttering,“Lubberlubberlubber.” Iswear it was like he was

trying to listen in on theconversation,too.“Belgium has never been

willing to discussindependence before,” Fatherdeclared.“That’s true, Frank,”

Mother added. She had bothhands on her hair, pulling itback from her face like askinned rabbit and fanningherneckintheback.Itwasn’tat all becoming. “Wediscussed this with the

mission people in Atlantabefore we ever decided tocome.They said thepoliticaladvisors in Belgium hadmapped out a plan last yearthat would grantindependencein,whatwasit,Nathan, thirty years? Thirtyyears’time!”Mother had raised her

voice a little, andMr. PotatoHead looked embarrassed.“I’m sorry tohave to remindyouthatyouwereadvisednot

tocome,”hefinallysaid.

“That’s not exactly true,”Mother said. She looked atFather,andMrs.PotatoHeadlooked at Father. Fatherstared at Mr. Potato Head,whodidn’t have thenerve tolook him in the eye.Thewhole thing was out of thisworld.Finally Mr. Potato Head

dared to speak. “No offenseintended,” he said. “Your

work here certainly has theblessings of the MissionLeague, Orleanna.” He mayhavemeantnooffensebuthepronounced my mother’snamelikeabadword.“AndIwould also say it has theadmiration of many peoplewho lack your family’s...boldness.” He looked at thebuttononhissleeve,probablysewn on upside-down orsomething by thehandkerchief-stealing

houseboy. Then he startedturning his wet empty glassaround and around on itsdampringonthetable.Everybodywaitedforwhat

else FrankUnderdownmighthave to say with no offenseintended. Finally he allowed,“But you do know yourmission here was notsanctioned.”HeglancedupatMother, then back to hisspinny-go-roundglass.“Well, whatever does that

mean?”“I think you know.You

didn’t get the language in-serviceoranyoftheordinarykinds of training. I’m afraidtheMissionLeague thinksofyour stipend as an act ofkindness on their part. Iwouldnotbetoosurprisedtoseetheendofitnow.”Well! Mother’s hand hit

thetable,bang!“Ifyouthinkmy family is living in thismoldy corner of hell for the

fifty dollars a month!” shepractically shouted at him.Man oh man, if the porchcould have opened up andswallowedusall.“Orleanna,” Father said.

(Dog peed on the carpetvoice.)“Well,Nathan,forheavens

sake. Can’t you see you’rebeinginsulted?”Usually Father doesn’t

have to look twice to seewhen he’s being insulted.

Usually he can see insults asbig as a speck when they’rehiding under a rock in thenext county over. We allcrossedourfingers.“Now everyone simmer

down,”saidMr.PotatoHead,trying for a fake friendlylaugh. “Nobody is beinginsulted. We don’t have anycontrol over the decisions ofthe Mission League, youknowthat.We are just humble

administrators for the SBMLand a lot of otherorganizations, who are allgiving similar advice rightnow. We came here to talkwith you personally, becausewe are deeply concernedaboutyourwitness forChristandyourpreciouschildren.”My mother, who had just

said the word “hell,” wasabout a million miles fromher witness for Christ at thepresent time. I would say at

the present time she lookedreadytobeansomebodywithabaseballbat.Sheturnedherback on theUnderdowns.”Why in theworld did they even let uscome here, if it wasdangerous?” she asked somebirdyoutsidethewindow.Father had not spoken up

yet.My theorywashedidn’tknow who to jump on first,the insulting Underdowns orhis cussing wife, so he just

stood there brewing like acoffeepot. Only with acoffeepot you know exactlywhat’s going to come out ofit.“Now, please, Orleanna,”

Mr. Potato Head crooned.“This is not the fault of theMission League. No onecould have predicted themove to independencewouldcomesosuddenly.”She turned around and

faced him. “Wasn’t it

somebody’s darn business topredictit?”“How could they?” he

asked, opening his handswide. “Last year when DeGaulle gave independence toall the French colonies, theBelgians insisted this hadnothingtodowithus!Nooneeven took the ferry across toBrazzaville to watch theceremony.TheBelgianswenton speaking of rule with afatherlyhand.”

“A fatherly hand, is thatwhat you call it!” She shookher head from side to side.“Using these people likeslaves in your rubberplantations and your minesand I don’t know what all?We’ve heard what goes on,Frank, do you think we’resimpleminded? There’s menrighthere in thisvillagewithtales tomakeyourhair standon end. One old fellow gothis hand whacked off up at

Coquilhatville, and ran awaywhile he was still spurtingblood!”Fathershotheralook.“Well, honestly, Nathan. I

talk to their wives.” Shelooked at Mrs. Potato Head,whowaskeepingmumonthesubject.“Wehadno idea,”Mother

said quietly then, like she’djust figured the whole thingout. “YourKingBaudouin islivingoff thefatof this land,

is what he’s doing, andleaving it up to pennilessmission doctors and selflessmen likemyhusband to takecare of their every simpleneed. Is that how a fatherrules? Hell’s bells! And hedidn’texpecttrouble?”Sheglancedbackandforth

betweenMr.UnderdownandFather like a nervous childherself, unsure which of thetwomenwasentitled togiveheralicking.

Mr. Underdown stared atMother like he suddenly hadno idea where she’d comefrom—likethathouseboythatdidn’t know how the sugargot under his shirt. Man ohman, that made me nervous.Everygrown-up in the room,including my mother, theCussing Lady, and Mrs.Underdown, who keptrubbingherneckandcraningherchintotheside,youcouldhave mistaken for a mental

psychiatry patient right then.Except for Father, and ofcourse he is the one who isreallymental.The Reverend Underdown

flungouthisfist,andMotherflinched. But he wasn’taiming for her at all. It turnsouthejustmeantforthemallto admire his hand. “That istherelationofBelgiumtoherCongo,”hesaid.“Lookthere!A strong hand, tightlyclenched.Noone couldhave

predicted an uprising likethis.”Motherwalkedstraightout

oftheroom,outthebackdoortoward the kitchen. No onementionedher absence.Thenin a minute she came back,having just remembered,evidently, that she couldn’tgohopontheGreyhoundBustoAtlanta.“What’shereallysaying?”

she asked Mrs. Underdown.“That there’s going to be no

transition at all? No interimperiod for—I don’t know-aprovisional government-in-training? Just wham, theBelgians are gone and theCongolese have to runeverythingontheirown?”Nobody answered, and I

was scared Mother wouldstartswearingabouttheKingagain, or crying. Howembarrassing. But she didn’tdo either one. She pulled onher hair for awhile and then

tried out a new, improvedLet’s Get This All Straightvoice.” Frank. Janna. Not asoul among these people haseven gone to college ortraveled abroad to studygovernment. That’s whatAnatole tells us. And nowyou’re saying they’ll be leftovernight to run every singleschool, every service, everygovernment office? And thearmy?What about the army,Frank?”

Reverend Underdownshook his head. “I can’t tellyou how, Orleanna. I canonlytellyouwhatIknow.”Home,home,home,home,

I prayed. If the problemwasbigenough,we’djusthavetogo home. We could get onthat plane tomorrow and flyright straight out of here, ifonlyhewouldsayso.Father got up and came to

stand in the doorway, facingout toward the porch. I

shuddered, both hoping anddreading that he’d read mymind. But he wasn’t lookingatusgirls.Hejuststaredrightpast us, to make a point ofturning his back on thepresent company ofUnderdowns and Mother. Islouched back into myhammockandattendedtomycuticleswhileFatherspoketothegreatoutdoors.“Notatelevisionsetinthis

whole blessed country,” he

announced to the palm trees.“Radios, maybe one perhundred thousand residents.No telephones. Newspapersasscarceashen’steeth,andaliteracy rate made to match.They get their evening newsby listening to theirneighbors’drums.”That was all true. Almost

every single night we couldhear those drums from thenext village over, whichNelson said was talking

drums. Butwhat in tarnationcouldyoutellsomebodywithjustadrum?Itwouldhavetobe worse than that dip-dip-dop More Scold thing theyuseinthearmy.Father said, “An election.

Frank, I’m embarrassed foryou. You’re quaking in yourboots over a fairy tale.Why,open your eyes, man. Thesepeople can’t even read asimple slogan: Vote for Me!Down with Shapoopie! An

election!Whooutherewouldevenknowithappened?”Nobodyansweredhim.We

girls never said a peep, ofcourse, any more than thepalm trees did, for we knewhewastalkingtoMotherandtheUnderdowns. I knew justhow they felt, getting one ofFather’spopquizzes.“Two hundred different

languages,” he said, “spokeninside the borders of a so-called country invented by

Belgians in a parlor. Youmight as well put a fencearound sheep, wolves, andchickens, and tell them tobehave like brethren.” Heturned around, lookingsuddenly just likeapreacher.“Frank,thisisnotanation,itis the Tower of Babel and itcannot hold an election. Ifthese people are to be unitedatall,theywillcometogetheras God’s lambs in theirsimple love for Christ.

Nothingelsewillmove themforward. Not politics, not adesire for freedom—theydon’t have the temperamentor the intellect for suchthings. I know you’re tryingto tell uswhat you’ve heard,butbelieveme,Frank,IknowwhatIsee.”Mrs.PotatoHeadspokeup

forthefirst timesincethey’ddrifted from the subject ofmalaria pills. “Orleanna, allwe really camehere for is to

tellyoutomakeyourplanstoleave.Iknowyouweregoingtostayon till the fifteenthofJune,butwehavetosendyouhome.” Boy, my heart did the

cha-cha, hearing that. Home!Well. If there’s one solitarythingFatherdoesnotlikeit’sbeing told what to do. “Mycontract expires in June,” heannounced to all concerned.“WewillstaythroughJulytohelp welcome the Reverend

and Mrs. Minor when theycome. I’m sure Christiancharity will be forthcomingfrom America, regardless ofany problems Belgium mayhavewithitsfatherlyhand”“Nathan, the Minors...”

Frank started to say, butFatherranhimrightoverandkeptgoing.“I’ve worked some

miracles here, I don’t mindtelling you, and I’ve done itsingle-handedly.Outsidehelp

isofnoconcerntome.Ican’trisk losing precious groundby running away like acowardbeforewehavemadeapropertransition!”Transitionwhen, iswhat I

wanted to know. Anotherweek? A month? July waspracticallyhalfayearaway!“Frank,Janna,”mymother

said, in a voice that soundedscared. “For my own part,”she said, and faltered. “Forthegirls,I’dliketo...”

“You’d like to what,Orleanna.” Father was stillright out there in thedoorway,sowecouldseehisface. He looked like a meanboy fixing to smash puppieswith a brick. “What is ityou’d like to say, for yourownpart?”heasked.Mrs. Underdown was

shooting worried looks overat her husband like, “Oh,Lordy,whatnext?”“Nathan, theremay not be

atransition,”Mr.Underdownsaid nervously, sayingFather’sname thewayyou’dsayagrowlingdog’snametocalm it down. “The Minorshave declined their contract,onouradvice.Itmaybeyearsbeforethismissionresumes.”Father stared at the trees,

giving no indication he’dheard his poor frightenedwife, or any of this news.Fatherwouldsoonerwatchusall perish one by one than

listentoanybodybuthimself.Years before they sendsomeoneelse to thismission,I thought. Years! Oh, pleaseGodmake a tree fall on himand smash his skull! Let usleaverightnow!Mrs.Underdownpitchedin

helpfully, “We are makingpreparations to leave,ourselves.”“Oh, yes,” her husband

said. “Absolutely. We arepacking to leave. We have

called the Congo our homeformanyyears,asyouknow,but the situation is veryextreme.Nathan,perhapsyoudon’tunderstandhowseriousthis is. In all likelihood theembassy will evacuate fromLeopoldville.”“I believe I understand

perfectly well,” Father said,turning around suddenly toface them. In his khakis androlled-up white shirt sleeveshe looked like a working

man, but he raised up onehandabovehishead thewayhe does in church topronouncethebenediction.“Only God knows when

our relief may arrive. ButGod does know. And in Hisbenevolent service we willstay.”

AdahSOMUCH DEPENDS on

a red wheelbarrow glazed

with rain water standingbeside the white chickens.That is one whole poemwritten by a doctor namedWilliam C. Williams.Chickens white besidestanding water rain, withglazedwheelbarrow.Redon!Dependsmuch.So?Iparticularlylikethename

Williams C. William. Hewrotethepoemwhilehewaswaiting for a child to die. Ishould like to be a doctor

poet, I think, if I happen tosurvive to adulthood. I nevermuch imagined myself as awoman grown, anyway, andnowadaysespecially it seemsawasteofimagination.ButifIwereadoctorpoet,Iwouldspend all day with peoplewho could not run past me,and then I would go homeand write whatever I likedabouttheirinsides.We are allwaiting now to

see what will happen

next.Waitingforachildtodieisnotanoccasionforwritinga poem here in Kilanga: itisn’t a long enough wait.Every day, nearly, one morefuneral. Pascal doesn’t comeanymore to play because hisolderbrotherdiedandPascalis needed at home. MamaMwanza without a leg tostandonlosthertwosmallestones. It used to astonish usthat everyone here has somanychildren:sixoreightor

nine. But now, suddenly, itseems no one has enough.Theywrapupthelittlebodiesin layersofcloth likea largegoat cheese, and set it out infront of the house under afuneral arch woven frompalm fronds and the howlingsweet scent of frangipaniflowers. All the motherscomewalkingontheirknees.They shriek andwail a long,highsongwithquiveringsoftpalates, like babies dying of

hunger.Their tears rundownand they stretch their handsouttowardthedeadchildbutneverdo they reach it.Whentheyhavefinished trying, themen carry the body in ahammock slung betweensticks. The women follow,stillwailingandreachingout.Downtheroadpastourhousethey go, into the forest. OurFather forbids us to watch.Hedoesn’t seem tomind thecorpses somuchas the souls

unsaved. In the grand tallyUp Yonder, each one countsasapointagainsthim.AccordingtomyBaptist

Sunday-school teachers, achild is denied entrance toheavenmerelyforbeingbornintheCongoratherthan,say,north Georgia, where shecouldattendchurchregularly.Thiswasthestickingpointinmy own little lamemarch tosalvation: admission toheaven is gained by the luck

of the draw. At age five Iraised my good left hand inSunday school and used amonth’s ration of words topointoutthisproblemtoMissBetty Nagy. Getting bornwithinearshotofapreacher,Ireasoned, is entirely up tochance. Would Our Lord besuch a hit-or-miss kind ofSaviour as that? Would hereallycondemnsomechildrento eternal suffering just forthe accident of a heathen

birth,andrewardothersforaprivilege they did nothing toearn? I waited for Leah andthe other pupils to seize onthis very obvious point ofargument and jump in withtheir overflowing brace ofwords. To my dismay, theydid not. Not even my owntwin, who ought to knowabout unearned privilege.This was before Leah and Iweregifted;IwasstillDumbAdah. Slowpoke poison-oak

running-jokeAdah,subjecttofrequent thimble whacks onthehead.MissBetty sentmeto the corner for the rest ofthe hour to pray formy ownsoulwhilekneelingongrainsof uncooked rice. When Ifinally got up with sharpgrainsimbeddedinmykneesIfound,tomysurprise,thatIno longer believed in God.The other children still did,apparently.As I limpedbacktomyplace,theyturnedtheir

eyes away from my stippledsinner’s knees. How couldthey not even question theirstate of grace? I lacked theirconfidence, alas. I had spentmore time than the averagechild pondering unfortunateaccidentsofbirth.From that day I stopped

parroting the words of Oh,God! God’s love! and beganto cant inmy own backwardtongue:Evol’sdog!Dogho!Now I have found a

language even more cynicalthanmyown: inKilanga theword nzolo is used in threedifferent ways, at least. Itmeans“mostdearlybeloved.”Or it is a thick yellow grubhighlyprizedforfishbait.Oritisatypeoftinypotatothatturns up in the market nowand then, always sold inbunchesthatclumpalongtheroots like knots on a string.And sowe sing at the topofour lungs in church:”Tata

Nzolo!”To whom are wecalling?I think it must be the god

of small potatoes. That otherDearly Beloved who residesin north Georgia does notseem to be paying muchattentiontothebabieshereinKilanga. They are all dying.Dying from kakakaka, thediseasethat turnsthebodytoa smallblackpitcher,pitchesit over, and pours out all itsliquidinsides.Theheavyrains

brought thediseasedownthestreams and rivers. Everyonein this village knows moreabouthygienethanwedo,wehavelatelydiscovered.Whilewe were washing andswimming in the stream anyoldplace, therewererules, itturns out: wash clothesdownstream,wheretheforestcreek runs into the crocodileriver. Bathe in the middle.Draw water for drinking upabove thevillage. InKilanga

these arematters of religiousobservance, they are baptismand communion. EvendefecationisruledbyAfricangods,who command thatweuseonly thebushes thatTataKuvudunduhassanctifiedforthose purposes—and believeyou me, he chooses bushesfar away from the drinkingwater. Our latrine wasprobablyneutralterritory,buton the points of bathing andwashing we were

unenlightened for the longesttime. We have offended allthe oldest divinities,in everythinkable way.”Tata Nzolo!”we sing, and I wonder whatnew, disgusting sins wecommiteachday,holdingourheads high in sacredignorance while ourneighbors gasp, hand tomouth.Nelson says it was our

offenses that brought on thisrainy season. Oh, it rains, it

pours,Noahhimselfwouldbedismayed. This rainy seasonhas shattered all the rules.Whenitcameearlyandlastedso long and poured down sohard, themaniochillsmeltedand tubers rotted away fromtheir vines, and finally thedownpour brought us thekakakaka. After all, evenwhen everyone defecatesrighteously,therearevillagesupstream from us.Downstream is always

someone else s up. The lastshallbefirst.Now the thunderstorms

have ended.The funerals aredrying up as slowly as thepuddles. Methuselah sitspunyand still inhis avocadotree with his eyes tickingback and forth, unpreparedfor a new season ofoverwhelming freedom. Betonki tutasala? he mutterssometimes inMamaTataba’sghost voice: What are we

doing?Itisaquestionanyonemight ask. In the strangequiet our family doesn’tknowwhattodo.Everyoneelseseemsbrain-

dashed and busy at the sametime, like dazed insectscoming out after the storm.The women beat out theirsisal mats and replant theirfields while grieving for lostchildren.Anatolegoes toourneighbors’ houses, one byone,offeringhiscondolences

for our village’s lostschoolboys.Heisalso,Ihaveseen, preparing them for theelection,andIndependence.Itis to be a kitchen election:since no one can read, everycandidate is designated by asymbol. Wisely these menchoose to representthemselveswithusefulthings—knife, bottle, matches,cooking pot. Anatole has setout in front of the school acollection of big clay bowls

and next to each one theknife, the bottle, or thematches. On election dayevery man in Kilanga is tothrow in one pebble. Thewomen tell their husbandsconstantly: the knife! Thebottle!Don’tforgetwhatI’mtelling you! The men, whoget the privilege of voting,seemtheleastinterested.TheoldonessayIndependence isfor the young, and perhapsthisistrue.Thechildrenseem

most excited of all: theypractice throwing pebblesintothebowlsfromacrosstheyard. Anatole dumps theseoutattheendofeachday.Hesighsasthestonesfallonthedirt in the shapes of newconstellations. The make-believe votes of children. Atthe end of election day TataNdu’s sons will put thepebbles in bags along withthe proper symbol for eachcandidate—knife, bottle, or

matches—and carry them bycanoe all the way upriver toBanningville. Pebbles fromalloverCongo“willtraveluprivers that day. Indeed, theearth shall move. A dugoutcanoe seems such a fragilebirdtocarrythatweight.Toorlexa Nebee, Eeben

Axelroot,istravelingalso.Hewastes no time. These dayshemakesasmanytripsas,hecan up the Kwilu River towherever he goes in the

south.KatangaandKasai,hisradio says. Where the minesare.Hestopshereeveryweekjust long enough to pay thewomen his nothing for theirmaniocandplantains,leavingthem wailing like mournersaltafuneral,flyingawaywithwhateverhecanstuffintohissack, while he can. TheBelgians and the Americanswho run the rubberplantationsandcoppermines,I imagine, are using larger

sacks.The doctor poet in our

village is the ngangaKuvudundu,I think.Therarenut, Our Father calls him, athing, a seed to be cracked.Thepotcallsthekettleblack.The nganga Kuvudlundu iswriting poems for us alone.So much depends on thewhite chicken bones in thecalabashbowlleftstandingina puddle of rain outside ourdoor.

I saw him leave it there. Iwas looking out the windowandhe turnedback just for asecond, staring straight intomy eyes. I saw a kindnessthere, and believe he meansto protect us, really. Protectus from angry gods, and ourown stupidity, by sending usaway.Bongo Bango Bingo. That

isthestoryofCongotheyaretellingnowinAmerica:ataleof cannibals. I kmow about

thiskindofstory—thelonelylook down upon the hungry;the hungry look down uponthestarving.Theguiltyblamethe damaged. Those ofdoubtful righteousness speakof cannibals, theunquestionably vile, thesinners and the damned. Itmakes everyome feel muchbetter.So,Khrushchevissaidto be here dancing with theman-eating natives, teachingthem to hate the Americans

and theBelgians. Itmustbetrue, for how else would thepoorCongoleseknowhowtohate the Americans and theBelgians? After all, we havesuchwhiteskin.Weeat theirfood inside our large house,and throw out the bones.Bones that lie helter-skelteron the grass, from which totell our fortunes. Why evershould the Congolese readourdoom?Afterall,wehaveoffered to feed their children

to the crocodiles in order forthem to know the KingdomandthePowerandtheGlory.All the eyes of America

knowwhataCongoleselookslike.Skinandbonesdancing,lips upcurled like oystershells,ano-countmanwithafemurinhishair.The mganga Kuvudundu

dressedinwhitewithnobonein his hair is standing at theedge of our yard. He ofeleven toes. He repeats the

endofhisownnameoverandover:theworddundu.Dunduisakindofantelope.Oritisasmall plant of the genusVeronia.Or a nil.Or a priceyam have to pay. So muchdependsonthetoneofvoice.One of these things is whatour family has coming to us.Our Baptist ears fromGeorgia will neverunderstandthedifference.

Rachel

FATHER FLEW withEeben Axelroot toStanleyville for the samereasonthebearwentoverthemountain, I guess. And allthat he could see was theother side of theCongo.Theothermainreasonforhis tripwas quinine pills, which wehadjustaboutrunoutof,howunfortunate. Quinine pillstastebad enough togiveyoua hair problem. I happen toknowRuthMaydoesn’teven

swallow hers all the time:onceIsawherhideitbehindher side teeth when sheopenedwide toshowMotherit was down the hatch. Thenshespatitoutinherhandandstuck it on the wall behindher cot.Me, I swallow.All Ineedistogobackhomewithsome dread disease. Sweetsixteenandneverbeenkissedis bad enough, but to beThyroid Mary on top of it?Oh,brother.

Father is mad at theUnderdowns. Usually theysend the basic necessitiestheythinkwewillneedeverymonth(whichbelieveyoumeis not much), but this timethey just sent a letter:“Prepare your departure. WearesendingaspecialMissionplane for your evacuationJune 28. We are leavingLeopoldville the followingweek and have arranged foryour family toaccompanyus

asfarasBelgium.”The end? And the Price

family lived happily everafter?Notonyourlife.Fatherisallpsycheduptostayhereforever, I think.Mother triesto explain to him day in andday out about how he isputting his own children injeopardyoftheirlives,buthewon’t even listen to his ownwife, much less his mereeldest daughter. I screamedandkicked thefurnitureuntil

one whole leg came off thetable and threw a hissy fitthey could probably hear allthe way to Egypt. Listen,what else can a girl do buttry. Stay here? Wheneverybody else gets to gohome and do the bunny hopanddrinkCokes?Itisasheertapestryofjustice.Father returned from

Stanleyvillewithhishair justaboutstandingonend,hewasso full of the daily news.

They had their election, Iguess, and the winner is aman named Patrice, if youcan believe. PatriceLumumba. Father saidLumumba’spartywonthirty-five of a hundredy-some-oddseats in the new parliament,mainlybecauseofhisnaturalanimal magnetism. And alsothe large population of hishometown.Itsoundedkindoflike student-council electionsat Bethlehem High, where

whoeverhasthebiggestclickof friends, theywin.Not thata minister’s daughter wouldever have a chance, jeez-oh-man. No matter how muchyou flirt or carry on like acoolcatandrollupyourskirtwaistband on the bus, theystilljustthinkyou’reL—7.Asquare,inotherwords.Trytoget a boyfriend under thoseconditions: believe you me,your chances are dull andvoid.

SoMr. Patrice will be thePrimeMinister of theCongonow and it won’t be theBelgian Congo anymore, itwill be the Republic ofCongo. And do you thinkanybody in this hip townwelive in is actually going tonotice? Oh, sure. They’ll allhave to go out and get theirdrivers’ licenses changed. Inthe year two million that is,when they build a road tohereandsomebodygetsacar.

Mother said, “Now is hethe one they’re saying is aCommunist?”Father said, “Not so’s

you’dnotice.”That is theoneand only Mississippiexpressionhehaseverpickedup from Mother. We’ll askher something like “Did youiron my linen dress like Iasked you to?” And she’llsay, “Not so’syou’dnotice.”Back home she could be asmart aleck sometimes, and

how. When Father wasn’taround,thatis.Fathersaidheheard soon-to-be PrimeMinister Lumumba talk on aradio in a barbershop inStanleyville about neutralforeign policy and AfricanUnity and all that jazz. Hesays now Patrice Lumumbaand the other electedCongolese are tradingchickensandeggstosetupagovernmentthateverybodyinthe parliament will go along

with.Buttheproblemisallofthemstillliketheirowntribesandtheirownchiefsthebest.I can just picture theparliamentroom:ahundredy-some-odd Tata Ndus inpointy hats and no-glassglassesallflickingfliesawaywithanimal-tailmagicwandsin the sweltering heat,pretending to ignore eachother. It will probably takethem one hundred years justto decide which person gets

to sit where. It’s enoughalready. All I want is to gohome,andstartscrubbingthedeep-seated impurities of theCongooutofmyskin.

RuthMayMAMANEEDS her some

Quick Energy.After Fatherwent awaywith Leah on theplane,shewentandgotinherbedandwon’tgetup.Itwasn’t theMr.Axelroot

plane. He goes and comeswheneverhefeelslikeit.Thiswas another airplane just aslittle but yellow this time.The driver had on a whiteshirt and Vitalis in his hairthat you could smell. Hesmelled clean. He hadExperimintgumandgavemeapiece.Hewasawhitemanthat talked French.Sometimes some of them doandIdon’tknowwhy.Weallput on our shoes and went

downtoseetheairplaneland.I have to wear white babyshoes even though I’m not ababy.When I am grownmymother will still have myshoes.She aims to turn theminto brown shiny metal andkeep them on the table inGeorgia with my babypicture. She did it for all theothers, even Adah and herone foot’s no count; it curlsup andmakes the shoe wearout funny. Even that bad

sideways-worn-out shoeMama made into metal andsaved,soshe’llsavemine.Mama said the airplane

was a special chart plane theUnder-downs sent for us toget all our stuff that neededgettingandflyonoutofhere.But Father wouldn’t allow.OnlyheandLeahgoton,anddidn’t take anything becausetheyarecomingback.Rachelsassed him straight to hisface, and tried to climb right

into the airplane with herthings! He flung her back.She threw her stuff on theground and said fine, then,she was going to go drownherself in the river, but weknew she wouldn’t. Rachelwouldn’t want to get thatdirty.Adah wasn’t there either;

shestayedhome.JustmeandMama stood on the field towatchtheplaneflyaway.ButMama wouldn’t even jump

up and wave bye. She juststood with her face gettingsmaller and smaller, andwhen you couldn’t see theairplaneanymoreshewentinthe house and lay down onher bed. It wasmorning, notnight.Notevennaptime.ItoldRachelandAdahwe

neededsomeyUp forMama.Rachel does the radioadvertisements from backhome and that is one:“Bushed? Beat? Need

ionizing? yUp is the greatestdiscoveryyetforgettingnewenergy quick. In two to sixminutesyou’llfeellikeanewyou.”But all daywent by and it

got dark and Mama stilldoesn’t feel like a newMama. Rachel won’t talk tome about getting yUp. She’ssitting out on the porchlookingattheholeintheskywhere the airplane wentaway.AndAdahdoesn’t talk

anyway, because of how sheis.Nelson got us our dinner,butheissneakingaroundthehouselikesomebodygotinafight and he’s staying out ofit.Soit’srealquiet.ItriedtoplaybutIdidn’tfeellikeit.Iwent in and picked upMama’shandanditfellbackdown.Then I just crawled inthe bed with her, and nowthat makes two of us thatdon’tfeellikegettingupeveragain.

LeahMYFATHERANDIhave

patched things up. Heallowed me to accompanyhim to Leopoldville, wherewe got to see history in themaking. We watched theIndependence ceremoniesfrom a giant rusty barge tiedto the bank of the CongoRiverthatwasloadedwithsomany pushing, squirming

peopleMrs.Underdown saidwe’d probably all go downlike the Titanic. It was suchan important event KingBaudouin of Belgium,himself, was going to bethere.Itwaschildish,Iknow,but I got very excited whenshe toldme that. I suppose Iwas picturing someone in acrown and an ermine-trimmedscarletrobe,likeOldKingCole.Butthewhitemensitting up on the stage were

all dressed alike, in whiteuniforms with belts, swords,shoulder fringe, and whiteflat-toppedmilitary hats.Notasinglecrowntobeseen.Asthey waited their turn tospeak, dark sweat stainsblossomed under the arms oftheir uniforms. And when itwas all over I couldn’t eventell you which one had beentheKing.The white men mostly

spokeof thegloriousdaysof

thepreviouskingofBelgium,KingLeopold,whofirstmadethe Congo into what it istoday. Mrs. Underdownreported this tome, in quicklittle bursts of translationwhile she squeezedmy handtightly,sinceitwasmostlyallin French. I didn’t care forherholdingmyhand;Iamastallassheisandagoodsightless of a scaredy-cat.Butwecould have gotten lost fromone another in all those

people, too. And Fatherwouldn’t have heldmy handfor the world—he isn’t likethat. Mrs. Underdown calledme a poor lost lamb. Shecouldn’t believe it whenFather and I showed upwithouttherestofthem.Her jaw dropped to her

bosom.Later,whenwewerealone, she toldme itwasheropinionthatFatherwasnotinhis right mind and should

think of his poor children. Itold her my father wouldknow what was best in thesightoftheLord,andthatwewere privileged to serve.Why, that just flabbergastedher. She is a meek womanand I can’t say that I respecther. They are leavingtomorrow to go to Belgium,and we’re going back toKilanga tohold the fort untilanother family can come.That is Father’s plan.

Reverend Underdown ispretending not to be mad atus.After the King and the

other white men spoke, theyinaugurated PatriceLumumba as the new PrimeMinister. I could tell exactlywhich one hewas.Hewas athin, distinguished man whowore real eyeglasses and asmall, pointed beard. Whenhe stood up to speak,everyone’smouthshut.Inthe

sudden quiet we could hearthe great Congo Riverlappingupitsbanks.Eventhebirds seemed taken aback.Patrice Lumumba raised hisleft hand up and seemed togrow ten feet tall, right thereand then. His eyes shonebright white with darkcenters. His smile was atriangle, upcurved on thesides and reaching a pointbelow,likehisbeard.Icouldseehisfaceveryclearly,even

thoughwewerefaraway.“Ladies and gentlemen of

the Congo,” he said, “whohave fought for theindependence won today, Isaluteyou!”The quiet crowd broke

openwith cheers and cheers.“Jevoussalue!Jevoussalueencore!”PatriceLumumbaaskedus

to keep this day, June30,1960,inourheartsforeverand tell our children of its

meaning. Everyone on theraft and the crowded bankswould do what he said, Iknew.Evenme, if I ever getto have any children.Wheneverhepausedtotakeabreath, the people screamedandwavedtheirarms.First he talked about our

equalpartner,Belgium.ThenhesaidotherthingsthatmadeMrs. Underdown nervous.“Our lot was eighty years ofcolonial rule,” she translated,

andthenshestopped.Sheletgomy hand,wiped it on herslacks,andgrabbedmeagain.“What all’s he saying?” I

asked her. I didn’t want tomiss word one of PatriceLumumba. As he spoke hiseyesseemedtobeonfire.I have seen preachers at

revival meetings speak likethat, with voices rising insuch a way that heaven andanger get mingled together.Thepeoplecheeredmoreand

more.“He’s sayingwe despoiled

their land and used theNegroes for slaves, just aslong as we could get awaywithit,”shesaid.“Wedidthat?”“Well. The Belgians in

general.He’sverymadaboutall the nice things they saidearlier about King Leopold.Whowasabadegg,I’lladmitthat.”“Oh,” I said. I narrowed

my eyes to a hard focus onPatriceLumumbaandtriedtounderstand his words. I wasjealous ofAdah,who pickedup languages easier than shecould tie her own shoes. IwishedI’dstudiedharder.“We have known les

maisons magnifiques for thewhites in the cities, and thefalling-down houses for theNegroes.” Oh, I understood that all

right.Hewasright,I’dseenit

myself when we went to theUnderdowns’.Leopoldvilleisa nice little town of dandyhouses with porches andflowery yards on nice pavedstreets for the whites, andsurrounding it, formiles andmiles, nothingbut dusty run-down shacks for theCongolese. They make theirhomes out of sticks or tin oranything in the world theycan find. Father said that isthe Belgians’ doing and

Americanswouldneverstandfor this kind of unequaltreatment. He says afterIndependence the Americanswill send foreign aid to helpthemmakebetterhouses.TheUnderdowns’ house has softred Persian rugs, chairs withmatching ottomans, even aradio.Shehadarealchinateaset on the dark woodensideboard. Last night Iwatched her pack up all thefragile cups, moaning about

whatshe’dhave to leaveandwho’d get it. For dinner thehouseboy brought us onething after another until Ithought I’d burst: real meat,orange cheeses wrapped inred wax, canned yellowasparagus. After a hundredwhite meals of fufu, bread,Potato Buds and Carnationmilk, it was too much tasteand color for me. I chewedand swallowed slowly,feeling sick. After dinner,

why, chocolate cookies fromFrance! The Underdowns’two sons, big crew-cut boysshifting around in grownmen’s bodies, grabbedhandfulsofcookieswiththeirbighandsandboltedfromthetable. I took only one andcouldn’tgetmymouth toeatit, though I wanted to badly.The Underdowns’ skinnyhouseboy sweated in hisironed white apron while hehurried to bring us more

things. I thought about thekilo of sugar he’d tried tostashunderhisshirt.Withsomuch else around, “whywouldn’t Mrs. Underdownjust go ahead and give it tohim?Was she actually goingto take all her sugar back toBelgium?Tomorrow she’ll be gone,

andI’llstillbehere,Ithoughttomyselfaswestoodonourbargefastened to thebankofthe Congo, watching history.

A rat ran under the bare feetofsomepeoplestandingnearus, but no one paid anyattention. They just cheered.Patrice Lumumba hadstopped speaking for amoment to take off hisglassesandmophisforeheadwith a -white handkerchief.He wasn’t sweating in hisdark suit the way the whitemen had stained their whiteuniforms, but his facegleamed.

“Tell me what he’ssaying,” I pleaded withMrs.Underdown. “I’ve only goneasfarasthepastperfecttensein my French book.” Mrs.Underdown relented after awhile and told me certainsentences.Muchoftherestofit began to come to me inbursts of understanding, as ifPatrice Lumumba werespeaking in tongues and myears had been blessed by thesame stroke of grace. “My

brothers,”hesaid,”Mesfreres,wehavesufferedthecolonialoppressioninbodyandheart,andwesaytoyou,allofthatis finished. Together we aregoing to make a place forjustice and peace, prosperityand grandeur. We are goingto show the world what thehomme noir can dowhen heworks for freedom. We aregoingtomaketheCongo,forall of Africa, the heart oflight.”

I thought I would go deaffromtheroaring.

Adah EMULP DER ENO. So

much depends on the singlered feather I saw when Isteppedoutofthelatrine.It is early morning now,

rooster-pink sky smoky airmorning. Long shadowsscissoring theroadfromhereto anywhere. Independence

Day.Junethirtieth.Does anyone here know

about the new freedom?These women squatting,kneeswideapartintheirlongwrapped skirts, throwinghandfulsofpeppersandsmallpotatoes into hissing pansover cook-fires? Thesechildren defecating earnestlyorweakly, according to theirdestiny, in the bushes? Onered feather for celebration.Nooneyethasseenitbutme.

When Miss Dickinsonsays,“Hope is the thingwithfeathers,” I always think ofsomething round—a ballfromoneof thegames Iwillnever play—stuck all aroundlike a clove-orange sachetwith red feathers. I havepictured it many times—Hope!—wondering how Iwouldcatchsuchathingone-handed, if it did comefloatingdowntomefromthesky.Now I find it has fallen

already, and a piece of it ishere beside our latrine, onered plume. In celebration Istoopeddowntopickitup.Down in the damp grass I

saw the red shaft of anotherone, and I reached for it.Following the trail I foundfirsttheredandthenthegray:clustersoflongwingfeathersstill attached to gristle andskin, splayed like fingers.Downypalebreastfeathersintuftedmounds.Methuselah.

At last it is IndependenceDay, forMethuselah and theCongo. O Lord of thefeathers, deliverme this day.After a lifetime caged awayfrom flight and truth, comesfreedom. After long seasonsof slow preparation for aninnocent death, the world istheirs at last. From thecarnivores that would tearme,breastfromwishbone.Set upon by the civet cat,

thespy,theeye,thehungerof

a superior need, Methuselahisfreeofhiscaptivityatlast.This iswhat he leaves to theworld: gray and scarletfeathersstrewnoverthedampgrass. Only this and nothingmore, the tell-tale heart, taleof the carnivore. None ofwhat he was taught in thehouse of the master. Onlyfeathers, “without the ball ofHope inside. Feathers at lastatlastandnowordsatall.

BookThree

THEJUDGES

And ye shall make no

leaguewiththeinhabitantsofthisland;ye shall throw down their

altars...They shall be as thorns in

yoursides,and their gods shall be a

snareuntoyou.

JUDGES2:2-3

Orleanna PriceSANDERLING ISLAND,GEORGIA

LISTEN,LITTLEBEAST.Judgemeasyouwill,hutfirstlisten. I am your mother.What happened to us couldhave happened anywhere, toanymother. I’m not the firstwomanonearthtohaveseen

her daughters possessed. Fortime and eternity there havebeenfatherslikeNathanwhosimply can see no way tohave a daughter but to ownher like a plot of land. Towork her, plow her under,rain down a dreadful poisonupon her. Miraculously, itcauses these girls to grow.They elongate on the paleslender stalks of theirlonging, like sunflowerswithheavy heads. You can shield

them with your body andsoul, trying to absorb thatawful rain, but they’ll stillmove toward him. Withoutcease, they’ll bend to hislight.Oh,awifemayrevilesuch

amanwitheverysilentcurseshe knows. But she can’tthrow stones. A stone wouldfly straight through him andstrike the child made in hisimage,clippingoutaneyeora tongue or an outstretched

hand. It’s no use. There areno weapons for this fight.There are countless laws ofman and of nature, and noneoftheseisonyourside.Yourarms go weak in theirsockets, your heart comesupempty. You understand thatthe thingyou lovemore thanthis world grew from adevil’s seed. Itwas youwholethimplantit.The day does come,

finally, when a daughter can

walk away from a man suchas that—if she’s lucky. Hisownferocityturnsoverinsideher and she turns away hard,never to speak to him again.Insteadshe’llbegintalkingtoyou, her mother, demandingwith a world of indignation:How could you let him?Why?There are so many

answers. All of them arefaultless, and none goodenough.

What did I have? Nomoney, that’s for sure. Noinfluence, no friends I couldcall upon in that place, noway to overrule the powersthat governed our lives. Thisis not a new story: I was aninferior force. There wasanother thing too, awful toadmit. I’d come to believethat God was on his side.Does this make me seemlunatic?ButIdidbelieveit;Imusthave.Ifearedhimmore

than it’s possible to fear amereman.FearedHim,lovedHim, served Him, clampedmy hands over my ears tostop His words that rang inmy head even when He wasfar away, or sleeping. In thedepthsofmysleeplessnightsIwould turn to theBible forcomfort, only to find myselfregaled yet again. Unto thewoman God said: I willgreatly multiply thy sorrowandthyconception,insorrow

thou shall bring forthchildren; and thy desire shallbe to thy husband, and heshallruleoverthee.Oh, mercy. If it catches

you in the wrong frame ofmind, the King James Biblecan make you want to drinkpoisoninnouncertainterms.My downfall was not

predicted. I didn’t grow uplooking for ravishment orrescue, either one. Mychildhoodwasahappyonein

its own bedraggled way.MymotherdiedwhenIwasquiteyoung, and certainly amotherless girl will come upwantinginsomerespects,butin my opinion she has afreedom unknown to otherdaughters. For everywomanly fact of life shedoesn’t get told, a star ofpossibility still winks for heronthehorizon.Jackson,Mississippi,inthe

Great Depression wasn’t so

different from the Congothirty years later, except thatin Jacksonweknewof somethat had plenty and I guessthatdidmakeusrestlessfromtime to time. In Kilanga,people knew nothing ofthingstheymighthavehad—a Frigidaire? a washer-dryercombination? Really, they’dsooner imagine a tree thatcould pull up its feet and gobakebread.Itdidn’toccur tothem to feel sorry for

themselves. Except whenchildren died—then theywept and howled. Anyonecan recognize the raginginjustice there.ButotherwiseI believe they were satisfiedwiththeirlot.Andso itwasforme,asa

child in theDepression,withthatsamepracticalinnocence.So long as Iwas surroundedonlywithwhatIknew,that’swhat life had to offer and Itookit.Asanoticeablypretty

child, and lateron, a strikinggirl,Ihadmyownsmallwayin theworld.My father,BudWharton, was an eye doctor.We lived on the outskirts ofJackson proper, in a scrubbysettlement called Pearl. Dadsawpatientsinthebackroomofthehouse,whichhadmetalcabinets forhisnested lensesthat tinkled like glass windchimeswhenyouopenedandshut the drawers. Up front,we ran a store. We had to,

because in hard timeseveryone’s eyes get better orat least good enough. In thestore we sold fresh producemy cousins brought in fromtheirtruckfarm,andalsodrygoods and a littleammunition. We squeakedby.We all lived upstairs. Atone time there were elevenaltogether, cousins fromNoxubeeCounty,uncleswhocame and went with thepicking season, and my old

AuntTess.Shewasamothertome if I needed one.WhatAunt Tess loved to say was:“Sugar, it’s no parade butyou’llgetdownthestreetonewayoranother,soyou’djustaswell throw your shouldersbackandpickupyourpace.”And that was more or lesswhatweallbelievedin.I don’t think Dad ever

forgave me, later on, forbecomingaFreeWillBaptist.He failed to seewhy anyone

wouldneedmoreblusterandtestimony about God’s Planthan what he found, forexample, within the fine-veined world of an eyeball.That, and a good chickendinner on Sundays. Daddrank and cursed some butnotinanywaythatmattered.He taught me to cook, andotherwise let me run wildwith my cousins. On theoutskirts of Pearl lay awilderness. There we

discoveredpitcher-plant bogswhere we’d hike up ourdresses, sink on our knees intherichblackmuck,andstarecarnivory right in the lips,feeding spiders to thepitcherplants. This was what Iworshiped and adored as achild: miracles of apassionate nature. Later on,we discovered kissingboys.Thententrevivals.It was some combination

ofallthosethingsthatranme

up against Nathan Price. Iwas seventeen, burstingutterly with happiness. Armin arm we girls marchedforward in our thin cottondresseswithalleyesuponus.Tossing our hair, down theaisle we went between therows of folding chairsborrowed from the funeralhome, right straight to thefront of the crowded tent fortheLord’srollcall.Wethrewourselves at Jesus with our

unsavedbosomsheaving.Wehadalreadygivenachancetoall the other red-neckedhooligans in Pearl by then,and were looking forsomeonewhobetterdeservedus.Well,whynot Jesus?Wewere only in it for the shortrunanyhow—weassumedHewouldbegoneby theendofthe week, the same as allothers.But when the tent folded

up, I found I had Nathan

Price in my life instead, ahandsome young red-hairedpreacher who fell upon myunclaimedsoul likeadogonabone.Hewasmoresureofhimself than I’d thought itpossible for a young man tobe, but I resisted him. Hisseriousnessdismayedme.Hecouldbejollywitholdladiesin crepe de chine dresses,patting their hunched backs,butwithme he could not letgo the subject of heaven

except to relieve itoccasionally with histhoughtsonhell.Our courtship crept up on

me, mainly because I didn’trecognizethat’swhatitwas.Ithought he was just boundand determined to save me.He’d park himself on ourdusty front-porch steps, foldhis suit jacket neatly on theglider,rolluphissleeves,andread to me from the Psalmsand Deuteronomy while I

shelledbeans.Howsayyetomy soul, Flee as a bird toyour mountain? The wordswere mysterious andbeautiful, so I let him stay.My prior experience withyoungmenwas tohear themswear“Christalmightyinthecrap-house!” at any dresswith toomany buttons. Nowhere was one from whosemouth came, The words ofthe Lord are pure words: assilver tried in a furnace of

earth, purified seven times;and He maketh me to liedowningreenpastures.Oh,Iwantedthosegreenpastures.Icould taste the pale greensweetness of the blade ofwheat, stripped and suckedbetweenmyteeth.Iwantedtolie down with those wordsand rise up speaking a newlanguage.SoIlethimstay.As a young and ambitious

revival preacher, his circuitwas supposed to divide him

equally between Rankin,Simpson, and Copiahcounties, but I’ll tell youwhat:moresoulsgotsavedinPearl that summer than theLord probably knew what todo with. Nathan hardlymissed a Sunday chickendinner at our house. AuntTess finally said, “You’re a-feeding him anyways, child,whynotgoonandmarryhimifthat’swhathe’safter.”

IsupposeI’llneverknowifthat was what he was after.But when I told him AuntTess was more or lessneeding an answer, beforecommittingmore chickens tothe project, the idea ofmarriage suited him wellenoughsothatheowneditashis.Ihardlyhadtimetothinkaboutmyownanswer—why,itwas taken tobea foregoneconclusion. And even ifanyone had been waiting for

my opinion, I wouldn’t haveknown how to form one. I’dnever known any marriedperson up close. What did Iknow of matrimony? FromwhereIstood,itlookedlikeaworld of flattering attention,andwhat’smore,achancetocrossthecountyline.We married in September

and spent our honeymoonpicking cotton for the wareffort. In ‘39 and ‘40 therehadbeensuchtalkofwar,the

boys were getting called upjust tomakeashowofbeingreadyforanything,Isuppose.But Nathan had always beenexempted,asanindispensibleworker—notfortheLord,butforKingCotton.Hedidfarmlaborbetweenrevivals,andinthe autumnof ‘41 itwasourfirst enterprise as newlywedstobendourbackstogether inthe dusty fields. When therough cotton pokes werefilled, our hands clawed raw

and our hair and shoulderstufted with white, webelievedwe’d done our part.Never did we dream thatshortly the bombswould fallon a faraway harbor whosenamestruckachillacrossourownsmall,landlockedPearl.By the end of that

infamousweek, half themeninallthisworldwerepledgedto a single war, Nathanincluded.Hewas drafted.AtFort Sill, his captain made

note of Nathan’s faith andvouched that he’d serve as ahospital cleric or chaplain,decently removed fromenemy lines. I let out mybreath:nowIcould truly sayI loved the Lord! But then,without any explanation,Nathan found himself inParis, Texas, training for theinfantry. I was allowed tospend two weeks with himthere on the wind-sweptplain, mostly waiting in the

strange vacancy of a coldapartment, trying to composecordial things to say to theother wives. What flotsamand jetsam we were, womenof all accents and prospectswashedup thereboilinggritsor pasta, whatever we knewas comfort, united by oureffort not to think about ourhusbands’ hands learning tocradle a gun. At night Icradled his head on my lapand read him the Scriptures:

TheLord ismy rockandmyfortress... the horn of mysalvation ... so shall I besaved from mineenemies.Whenheleft,IwenthometoPearl.Hewasn’tevengone three

months. He was trucked,shipped, and shuttled on theAsiatic Fleet, and finallyencamped under palm treeson the Philippine shore, tomake his stand for GeneralMacArthur. His company

fought theirway into Luzon,facing nothing worse thanmosquitoes and jungle tobegin with, but on theirsecond night were rousedfrom sleep by artillery.Nathanwasstruckintheheadwithashellfragment.Heranfor cover, dazed, and spentthe night in a bamboo pigshed. He had suffered aconcussion but graduallyregained consciousnessthrough the dawn and

staggered about half-blindedinto the open, with no moresense of direction than aninsect rushing at flame. Bypure luck, just beforenightfall, he was spotted onthebeachandpickedupbyaPT boat. From a hospitalbunker in Corregidor Islandhe wrote me a cheerful V-mailletterabouthissalvationbythegraceofGodandaJaphogmanger.He couldn’t tellhis location, of course, but

promised me he wasmiraculously mostly intact,andcominghomesoon!That was the last I would

ever hear from the man I’dmarried— one who couldlaugh(evenaboutsleepinginamanger),callmehis“honeylamb,” and trust in themiracleofgoodfortune.Icanstillpicturetheyoungsoldierwho wrote that letter whilepropped up in bed, smilingthrough his eyepatch and

bandages,showingthenursesa photo of his pretty bridewithDelta cotton poking outof her hair. Enjoying, as itturned out, the last happyhours of his life. He hadn’tyet learnedwhathappenedtothe restofhis company. In afew days the news wouldbegin to reach Corregidor.Through the tunnels of thatislandfortresscamewindofahorror too great to speakaloud—a whispered litany

that would take years to befully disclosed to the world,andespeciallytome.Itwouldpermanently curl onesoldier’sheart likeapieceofhardshoeleather.When the shelling began

that night, asNathanwas hitand stumbledunseen throughthe darkness into a pig shed,the company received orderstomovequicklytotheBataanPeninsula,wherethey could hide in the

jungle, regroup, then marchbacktoretakeManila.Itwasan error of a commander’soverconfidence, small inhistory, large in the lives ofthosemen.Theyweretrappedonthepeninsula,starvingandterrified, and finally roundedup at bayonet point to bemarched north through tepidricepaddiesandblazingheat,marched through exhaustionand sickness and beyond it,marched from their feet to

their hands and knees,emaciated,hallucinatingfromthirst and racked withmalaria, toward a prisoncampwhichfewofthemeverreached, and fewer survived.Nathan’s company died, totheman,ontheDeathMarchfromBataan.Private Price was

evacuated from Corregidorjust a few weeks beforeMacArthur himselfabandoned thatpost,withhis

famouspromisetoreturn.Buthewould not be back, so faras thoseboys inBataanwereconcerned,andneitherwouldthe soldier boy I’d married.He came home with acrescent-shaped scar on histemple, seriously weakenedvision in his left eye, and asuspicion of his owncowardice from which hecouldnever recover.His firstwordstomeweretospeakofhowfiercelyhefelttheeyeof

God upon him. He pulledaway from my kiss and myteasing touch, demanding,“Can’t you understand theLordiswatchingus?”I still tried to tell him we

were lucky. I believed thewar had made only thesmallest possible dent in ourplans.Nathanwaschanged,Icouldsee,butheonlyseemedmoredevout,anditwashardto name the ruin in that. Atlast I’d get to cross the state

lines I’d dreamed of,travelingasaminister’swife.Lordhavemercy,thatIdid

—Mississippi, Alabama,Georgia.We crossed lines insand drawn through palmettoscrub, lines down themiddleof highways, soup-kitchenlines, lines of worry, soulslinedupawaitingtheburningtongue of salvation. Nathanaimed to scorch a path aswide as Sherman’s.With nomoney and no time to settle,

we moved to a differentramshackle rental cottage orboardinghouse every seasonuntil I was so pregnant withRachel that our nomad stateseemed disreputable. Onenight we simply choseBethlehem, Georgia, off amap. By good luck orProvidenceourstationwagonmade it that far, andBethlehemturnedouttobeanopen market for EvangelicalBaptists. I tried to laugh

about it, for here we were:manandswollenwifeandnomoreroomattheinn.Nathan did not laugh at

that hopeful comparison. Infact,itbroughthishanddownagainstmeforthefirsttime.IrecallthatIwassittingontheedge of a chair in our still-unpacked kitchen, holdingmy huge body together withboth hands as we listened tothe radio. A man had beenreading a long war story, as

they did then: a firsthandaccountofaprisoncampanda dreadful march, whereexhausted men struggledhopelessly, fell behind, andperished in brief orangebursts of pistol fire in thedarkness. I was only halflistening, until Nathanbroughtmetoattention.“Not a one of those men

will ever see a son born tocarry on his name. And youdare to gloat before Christ

himself about yourundeservedblessing.”Until that night I’d never

known the details of whereNathanhadbeen,northefullmeasure ofwhat hewas stillescaping.He was profoundly

embarrassed by mypregnancies. To his way ofthinking they were unearnedblessings, and furthermoreeach one drew God’sattentionanewtomyhavinga

vaginaandhishavingapenisand the fact we’d laid themnear enough together toconceive a child. But, Godknows,itwasneversocasualas that. Nathan was madefeverishbysex,andtrembledafterward, praying aloud andblaming me for mywantonness.Ifhisguiltmadehim a tyrant before men, itmadehim like a childbeforehis God. Not a helpless orpleadingchild,but apetulant

one, the type of tough boywho’s known too little loveand is quick to blame othersfor his mistakes. The typewho grows up determined toshow them all what he cando. He meant personally tosave more souls than hadperished on the road fromBataan, I think, and all otherpaths ever walked by theblightofmankind.And where was I, the girl

orwomancalledOrleanna,as

we traveled those roads andcrossed the lines again andagain? Swallowed byNathan’s mission, body andsoul. Occupied as if by aforeignpower.Istillappearedtobemyselffromtheoutside,I’m sure, just as he stilllooked like the same boywho’d gone off to war. Butnow every cell of me wasmarriedtoNathan’splan.Hismagnificentwill.Thisishowconquest occurs: one plan is

alwayslargerthantheother.Itried hard to do what Ibelieved awife ought, thingslikewashingwhiteshirtsandblack socks separately inrooming-housesinks.Makingmeal aftermealof fried cornmush. The towns where wepreached were stripped bareof young men, with it stillbeing wartime, and thisfanned the fires of Nathan’sprivate torture. When helooked out over those

soldierless congregations, hemust have seen ghosts,marchingnorth.Formypart,I merely watched young,deprived female bosomspanting beforemy handsomehusband, soldier of theLord.(I longed to shout:Go aheadand try him, girls, I am tootired!) Or else I was homewaitingforhim,drinkingfourglasses of water before hearrived so I couldwatchhimeat whatever there was

without my stomachgrowling. When I wascarrying the twinsIhadsuchdesperate cravings Isometimes went out at nighton my hands and knees andsecretly ate dirt from thegarden. Three babies in lessthantwolonelyyearsIhad.Icannotbelieveanywomanonearth has ever made morebabies out of less coition.Threebabieswere toomuch,and I sensed it deep in my

body.Whenthethirdonewasborn she could not turn herhead to the side or evenproperly suckle.That wasAdah.I’dcriedfordayswhenI learned I was carryingtwins, and now I lay awakenightswonderingwhethermydespair had poisoned her.Already Nathan’s obsessionwith guilt and God’s reproofwas infecting me. Adah waswhat God sent me, either aspunishment or reward. The

worldhasitsopiniononthat,andIhavemine.Thedoctorsgave her little hope, thoughone of the nurses was kind.She toldme formulawas thevery best thing, a modernmiracle, but we couldn’tafford it for two. So I endedup suckling greedy Leah atmy breast and giving Adahtheexpensivebottles,bothatthesametime;withtwinsyoulearn how to do everythingbackhanded. Not only twins,

mind you, but also a tow-headed toddler, whose skinseemed too thin, for shewailed at the slightestdiscomfort. Rachel screamedeverysingletimeshewetherdiaper, and set the other twooff like alarmbells. She alsoscreamed excessively overteething. Adah howled fromfrustration, and Leah criedover nightmares. For sixyears,fromagenineteenuntilIturnedtwenty-five,Ididnot

sleepuninterrupted throughasingle night.There it is. AndyouwonderwhyIdidn’triseupandrevoltagainstNathan?I felt lucky to get my shoesontherightfeet,that’swhy.Imovedforwardonly,thinkingeach morning anew that wewere leaving the worstbehind.Nathan believed one thing

above all else: that the Lordnotices righteousness, andrewards it. My husband

would accept no otherpossibility. So ifwe sufferedin our little house on thepeanutplainofBethlehem, itwasproof that oneof us hadcommittedafailureofvirtue.Iunderstood thefailure tobemine. Nathan resented myattractiveness, as if slenderhipsandlargeblueeyeswerethings I’d selectedintentionallytodrawattentionto myself. The eyes of Godwerewatching,hegavemeto

know. If I stood still for amoment in the backyardbetweenhangingupsheetstonoticethedampgrasstinglingundermybare feet,His eyesobserved my idleness. Godheardwhenever I letsliponeof my father’s curse words,andHewatchedme takemybath, daring me to enjoy thewarmwater. I could scarcelyblowmynosewithoutfeelingwatched.Asiftocompensatefor all this watching, Nathan

habituallyoverlookedme.IfIcomplainedaboutourlife,hewould chewhis dinnerwhilelookingtactfullyaway,asonemight ignoreachildwhohasdeliberately broken her dollsand then whines she hasnothingtoplaywith.Tosavemy sanity, I learned to padaround hardship in softslippersand try to remarkonitsgoodpoints.If therewasstillsomepart

of a beautiful heathen girl in

me, a girl drawn toadmiration like a moth tomoonlight, and if her heartstill pounded on Georgianightswhen the peeper frogscalled out from roadsideditches, she was toodumbfoundedtospeakupforherself. Once or twice whileNathanwasawayonarevivalImay have locked the doorsand breathed into my ownmouth in the mirror, puttingon red lipstick to do the

housework. But rarely. Iencountered my own spiritless and less. By the timeRuth May was born, we’dmoved into the parsonage onHale Street and Nathan wasin full possession of thecountry once known asOrleannaWharton.Iacceptedthe Lord as my personalSaviour, for He finallybroughtmeaMaytagwasher.I rested in this peace andcalled it happiness. Because

in thosedays, you see, that’show a life like mine wasknown.It took me a long time to

understandtheawfulpriceI’dpaid, and that even God hasto admit the worth offreedom. How say ye to mysoul, Flee as a bird to yourmountain? By then, I waslodged in the heart ofdarkness, so thoroughly bentto the shape of marriage Icould hardly see any other

way to stand. LikeMethuselah I cowered besidemycage,andthoughmysoulhankeredafterthemountain,Ifound,likeMethuselah,Ihadnowings.Thisiswhy,littlebeast.I’d

lostmywings.Don’t askmehowIgainedthemback—thestory is too unbearable. Itrusted too long in falsereassurances,believingasweall want to do when menspeakofthenationalinterest,

thatit’salsoours.Intheend,my lot was cast with theCongo.PoorCongo,barefootbride of men who took herjewels and promised theKingdom.

The Things We Didn’tKnowKILANGA,SEPTEMBER

1960LeahFOR THE SECOND

TIME, we flew fromLeopoldville over the jungleand down into that tinycleared spot that was calledKilanga.ThistimeitwasjustFatherandmeintheairplane,plusMr.Axelroot,andtwentypounds of dry goods andcanned whole prunes theUnderdowns couldn’t takewiththemwhentheyfledtheCongo. But this secondbumpy touchdown didn’thave the same impact as our

first arrival. Instead ofexcitement, I felt a throb ofdread. Not a single soul wasstanding at the edge of thefield to greet us—novillagers,notevenMotherormy sisters. This much is forsure, nobody was poundingon drums or stewing up agoat for us. As Father and Icrossed the lonely field andmadeforourhouseIcouldn’thelp but think about thatearliernightandthewelcome

feast,allthetastesandsoundsof it.Howstrange andpaltryit seemed at the time, andnow, looking back, what anabundance of good proteinhad been sacrificed in ourhonor. A shamefulabundance, really. Mystomach growled. I silendypledged to the Lord that Iwould express true gratitudefor such a feast, if ever oneshould happen again.Rachel’sopinionofgoatmeat

notwithstanding, we couldsure use a good old feast,because how else were wegoing to eat now? You canonlyget so far in this lifeoncannedwholeprunes.On account of

Independence I’d beenthinking more about moneythan ever before in my life,asidefromstoryproblemsforsixth-grade math. Fiftydollars a month in Belgianfrancs might not sound like

much, but in Kilanga it hadmadeusricherthananybody.Nowwearetogetbyonzerodollars a month in Belgianfrancs, and it doesn’t takelong to figure out that storyproblem.Sure enough,within a few

weeks of Father’s and myempty-handed return, thewomenfiguredoutwehadnomoney, and stopped comingtoourdoortosellusthemeator fish their husbands had

killed. It was a gradualunderstanding, of course. Atfirst they were just confusedby our loweredcircumstances. We spelledout our position as best wecould: jyata, nomoney!Thiswas the truth. Every francwe’d saved up had gone toEeben Axelroot, becauseFather had to bribe him flat-out to fly the twoofusbackfrom Leopoldville.Yet ourneighbors inKilanga seemed

tothink:Couldthisreallybe,a white person jyata? Theywouldremaininourdoorwayfor the longest time juststaringusupanddown,whiletheir baskets of plentyloomed silently on theirheads. I suppose they musthave thought ourwealthwasinfinite. Nelson explainedagain and again,withRacheland Adah and me lookingoverhis shoulder, that itwasIndependence now and our

family didn’t get paid extrafor being white Christians.Well,thewomenmadelotsofsympathetic noises uponhearing that.They bouncedtheirbabieson theirhipsandsaid,Abu,wellthen,ayi,theIndependence. But they stilldidn’t believe it, quite. Hadwe looked everywhere, theywanted to know? Perhapsthere is still a little moneystashed under those strange,tallbeds,orinsideourcabinet

boxes? And the little boysstill attacked us like good-natured banditswheneverwewent outside— cadeau,cadeau!—demandingpowdered milk or a pair ofpants, insisting that we stillhad a whole slew of thesethingsstashedawayathome.Mama Mwanza from next

door was the only one whofelt sorry for us. She madeherwayoveronthepalmsofher hands to give us some

oranges,Independenceornot.Wetoldherwedidn’thaveathingtogiveherback,butshejustwaved up at uswith theheelsofbothherhands.Abu,no matter! Her little boysweregoodatfindingoranges,she said, and she still had abakala mpandi at her house—agoodstrongman.Hewasgoingtosethisbigfishtrapslater in the week, and if thecatchwasgood,hewouldlether bring us some fish.

Wheneveryouhaveplentyofsomething,youhave toshareit with the jyata, she said.(And Mama Mwanza is noteven Christian!) Really youknow things are bad when awomanwithout any legs andwho recently lost two of herownkidsfeelssorryforyou.Mother was taking life

hard.Thelastweknew,whenFather and I took off on theplane for Leopoldville, shewas still trying to rise to the

occasion;butintheshorttimewewere away she’d stoppedrising and gone downhill.Now she tended to walkbewildered around the housein her nightgown, scuffedbrown loafers, no socks, andan unbuttoned pink blouse,spending both nights anddaysonlyhalfwaydressedforeither one. A lot of the timeshe spent curled up on thebed with Ruth May. RuthMay didn’t want to eat and

said she couldn’t stand upright because she wassweatingtoomuch.Thetruthis, neither one of them wastakingahealthyinterest.Nelson told me

confidentially that Motherand Ruth May had kibaazu,which means that someonehad put a curse on them.Furthermore he claimed heknew who it was, and thatsooner or later the kibaazuwould get around to all the

females in our house. Ithought of the chicken bonesinacalabashbowlleftonourdoorstep byTataKuvudundusomeweeksback,whichhadgiven me the creeps. Iexplained to Nelson that hisvoodoo was absolutelynonsense.Wedon’tbelieveinan evil god that could bepersuaded to put a curse onsomebody.“No?” he asked. “Your

god,hedidn’tputacurseon

Tata Chobe?” This was on asweltering afternoon asNelson and I choppedfirewood to carry into thekitchenhouse. Itwasendlesswork to feed our cast-ironstove just for boiling thewater,letalonecooking.“TataChobe?” Iwaswary

of this conversation butcurious to know how wellhe’d learned the teachings ofthe Bible. Through the verylargeholesinhisredT-shirtI

watchedthestringsofmuscletenseupinNelson’sbackforone hard second as he raisedhismacheteandsplitthedeeppurple heart of a small log.Nelson used his machete foreverything under the sun,from splitting kindling toshaving(notthathehadarealneed at age thirteen) tocleaningthestove.Hekeptitextremelysharpandclean.He stood to catch his

breath. He laid the machete

carefully on the ground andthrewhisarmsinwidecirclesto loosen them out. “Yourgod put a kibdazu onTataChobe.Hegave him the poxand the itches and killed allhis seven children under oneroof.”“Oh,Job”Isaid.”Why,that

wasn’t a curse, Nelson. Godwastestinghisfaith.”“A bu” Nelson said,

meaningmoreorless,“Okay,fine.”Afterhe’dtakenuphis

weapon again and split threeor four more purple-heartlogs he said, “Somebody istesting faith for your motherandyourlittlesister.Thenextone he will be testing is theTermite.”Mvula—a pale white

termitethatcomesoutafterarain—iswhatpeopleherecallRachel, because she’s sopallid.Their opinion is thatshe gets that way fromstayingindoorstoomuchand

being terrified of life ingeneral.Racheldoesn’t thinkmuchof termites,needless tosay,and insists that thewordhas some other, highermeaning. I am generallycalled Leba, a much nicerword thatmeans Jig tree. Atfirstwethoughttheycouldn’tsay “Leah”but it turns outtheycansay itperfectlywellandarebeingnicetoavoidit,because Lea is the Kikongowordfornothingmuch.

I repeated to Nelson that,however he might interprettheparableofJob,ourfamilydoesn’t believe in witch-doctor ngangas and evil-eyefetishes and the nkisis andgree-grees people weararound their necks, to wardoff curses and the like. “I’msorry, Nelson,” I told him,“but we just don’t worshipthose gods.” To make ourposition perfectly clear Iadded, “Baka vei.”This

means, “We don’t pay forthat,” which is how you saythatyoudon’tbelieve.Nelson gently stacked

wood into my outstretchedarms.”A bu” he saidsorrowfully. I had no choicebut to look closely intoNelson’ssweat-glazedfaceashe arranged the wood in myawkwardembrace—ourworkbroughtusthatclosetogether.I could see that he seemedtruly sad for us. He clicked

his tongue the way MamaTataba used to, and toldme,“Leba, the gods you do notpay are the ones that cancurseyoubest.”

AdahWONKTONODEW.The

things we do not know,independently and in unisonas a family, would fill twoseparate baskets, eachwith alargeholeinthebottom.

Muntu is the Congolesewordforman.Orpeople.Butitmeansmorethanthat.Herein theCongoIampleased toannounce there is no specialdifference between livingpeople,deadpeople, childrennotyetborn,andgods—theseare all muntu. So saysNelson. All other things arekintu: animals, stones,bottles. A place or a time ishantu, and a quality of beingis kuntu: beautiful, hideous,

or lame, for example. Allthese thingshave incommonthestemwordntu.“Allthatisbeinghere,ntu,”saysNelsonwitha shrug, as if this isnotso difficult to understand.And it would be simple,except that “being here” isnot the same as “existing.”He explains the differencethisway:theprinciplesofntuare asleep, until they aretouched by nommo. Nommoistheforcethatmakesthings

liveaswhat theyare:manortree or animal. Nommomeans word. The rabbit hasthe life it has—not a rat lifeormongoose life—because itis named rabbit, mvundla. Achild is not alive, claimsNelson, until it is named. Itoldhimthishelpedexplainamysteryforme.MysisterandI are identical twins, so howisitthatfromonesingleseedwe have two such differentlives?NowIknow.BecauseI

am named Adah and she isnamedLeah.Nommo, I wrote down on

the notebook I had openedout for us at our big table.Nommo ommon NoMmo, Iwrote, wishing to learn thisword forward and backward.Theoretically I was in theprocessofshowingNelson,athis urging, how to write aletter (ignoring the fact hewould have no way to mailit). He enjoys my silent

tutelageandasksfor itoften.ButNelsonasapupilisapttoturn teacher himself at theleast provocation. And heseems to think his chatterimproves our conversation,since I only write things onpaper.“NOMMO MVULA IS

MY SISTER RACHEL?” Iqueried.Henodded.RuthMay,then,isNommo

Bandu, and Leah is Nommo

Leba. And where doesNommocomefrom?He pointed to his mouth.

Nommo comes from themouth, like water vapor, hesaid: a song, a poem, ascream, a prayer, a name, allthesearenommo.Wateritselfis nommo, of the mostimportant kind, it turns out.Water is the word of theancestors given to us orwithheld, depending on howwellwetreatthem.Theword

oftheancestorsispulledintotrees and men, Nelsonexplained, and this allowsthem, to stand and live asmuntu.A TREE IS ALSO

MUNTU? Iwrote.Quickly Idrewstickmanandsticktreeside by side, to clarify. Ourconversations are oftenmostly pictures and gestures.“Atreeisatypeofperson?”“Of course,” Nelson said.

“Justlookatthem.Theyboth

haverootsandahead.”Nelsonwaspuzzledbymy

failure to understand such asimplething.Then he asked, “You and

yoursisterLeba,howdoyoumean you came from thesameseed?”Twins, I wrote. He didn’t

recognize the word. I drewtwo identical girls side byside, which he found evenmore baffling, given thatLeah and I—the beauty and

the beast—were the twinsunder consideration. So then,since no one was around towatch us and Nelson seemsincapableofembarrassment,Ibrought forth a shamelesspantomime of a mothergivingbirthtoonebaby,then—ohmy!—another.Twins.Hiseyesgrewwide.“Baza!”I nodded, thinking he was

not the first tobeamazedbythisnewsaboutLeahandme.But it must have been more

than that, because he leapedaway from me with suchhastethatheknockedoverhischair.“Baza!” he repeated,

pointing atme.Hedelicatelytouched my forehead andrecoiled, as ifmy skinmightburnhim.I scribbled with some

defensiveness:Youneversawtwins?He shook his head with

conviction.“Anywomanwho

hasbaza should take the twobabiestotheforestafter theyare born and leave themthere. She takes them fast,rightaway.That isveryveryverynecessary.”Why?“The ancestors and gods,”

he stammered. “All gods.What god would not befuriousatamotherwhokeptsuch babies? I think thewhole village would beflooded or mostly everyone

would die, if a mother keptherbaza”I looked around the room,

saw no immediate evidenceof catastrophe, and shrugged.I turned the page on ourlesson in businesscorrespondence,andbegantowork on an elaborate pencildrawingofNoah’sark.Aftera while Nelson righted hischair and sat downapproximatelyfour feetawayfromme.He leaned very far

over to try to peer at mypicture.THIS IS NOT ABOUT

TWINS, I wrote across thetop.Orwhoknows,maybeitis,Ithought.Allthosepaired-upbunniesandelephants.“What happened to your

villagewhenyourmotherdidnottakeyoutotheforest?”Iconsideredtheyearofmy

birth, and wrote: WE WONTHEWAR.ThenIproceededto draw the outline of an

exceptionally elegant giraffe.But Nelson glowered, stillwaiting for evidence thatmybirthhadnotbroughtdownaplague upon my house. NOFLOODS. NO EPIDEMICS,I wrote. ALL IS WELL INUSA, WHERE MOTHERSKEEP THEIR BAZAEVERYDAY.Nelson stared at me with

such pure, annoyedskepticism I was tempted todoubt my own word. Hadn’t

there been, say, a rash ofhurricanesinthemonthsafterLeahandIwereborn?Abadwinternationwidefortheflu?Who knew. I shrugged, anddrew a second giraffewith adramatic, Z-shaped crook toitsneck.Thebendukagiraffe.Nelsonwasnotgoingtolet

meoff.Clearlymy twinhoodwasadangertosociety.“TataJesus,whatdoeshesay?”TOO MUCH, AS A

RULE.

“What does he say to dowhen a woman has...” hehesitatedoverevensayingthewordinEnglish.Ishrugged,butNelsonkept

pushingmeon thispoint.Hewould not believe that theJesus Bible, with itsabsolutely prodigiousabundanceofwords,gavenospecific instructions tomothers of newborn twins.Finally I wrote: JESUSSAYS TO KEEP THEM, I

GUESS.Nelson became agitated

again. “So you see, bothwives of Tata Boanda go tothe Jesus Church! And theMama Lakanga! All thesewomen and their friends andhusbands! They think theywill have twins again, andTata Jesus will not makethem leave the babies in theforest.”Thiswasfascinatingnews,

and I queried him on the

particulars. According toNelson’s accounting, nearlyhalfmyfather’scongregationwere relatives of dead twins.It isaninterestingpreceptonwhich to found a ministry:TheFirstEvangelicalBaptistChurch of the Twin-Prone. IalsolearnedfromNelsonthatwe are hosting seven lepersevery Sunday, plus two menwhohavedone the thing thatispermanentlyunforgivenbylocal gods—that is, to have

accidentallykilledaclansmanor child.We seem to be theChurchfortheLostofCause,which is probably not so farafield from what Jesushimself was operating in histime.This should not have been

a great surprise.Anatole hadalready tried to explain to usthe societal function of ourchurch, during that fatefuldinner that ended in ashattered plate. But the

Reverend feels he is doingsuch a ripping job ofclarifying all fine points ofthe Scripture to the heathen,he cannot imagine that he isstill merely serving thepurpose of cleaning up thestreets,asitwere.

Removing troublesomeelements from the mainceremonial life of Kilanga.TheReverendfailedtonoticethateverychurchgoingfamily

whose children were struckhard with the kakakakaquietly removed themselvesback to ancestor worship,while a few of the heathenfamilies that were hard hitquietly came and tried outChristianity. While it makesperfect sense to me, thispragmatic view of religionescapes theReverendutterly.Each time a new convertlimps through the door on aSunday morning, he will

boast over dinner that he is“really calling them homenow,buddy.Finallyattractingthe attention of some of thelocalbigshots.”And so he continues

ministering to the lepers andoutcasts.Bypuremistake,hisimplementation is sometimesmorepurethanhisintentions.Butmostlyitistheotherwayaround. Mostly he shouts,“Praisebe!”whilethebackofhishandknocksyouflat.

How did he come to pass,this nommo Nathan Price? Ido wonder. In the beginningwas the word, the war, thewayofall flesh.Themother,the Father, the son who wasnot, the daughters who weretoo many. The twins whobrought down the house,indeed. In the beginningwasthewordtheherdtheblurredtheturdthedebtsincurredthetheatrical absurd. Our Fatherhas a bone to pick with this

world,andoh,hepicksitlikea sore. Picks it with theWord.His punishment is theWord, and his deficienciesare failures of words— aswhen he grows impatientwith translation and strikesout precariously on his own,telling parables in his wildlyhalf-baked Kikongo. It is adangerous thing, I nowunderstand,tomakemistakeswithnommointheCongo.Ifyou assign the wrong names

to things, you could make achicken speak like a man.Make a machete rise up anddance.Wehisdaughtersandwife

are not innocent either. Theplayers in his theater. WePrices are altogether thoughtto be peculiarly well-intentioned, and inane. Iknow this. Nelson wouldnever come out and say asmuch.Buthehasalwaystoldme,whenIask,thewordswe

get wrong. I can gather therest. It is a special kind ofperson who will drawtogetheracongregation,standupbeforethemwithaproud,clear voice, and say wordswrong,weekafterweek.

Bandika, for example: tokillsomeone.Ifyouspititouttoo quickly, as the Reverenddoes,itmeanstopinchbackaplant or deflower a virgin.Whatasurprise itmustbe to

the Congolese to hear thatbraveDavid,whointendedtosmitethemightyGoliath,wasactually jumping aroundpinching back plants, orworse.Then there is batiza, Our

Father’sfixedpassion.Batizapronounced with the tonguecurled just so means“baptism.” Otherwise, itmeans “to terrify.” Nelsonspent part of an afternoondemonstratingtomethatfine

linguisticdifferencewhilewescrapedchickenmanurefromthe nest boxes. No one hasyet explained it to theReverend.Heisnotofamindto receive certain news.Perhapsheshouldcleanmorechickenhouses.

RuthMaySOMETIMES YOU JUST

WANT to lay on down andlook at the whole world

sideways.Mama and I do. Itfeelsnice.IfIputmyheadonher, the sideways worldmoves up and down. Shegoes: hhh-huh. hhh-huh.She’s softonher tummyandthebosomspart.WhenFatherand Leah went away on theairplanewejustneededtolayondownawhile.Sometimes I tell her:

Mommy Mommy. I just saythat.Fatherisn’tlisteningsoIcan say it. Her real name is

Mother andMisrus Price buther secret name to me isMommy Mommy. He wentaway on the airplane and Isaid,“Mama,Ihopehenevercomesback.”Wecriedthen.But I was sad and wanted

Leah to come back becauseshe’ll pick me up and carryme piggyback sometimes,when she’s not hollowing atme for being a pest.Everybody isnice sometimesand Baby Jesus says to love

everybodynomatterhowyoureally do feel. Baby Jesusknows what I said aboutwishing Father would nevercome back anymore, andFather is the preacher. SoGod and them love him thebest.I dreamed I climbed away

up to the top of the alligatorpear tree and was a-lookingdownatallofthem,theteenylittle children with crookedcowboy legs and their big

eyes looking up and theteeniest wrapped-up babieswith little hands and facesthat are just as fair till theygetolderandturnblack,forittakes a spell I guess beforeGod notices they are theTribesofHam.And thedirt-colorhousesalljustthesameas the dirt they’re sitting on.Mamasaysnota thingin thewholevillagethatwon’tmeltin a good hard rain. And Icould see Mommy Mommy,

the top of her. I could seeeverything she was thinking,like Jesus does. She wasthinkingaboutanimals.Sometimeswhenyouwake

up you can’t tell if it wasdreamingorreal.

AdahGODWORKS, as is very

well known, in mysteriousways. There is just nothingyou can name that Hewon’t

do,nowandthen.Oh,Hewillsenddown somuch rain thatall his little people aredrinking from one another’ssewers and dying of thekakakaka.Then he willorganize a drought to scorchout the yam and maniocfields,sowhoeverdidnotdieof fever will double overfromhunger.Whatnext,youmight ask? Why, a mystery,that’swhat!AftertheIndependencecut

off our stipend and allcontacts with the largerworld, it seems God’s plancalled for Mother and RuthMay to fall sick nigh untodeath.Theygrewflushedandspottedandthick-tonguedandtired and slow-moving nearunto the lower limit of-whatis generally thought toconstitute a living humanbody.The Reverend seemed

unconcerned about this. He

forgedaheadwithhismissionwork, leaving his three oldergirls in charge of hearth andhome for days on end whilehe sallied out to visit theunsaved, or to meet withAnatoleaboutimposingBibleclasses upon boys of tenderyears. Oh, that Bible, whereeveryasswithajawbonegetshis day! (Anatole evidentlywas not keen on the plan.)Often the Reverend simplywent out and walked along

the river for hours, alone,tryingouthissermonsonthelilies of the field—whounderstandhimaboutaswellas his congregation andfrankly are better listeners.All in all, being God’s soleand abandoned emissary toKilanga was keeping OurFather very busy. If weplaguedhimwithourworriesabout Mother, he merelysnapped that shewould heedGod’s call soon enough, and

getherselfupandaround.Atnight we overheard strange,tearful arguments, in whichMother spoke in a quiet,slurred, slow-motion voice,like a phonograph record onthe wrong speed, outliningthe possibilities for ourfamily’s demise. In a smallfractionofthetimeittookherto form her plea, Our Fatherirritably countered that theLord operates in mysteriousways.Asifshedidnotknow.

Seriousdeliriousimperiousweary us deleterious ways.Our neighbors seemed fairlyindifferent to our reducedcircumstances, as they wereoccupied with their own.Leah’s friend Pascal was theonly one who still camearound occasionally, wantingLeah to come out and scoutthe bush for adventures withhim. While we labored overchangingbedsorwashingupdishes, Pascal would wait

outside, teasing for ourattention by shouting thehandful of American phrasesLeah had taught him: “Man-oh-man! Crazy!” It used tomake us laugh, but now wecringed for having trainedhimininsolence.Our childhood had passed

over into history overnight.The transition was unnoticedbyanyonebutourselves.The matter of giving us

eachdayourdailybreadwas

clearlyuptousgirlstofigureout, and the sheerwork of itexhaustedme.Ioftenfeltliketaking to bed myself. Mysisters were similarlyaffected: Rachel becamehollow-eyed and careworn,sometimes combing her haironly once per day. Leahslowedfromarun toawalk.We had not understoodwhatourmotherhadgone throughto get square meals on thetableforthepastyear.Father

still didn’t, as he thoughtnothing of leaving it in thecharge of a cripple, a beautyqueen, and a tomboy whoapproaches housework like acat taking a bath.What afamilyunitwedomake.Sometimesinthemiddleof

thenightLeahwouldsitboltuprightinherbed,wantingtotalk. I think she wasfrightened,butshefrequentlybroughtuphervexationwithMama Mwanza, who had

spoken so matter-of-factlyabout having a stronghusband at home. It troubledLeah that people thought ourhousehold deficient, notbecause our mother wasparked at death’s door, butbecause we lacked a bakalampandi—a strong man—tooverseeus.

“Fatherdoesn’thuntorfishbecause he has a highercalling,” Leah argued from

hercot,asifImightnothavethought of this. “Can’t theyseeheworkshardathisownprofession?”HadI felt likeentering the

discussion, I would havepointed out that to MamaMwanza his professionprobably resembles the gameof “Mother May I?,”consisting of very longstringsofnonsensewordsinarow.It took less than a month

forourhousehold to fall intochaos. We had to endureFather’s escalating rage,when he returned home tofind dinner no farther alongthan an unresolved argumentoverwhether thereareorarenotwormsintheflour,oranyflour at all. After hisdispleasure had reached acertain point, the three of usrubbedourbruisesandcalledourselves to a womanly sortof meeting. At the great

wooden table where we hadspent many a tedious hourstudyingalgebraandtheHolyRoman Empire, we now satdowntotakestock.“First of all, we have to

keep boiling the water, nomatter what,” announcedRachel,ourelder.“Writethatdown,Adah.Ifwedon’tboilour water for thirty fullminutes we’ll get plebiscitesandwhatnot.”Dulynoted.

“Secondofall,wehave tofigureoutwhattoeat.”On the pantry shelves in

thekitchenhousewestillhadsome flour, sugar, Carnationmilkpowder,tea,fivecansofsardines, and theUnderdownprunes;Irecordedallthisinacolumn in my notebook.Wroteit,forthebenefitofmysisters, left to right. Leahadded to the list: mangoes,guavas, pineapples, andavocados, all of which came

and went in mysteriousseasons(notunliketheLord’sways)butatleastdidgrowinour yard, free of charge.Bananas were so abundantaround the village peoplestole them off each other’streesinbroaddaylight.WhenMamaMwanza’schildrencutdown a bunch from theNguzas’ big garden, MamaNguza picked up the onesthey’d dropped and broughtthem over later. Thus

emboldened, Leah and I cutdown a bunch the size ofRuthMayfrombehindEebenAxelroot’southouse,whilehewas inside. Fruit, then, wasone thing we could havewithout money. Oranges wehad always bought at themarche,astheygrewdeepinthe jungle and were difficultto find, but Leah claimed toknow where to look. Sheappointedherselfinchargeoffruit gathering, not

surprisingly, this being thecategory of housework thattakes place farthest from ahouse.Shepledged tocollectpalm nuts also, even thoughthese taste to us exactly likecandle wax, however muchthe Congolese children seemto prize them. Still, I wrote“Palm nuts” in my book, toprolong the list.Thepointofour exercisewas to convinceourselves that the wolf wasnot actually at the back door

butperhapsmerelysalivatingattheedgeofouryard.Restingupbetweencrucial

observations, Rachel wasstudying the tails of her hairvery closely for split ends.She resembled a cross-eyedrabbit. At the mention ofpalm nuts she whined, “But,youall,onadietof justfruitwe could plumb die or evengetdiarrhea.”“Well, what else is free?”

Leahasked.

“The chickens, of course,”Rachel said. “We can killthose.”We couldn’t kill them all,

Leahexplained,because thenwe’d have no eggs foromelets—one of the fewthings-weknewhowtocook.Butifweletsomeofthehensbrood, to increase our flock,we might get away withfryingaroosteronceamonthor so. My sisters put me incharge of all chicken

decisions, thinking me theleast likely to act on a rashimpulse that would causeregrets later. The rash-impulse portion of my brainwas destroyed at birth. Wedidnotdiscusswhowouldbein charge of killing theunfortunate roosters. Inearlier times our mother didthat, with a flourish. Backwhen she was a happierwoman, she used to claimFather married her for the

way she wrung a rooster’sneck. Our mother used tohavemysteryunder her skin,andwepaid not the slightestattention.Next, Leah raised the

difficult issue of Nelson:nearly half our eggs went tohimforhispay.Wediscussedwhether we needed Nelsonmore,or theeggs.Therewasnot much now for him tocook. But he did haul ourwater and cut wood, and he

elucidated for us the manydaily mysteries of Kilanga.AsIwasnotgoodathaulingwater or cutting wood, Icouldnotpersonallyarguefora life without Nelson. Mysisters, I think, had separatefears of their own. In secretballot we voted unanimouslytokeephim.“AndIwillbakethebread.

Mother will show me how,”Rachel announced, as if thatfinallysolvedallourtroubles.

Mother had wanderedunnoticed into our meetingandwasstandingat the frontwindow, looking out. Shecoughed, and we all threeturned to regard her:OrleannaPrice, former bakerof our bread. Really she didnot look like someone whocould teach you how tobutton your shirt on straight.It’sadisturbingthing,afteradecade of being told to tuckin shirttails and walk like a

lady,toseeyourownmotherunkempt. Feeling our silentdisapproval, she turned tolook at us. Her eyes had theplain blue look of a rainlesssky.Empty.“It’s okay, Mama,” Leah

said. “Youcangoonand lieback down if you want to.”Leah had not called her“Mama”sincewecutourfirstmolars. Mama nee Orleannacame over and kissed us onthe tops of our heads, then

shuffledbacktoherdeathbed.Leah turned toRachel and

hissed, “You priss, youcouldn’tevensifttheflour!”“Oh, the girl genius

speaks,” Rachel said. “Andmay I ask why not?” Ichewed on my pencil andwitnessedtheproceedings.“No special reason,” Leah

said, scratching her shaggypixie haircut behind the ear.“I’m sure you won’t mindsticking your hand down in

the flour bag with all thoseweevils and maggots inthere.”“There’s not always

maggotsintheflour.”“No, you’re right.

Sometimes the tarantulas eatthem.”I laughedout loud.Rachel

gotupandleftthetable.Having broken my silence

inLeah’sfavor,though,IfeltIhadtoscoldherforthesakeofbalance.“IFWEDONOT

ALLHANGTOGETHER...”Iwroteonmypad.“I know. We’ll all hang

separately. But Rachel needstogetoffherhighhorse,too.She’s never lifted a fingeraroundhereandnowallofasudden she’s the Little RedHen?”True enough. Having

Rachel in charge was verymuchas ifMrs.DonnaReedfrom television suddenlyshoweduptobeyourmother.

Ithad tobeanact.Soon shewould takeoffherapronandturnintosomeonewhodidn’tgive a hoot about yourgeneralwelfare.Poor tyrannical Rachel

keeps trying to build a big-sister career upon a slimsixteen-month seniority,insisting that we respect heras our elder. But Leah and Ihave not thought of her inthat way since the secondgrade,whenwepassedherup

in the school spelling bee.Her downfall was theridiculously easy wordscheme.

LeahAFTER THREE WEEKS

of thedoldrums ImadeRuthMaygetoutofbed. Just likethat, I said, “Ruth May,honey, get up.Let’s go pokearound outside awhile.”There wasn’t much to be

done about Mother, but I’vespent a lot of time in chargeof Ruth May and I think Ishould know by now what’sgood for her. She neededsomething to boss around.Our pets hadmostly escapedby then,orbeeneatenup, asinthecaseofMethuselah,butthe Congo still offered awealth of God’s creatures toentertainus.ItookRuthMayoutside to get some sunshineon her. But she slumped

wherever I put her, with nogumption in her at all. Sheactedlikeamonkey-sockdollthathasbeenrunthroughthemachine.“WheredoyouthinkStuart

Little’sgoneto?”Iaskedher.Iusedthatnamejusttopleaseher, practically admitting itwas her mongoose. Shehadn’t captured it or takenany special care beyondnaming it after an incorrectstorybook animal, namely a

mouse.ButIcouldn’tdenyitfollowedheraround.“He ran off. I don’t care,

either.”“Look-a-here, Ruth May.

Antlions.”Inthelong,strangedrought

we were having in place oflast year’s rainy season, softdust had spread across ouryard in broad white patches.It was pocked all over withlittle funnel-shaped snares,wheretheantlionslayburied

at the bottom, waiting forsome poor insect to stumbleinto the trap and getdevoured. We had neveractually seen the ant lionsthemselves,onlytheirwickedhandiwork. To amuse RuthMay I’d toldher they lookedlike lions with six legs andwere huge, as big as her lefthand. I don’t really knowwhattheylooklike,butgivenhow things grow in theCongo, that size seemed

possible.Backbeforeshegotsick, Ruth May thought shecould lie on her belly andsing to lure them out:“Wicked bug, wicked bug,come out of your hole!”shoutedinsingsongforwholeafternoons at a time, eventhoughitneverworked.RuthMay’s foremost personalitytrait was stick-to-it-iveness.ButnowwhenIsuggestedit,shemerelyturnedherheadtothe side and laid it down in

thedust.“I’m too hot to sing.They

never come out anyway.” Iwasdeterminedtorileherupsomeway. If I couldn’t findanysparkleft inRuthMay,Iwas afraid I might panic, orcry.“Hey,watchthis,”Isaid.I

found a column of antsrunning up a tree trunk andpicked a couple out of thelineup. Bad luck for thosepoor ants, singled out while

minding their own businessamongst their brethren. Evenan ant’s just got its own onelifetolive,andIdidconsiderthis briefly as I croucheddown and dropped a partlysquashed ant into an antlion’strap.TheyusedtofeedChristians to the lions, andnow Adah uses that phraseironically, referring to how Isupposedly left her to beeaten up on the path. ButAdah is no more Christian

thananant.We squatted over the hole

andwaited.Theantstruggledin the soft, sandy trapuntil apair of pincers suddenlyreached up and grabbed it,thrashed up a little dust, andpulleditunder.Gone,justlikethat.“Don’t do any more of

them,Leah,”RuthMay said.“Theantwasn’tbad.”I felt embarrassed, being

toldinsectmoralsbymybaby

sister. Usually crueltyinspired Ruth May no end,and I was just desperate tohelphergetherspiritsback.“Well, even wicked bugs

have to eat,” I pointed out.“Everything has to eatsomething.” Even lions, Isuppose.I pickedupRuthMayand

dusted off her cheek. “Sit inthe swing and I’ll comb outyourpigtails,”Isaid.I’dbeencarrying the comb around in

my back pocket for days,meaningtogettoRuthMay’shair. “After I get your braidsfixedupI’llpushyouawhileintheswing.Okay?”Ruth May didn’t seem to

havestrongfeelingsonewayor another. I sat her in theswing, which Nelson hadhelped us hang with a huge,oily rope he found on theriverbank. The seat was anold rectangular palm-oildrum. All the kids in the

villageusedourswing.Ibeatsome dust off the comb andbeganto teaseout theyellowmass of knots her hair hadturnedinto.Icouldhardlydoitwithouthurtingher,yetshehardly whined, which I tookasabadsign.Out of the corner of my

eyeIsawAnatolehalfhiddeninthecanethicketattheedgeofouryard.Hewasn’tcuttingcane,sincehedoesn’tchewit—I thinkhe’s a littlevainof

hisstrongwhiteteethwiththehandsome little gap in thecenter. But he was standingthere watching us anyway,and I flushed red to think hemight have seen me feedingthe ant lions. It seemed verychildish. In the light of day,almost everything we did inKilanga seemed childish.Even Father’s walking theriverbank talking to himself,and our mother driftingaroundhalfdressed.Combing

out Ruth May’s hair at leastseemed motherly andpractical,soIconcentratedonthat. In spite of myself Ipictured a father with shinyblack arms pulling fish fromthe river and a mother withdark,heavybreastspoundingmanioc in a wooden trough.Then out of habit I fired offthe Repentance Psalm: Havemercy upon me, O God,according unto the multitudeof thy tender mercies. But I

was unsure whichcommandment my thoughtshad broken—Honor thyfather and mother, or notcoveting thy neighbor’sparents, or even somethingmore vague about being truetoyourownraceandkind.Anatolestartedtowardus.I

waved and called to him,“Mbote,Anatole!”“Mbote, Beene-beene,” he

said. He has special namesforeachofmysistersandme,

not the hurtful ones otherpeople use, like Termite andBenduka, for Adah, whichmeans Crooked Walker.Anatolewouldn’ttelluswhathis namesmeant.He tousledRuth May’s head and shookmy hand in the Congoleseway, with his left handclasping his right forearm.Father said this traditionwasto show they aren’t hidinganyweapon.“What’s the news, sir?” I

asked Anatole. This is whatFatheralwayssaidtohim.Inspite of how badly that firstdinnerhadgone,Fatherreliedgreatly on Anatole and evenlooked forward to his visits,somewhat nervously, I think.Anatole always surprised usby knowing important newsfrom the outside world—orfromoutsideKilanga,atleast.Weweren’tsurewherehegothis information, but itgenerally turned out to be

true.“A lot of news,” he said.

“But first Ihavebroughtyouapiginasack.”I loved hearing Anatole

speak English. Hispronunciation soundedBritish and elegant, with“first” corning out as “fest,”and “brought” more like“brrote.” But it soundedCongoleseinthewayitrolledout with equal weight onevery syllable—a pig in a

sack—as if no single wordwantedtotakeoverthewholesentence.“A poke,” I said. “Mother

says that:Neverbuyapig ina poke. I guess a poke is asack.”“Well,atanyrateit’snota

pig, and you don’t have tobuyit.Ifyouguesswhatitis,thenyoumayhaveitforyourdinner.” On a string slungover his shoulder he had abrown cloth sack, which he

handed to me. I closed myeyes and assessed itsweight,bouncing it up and down alittle. It was the size of achickenbuttooheavytobeabird. I held the bag up andexamined the rounded bulgeat its bottom. It had littlepoints,possiblyelbows.“Umvundlal” I

cried,jumping up and downlike a child.This was junglerabbit. Nelson could make arabbit stew with mangwansi

beansandmangoes thatevenRachelcouldn’thelpeating,itwasthatgood.I’d guessed right: Anatole

smiled his thrilling whitesmile. I can scarcely evenrememberhowhefirstlookedtous,whenwewereshockedby the scars across his face.NowIcouldonlyseeAnatolethe man, square-shoulderedand narrow-hipped in hiswhiteshirtandblacktrousers,Anatolewith his ready smile

and livelywalk.Amanwhowas kind to us. His face hasmany other interestingfeatures besides the scars,such as almond-shaped eyesand a finely pointed chin. Ihadn’t realized how much Ilikedhim.“Didyoukillityourself?”He held up both hands. “I

wouldliketosayyes,soyouwould think your friendAnatoleisagoodhunter.But,alas. A new pupil brought it

this morning to pay for hisschooling.”Ilookedinthesack.There

it was with its small, furryhead curled unnaturallybackward due to a brokenneck.Ithadbeentrapped,notshot.Iclaspedthesacktomychest and looked up atAnatole sideways. “Wouldyou reallyhave taken itbackifIhadn’tguessedright?”He smiled. “I would have

givenyoua lotofchances to

guessright.”“Well! Is that the kind of

leniencyyoushowyourboyson their math and French inschool? They must neverlearnanything!”“Oh,no,miss!Icracktheir

naughty heads with a stickand send them home indisgrace.”Weboth laughed. Iknewbetter.“Please come for dinner

tonight, Anatole. With thisrabbitwe’llhavetoomuchto

eat.”Infactthislonelyrabbitwouldmakeasmallstewandwe would still be hungrywhile we washed the dishesafterward—afeelingweweretryingtogetusedto.Butthatwas how people said thankyou inKilanga. I’d learnedafewmannersatleast.“PerhapsIwill,”hesaid.“We’ll make a stew,” I

promised.“Mangwansi beans are

high in the marche,” he

pointed out. “Because of thedrought. All the gardens aredryingup.”“Ihappentoknowwhohas

some: Mama Nguza. Shemakesherkidshaulwaterupfromthecreektopouronhergarden.Haven’t you seen it?It’ssensational.”“No, I have not seen this

sensation.Iwillhavetomakebetter friends with TataNguza.”“I don’t know about him.

He sure doesn’t talk to me.Nobody talks to me,Anatole.”“PoorBeene.” “It’s true! I don’t have a

singlesolitaryfriendherebutNelson and Pascal, two littleboys! And you. All the girlsmyagehavetheirownbabiesand are too busy. And themen act like I’m a snakefixingtobitethem.”He shook his head,

laughing.

“They do so,Anatole.Yesterday I wassitting in theweedswatchingTataMwanzamakefishtraps,and when I stood up andasked him to showme how,he ran away and jumped inthewater!Iswearit!”“Beene,youwerenaughty.

Tata Mwanza could not beseen talking to a youngwoman, you know that. Itwouldbeascandal.”“Hmmph,” I said. Why

was it scandalous for me toconverse with any man inKilangaoldenoughtohaveawhole seat in his pants,except for Anatole? But Ididn’t ask. I didn’t “want tojinx our friendship. “What Ido happen to know,” I said,being maybe a tiny bit coy,“is that a civet cat got all oftheNguzas’henslastSunday.SoMamaNguzawillbe inamood to trade mangwansibeans for eggs, don’t you

think?”Anatole smiled

enormously.“Clevergirl.”I smiled, too, but didn’t

know what else to say afterthat. I felt embarrassed andreturnedtocombingoutRuthMay’s hair. “She appears tobe a very glum little girltoday,” Anatole said. “She’sbeen sick in bed for weeks.Mother has too. Didn’t younoticewhenyoucamebytheother day how she was

standingoutontheporchjuststaring into space? Fathersays they’ll both be all right,but...” I shrugged. “Itwouldn’t be the sleepingsickness,doyouthink?”“Ithinkno.Nowisnotthe

season for tsetse flies. Thereis hardly any sleepingsickness at all in Kilangarightnow.”“Well,that’sgood,because

what I’ve heard aboutsleeping sickness is you die

of it,” I said, still combing,feeling like someone who’sbeenhypnotizedintothatonesinglemotion.Sleepinginherbraids for sweaty days andnights on end had creasedRuth May’s dark blond hairintoshiningwaveslikewater.Anatole stared at it as Icombeditdownherback.Hissmile got lost somewhere inthatquietminute.“There is news, Beene,

since you asked for it. I’m

afraid it is not very good. Icametotalktoyourfather.”“He’s not here. I can tell

himwhateveritis,though.”I wondered if Anatole

would consider me asufficient messenger. I’dnoticedCongolesemendidn’ttreat even their own wivesanddaughtersasiftheywerevery sensible or important.Though as far as I could seethe wives and daughters didjustaboutallthework.

ButAnatoleapparentlyfeltIcouldbespokento.“Doyouknow where KatangaProvinceis?”“In the south,” I said.

“Where all the diamondminesare.”I’doverheardtalkofitwhenMr.AxelrootflewFather and me back fromLeopoldville. Evidently Mr.Axelrootwentthereoften.SoIwasguessing,butIguessedwith my father’s trademarkconfidence.

“Diamonds, yes,” Anatolesaid.“Alsocobaltandcopperand zinc. Everything mycountryhasthatyourcountrywants.”This made me feel edgy.

“Didwedosomethingbad?”“Notyou,Beene.”Notme, notme!Myheart

rejoiced at that, though Icouldn’tsaywhy.“But, yes, there is a bad

business going on,” he said.“Do you know the name

MoiseTshombe?”Imighthaveheardit,but-

wasn’t sure. I started to nod,but then admitted, “No.” Idecided right then to stoppretending I knewmore thanI did. I would be myself,LeahPrice, eager to learn allthere is to know. Watchingmyfather,I’veseenhowyoucan’t learn anything whenyou’re trying to look like thesmartestpersonintheroom.“Moise Tshombe is leader

of the Lunda tribe. For allpracticalpurposehe is leaderof Katanga Province. Andsince a few days ago, leaderofhisownnationofKatanga.He declared it separate fromtheRepublicofCongo.”“What?Why?”“Nowhecanmakehisown

business with the BelgiansandAmericans,yousee.Withallhisminerals.Someofyourcountrymen have given a lotof encouragement to his

decision.” “Why can’t they just

make their deals withLumumba?He’s theone thatgot elected. They ought toknowthat.”“They know. But

Lumumbaisnoteagertogiveawaythestore.Hisloyaltyiswith his countrymen. Hebelieves in a unified Congofor the Congolese, and heknows that every Katangadiamond from the south can

pay a teacher’s salary inLeopoldville,orfeedavillageofWarega children in thenorth.”Ifeltbothembarrassedand

confused. “Why would thebusinessmen take Congo’sdiamonds away? And whatare Americans doing downthere anyhow? I thought theCongo belonged to Belgium.Imeanbefore.”Anatole frowned. “The

Congo is the Congo’s and

everhasbeen.”“Well,Iknowthat.But—”“Open your eyes, Beene.

Look at your neighbors. Didthey ever belong toBelgium?”Hepointedacrossouryardandthroughthetreestoward Mama Mwanza’shouse..‘I’dsaidastupidthing,and

felt terrible. I looked, as hecommanded: Mama Mwanzawith her disfigured legs andher small, noble head both

wrapped in bright yellowcalico.Inthehard-packeddirtshe sat as ifplanted there, infrontofalittlefirethatlickedat her dented cooking can.Sheleanedbackonherhandsandraisedherfacetothesky,shouting her bidding, and achorusofhalfheartedanswerscame back from her boysinside the mud-thatch house.Near the open doorway, thetwo older daughters stoodpounding manioc in the tall

wooden mortar. As one girlraised her pounding club theother girl’s went down intothe narrow hole—up anddown,aperfect,evenrhythmlike the pumping of pistons.I’d watched them time andagain, attracted so to thatdance of straight backs andmuscledblackarms. Ienviedthese daughters,whoworkedtogether in such perfectsynchrony. It’s what Adahand I might have felt, if we

hadn’tgottenallsnaredintheropes of guilt and unfairadvantage. Now our wholefamily was at odds, itseemed: Mother againstFather,Rachelagainstbothofthem,Adahagainsttheworld,Ruth May pulling helplesslyat anyone who came near,andmetryingmybesttostayonFather’sside.

We were tangled in suchknots of resentment we

hardlyunderstoodthem.“Two of her children died

intheepidemic,”Isaid.“Iknow.”Of course he knew. Our

village was small, andAnatole knew every child byname.“It’saterribleshame,”I offered, inadequately. Hemerely agreed, “E-e.”“Children should never havetodie.”“No.Butiftheyneverdid,

children would not be so

precious.” “Anatole! Wouldyou say that if your ownchildren died?” “Of coursenot. But it is true,nevertheless. Also ifeveryonelivedtobeold,thenold agewould not be such atreasure.” “But everybodywantstolivealongtime.It’sonlyfair.”“Fair towant,e-e.Butnot fair toget. Just thinkhow it would be if all thegreat-grandparents still werewalking around. The village

wouldbecrowdedwithcrossold people arguing overwhohas the most ungrateful sonsandachingbones,andalwayseatingup the foodbefore thechildren could get to thetable.”“It sounds like a church

social back in Georgia,” Isaid.Anatolelaughed.Mama Mwanza shouted

again and clappedher hands,bringingareluctantsonoutofthe house, dragging the flat,

pinkishsolesofhisfeet.ThenI laughed, too, just becausepeople young and old aremore or less the sameeverywhere. I let myselfbreathe out, feeling less likeone of Anatole’s schoolboystakingascolding.“Do you see that, Beene?

That is Congo. Not mineralsand glittering rocks with nohearts, these things that aretradedbehindourbacks.TheCongoisus.”

“Iknow.” “Who owns it, do you

suppose?”Ididnothazardaguess.“I am sorry to say, those

menmakingtheiragreementsin Katanga just now areaccustomed to getting whattheywant.”I drew the edge of the

combslowlydownthecenterof RuthMay’s head,makingacarefulpart.Fatherhadsaidthe slums outside

Leopoldville would be setright by American aid, afterIndependence. Maybe I wasfoolish to believehim.Therewere shanties just as poor inGeorgia, on the edge ofAtlanta, where black andwhite divided, and that wassmack in the middle ofAmerica.“Can you just do that, -

what they did down there?Announce your owncountry?”Iasked.

“PrimeMinisterLumumbasays no, absolutely not. Hehasasked theUnitedNationsto bring an army to restoreunity.”“Istheregoingtobeawar?”“Thereisalreadyakindof

war, I think.MoiseTshombehas Belgians and mercenarysoldiers working for him. Idon’t think they will leavewithouta fight.AndKatangais not the only place wherethey are throwing stones.

There is a different war inMatadi, Thysville, Boende,Leopoldville.Peopleareveryangryat theEuropeans.Theyare even hurting women andlittlechildren.” “What are they somadat

the white people for?”Anatole sighed. “Those arebigcities.Wheretheboaandthehencurluptogether,thereis only trouble. People haveseen too much of theEuropeans and all the things

theyhad.TheyimaginedafterIndependence life wouldimmediately become fair.”“Can’ttheybepatient?”“Could you be? If your

bellywasemptyandyousawwholebasketsofbreadontheother side of a window,would you continue “waitingpatiently, Beene? Or wouldyouthrowarock?”My belly is empty, I

thoughtof tellingAnatole. “Idon’t know,” I confessed. I

thought of the Underdowns’homeinLeopoldvillewithitsPersian rugs and silver teaservice and chocolatecookies, surroundedbymilesof tin shanties and hunger.Perhaps there were boysstomping barefoot throughthat house right now,ransacking the near-emptypantry and setting fire to thecurtains inakitchen thatstillsmelledofMrs.Underdown’sdisinfectant soap. I couldn’t

saywhowaswrongorright.Idid see what Anatole meantaboutthesnakesandhenstooclose together in a place likethat:youcouldtracethebellyscales of hate, and come uphowling. I glanced nervouslyat our own house, with norugs or tea service, but howmuchdidthatmatter?WouldJesus protect us? When Helookedinourheartstoweighourworth,wouldhefindlovefor ourCongolese neighbors,

ordisdain?“Well, it’s the job of the

United Nations to keep thepeace,” I said. “When willtheycome?”“That is what everybody

would like to know. If theywon’t come, the PrimeMinisterhasthreatenedtoaskMr.Khrushchevforhelp.”“Khrushchev,” I said,

trying to cover my shock.“TheCommunistswouldhelptheCongo?”

“Oh, yes, I think theywould.” Anatole eyed mestrangely. “Beene, do youknowwhataCommunistis?”“I know they do not fear

the Lord, and they thinkeverybody should have thesame ...” I found I couldn’tcompletemyownsentence.“The same kind of house,

more or less,” Anatolefinished for me. “That isaboutright.”“Well, I want the United

Nations to come right away,and fix it up so everything’sfair,thisminute!”Anatole laughed at me. “I

thinkyouareaveryimpatientgirl,eagertogrowupintoanimpatientwoman.”Iblushed.“Don’t worry about Mr.

Khrushchev.WhenLumumbasays he might get help fromRussia,itis,whatdoyoucallthis?trompesonmonde,likethe hen who puffs up herfeathers like so, very big, to

showthesnakesheistoobigtoeat.”“Abluff,”Isaid,delighted.

“Lumumba’sbluffing.” “A bluff, exactly. I think

Lumumba wants to beneutral, more than anything.More than he loves his veryown life.He doesn’twant togiveawayourwealth,buthemostespeciallydoesnotwantyourcountryforanenemy.”“Hehasahardjob,”Isaid.“Icanthinkofnopersonin

alltheworldrightnowwithaharderjob.”“Mr. Axelroot doesn’t

think much of him,” Iconfessed. “He says PatriceLumumba is trouble in aborrowedsuit.”

Anatoleleanedclosetomyear.“Doyouwant toknowasecret? I think Mr. Axelrootis troubleinhisownstinkinghat.” Oh, I laughed to hearthat.

We stood awhile longerwatching Mama Mwanzaargue good-naturedly withher lazysonand takeseveralbroadswipesathimwithherbig cooking spoon. Hejumped back, makingexaggerated shouts. Hissisters scolded him, too,laughing. I realized thatMama Mwanza had anextraordinarily pretty face,withwide-set eyes, a solemnmouth, and a high, rounded

forehead under her kerchief.Her husband had taken noother wife, even after herterrible accident and the lossof their two youngestchildren. Their family hadseensomuchofhardship,yetit still seemed easy for themto laugh with each other. Ienviedthemwithanintensityneartolove,andneartorage.I told Anatole: “I saw

Patrice Lumumba. Did youknow that? In Leopoldville

my father and I got towatchhim give his inauguralspeech.”“Did you?” Anatole

seemed impressed. “Well,then, you can make up yourown mind. What did youthinkofourPrimeMinister?”It took me a moment’s

pause to discover what Ithought. Finally I said, “Ididn’t understand everything.But he made me want tobelieve in every word. Even

theonesIwasn’tsureof.” “You understood well

enough,then.”“Anatole, isKatanga close

to here?” He flipped hisfinger against my cheek.“Don’tworry,Beene.Noonewill be shooting at you. Goand cook your rabbit. I’llcome backwhen I can smellumvundlastewfrommydeskin the school-house. Salambote!”“Wendambote!” I clasped

my forearm and shook hishand. Icalled tohisbackashewalkedaway,“Thankyou,Anatole.” I wasn’t justthanking him for the rabbitbutalsofortellingmethings.For the way he said, “Notyou, Beene,” and “Youunderstoodwellenough.”He turned and walked

backwards for a fewbouncingsteps.“Don’tforgetto tell your father: Katangahasseceded.”

“Iwon’tpossiblyforget.”I returned to Ruth May’s

braids, but was veryconsciousofAnatole sbroadshoulders and narrow waist,the triangle of white shirtmoving away from us as hewalked purposefully downthe dirt road back to thevillage. I wish the peopleback home readingmagazinestories about dancingcannibals could seesomething as ordinary as

Anatole s clean white shirtand kind eyes, or MamaMwanzawithherchildren. Ifthe word “Congo” makespeople think of that big-lipped cannibal man in thecartoon, why, they’re justwrong about everything herefrom top tobottom.Buthowcould you ever set themright? Since the day wearrived, Mother has naggedustowritelettershometoourclassmates at Bethlehem

High, and not one of us hasdone it yet. We re stillwondering, Where do youstart? “This morning I gotup...”I’dbegin,butno,“Thismorning I pulled back themosquito netting that’stucked in tight around ourbedsbecausemosquitoesheregive you malaria, a diseasethatrunsinyourbloodwhichnearly everyone has anywaybut they don’t go to thedoctorforitbecausethereare

worse things like sleepingsickness or the kakakaka orthat someone has put akibaazuonthem,andanywaythere’s really no doctor normoney to pay one, so peoplejusthopeforthegoodluckofgetting old because thenthey’ll be treasured, andmeanwhile they go on withtheir business because theyhave children they love andsongs to sing while theywork,and...”

Andyouwouldn’tevengetas far as breakfast beforerunning out of paper. You’dhave to explain the words,and then the words for thewords.RuthMayremainedlistless

whileIexploredmythoughtsand finished up her braids. Iknew I ought to have bathedher and washed her hairbeforecombingitout,buttheidea of lugging the big tubout and heating a dozen

teakettles of water so she -wouldn’t get chilled—it wasmore than a day’swork, andnow I had mangwansi beansto worry about and theskinning of a rabbit. That issurelychildhood’send,whenyou look at a thing like arabbit needing skinned andhave to say: “Nobody else isgoing todo this.”Sonobathfor Ruth May that day. Imerely pushed her awhile inthe swing as I’d promised,

and she did kick her feet alittle. Maybe it made herhappy, I can’t say. I hope itdid. Anatole’s words hadpushed things around insideofme. It’s true that sicknessand death make childrenmore precious. I used tothreaten Ruth May’s life socarelessly just to make herbehave.NowIhadtofacethepossibility that we reallycould lose her, andmy heartfeltlikeasoft,damagedplace

inmychest,likeabruiseonapeach.Sheflewforwardandback

andIwatclhedhershadowinthe white dust under theswing. Each time she:reached the top of her arcbeneath the sun, her shadowlegs were transformed intothe thin, curved legs of anantelope,“withsmallroundedhooves at the bottom insteadof feet. I was transfixed andhorrifiedby the imageofmy

sister with antelope legs. Iknewitwasonlyshadowandtheangleof the sun,but stillit’s frightening when thingsyou love appear suddenlychanged fromwhatyouhavealwaysknown.

RuthMayALL THOSE BLACK

FACES in the black night a-lookingatme.Theywantmeto come play. But you can’t

say the words out loud atnight.MotherMayI?Noyoumay not! Mama says no.Mama is here breathing.When we’re both asleep Ihear her talk and that’swhatshesays:nononono.Butthelizardsrunawayupthewallswith the rest of her words,andIcan’thear.Sometimes Iwakeupand:

nobody. Outside there’ssunshinesoIknowit’sbroadday, but everybody is gone

and I’m sweating too muchandcan’t talk about it.Othertimes it is dark, and MamaandFatheraresayingsecrets.Mama begs Father. She saystheywentafterthewhitegirlsupinStanleyville.Theywentin their houses and tookeverything they wanted to,the food and the radiobatteries and all. And theymade the missionaries standnaked on top of the roofwithout any clothes on, and

then they shot two of them.Everybody is talkingabout itand Mama heard. InStanleyville is where thedoctorputacastonmyarm.Didhehavetogoontheroofof the hospital without anyclothes? I never can stopthinking about the doctorwith no clothes on. Thelizardsrunawayupthewallsandtakeall thewordsIwantto say. But Father says whatthe Bible says: The meek

shallinherit.Hestartedtopathis hand on Mama and shepushed him away. Hearkentherefore unto thesupplications of thy servant,that thine eyes may be opentoward this house night andday.Night and day and night

and day. Jesus is lookingright in the windows nomatter what. He can seethrough the roof.He can seeinside our heads, where we

think the bad things. I triednottothinkofthedoctorwithnoclothesonwithallofthemupontheroofbuthehadthatyellow hair on his arms.Rachel screamed andthrashed her white hair andsassed back at Father bad:“Who cares who cares whocares!Who is even going toknow the difference if wescootoutofhereandgobackhomewhereit’ssafe?” Father yelled, “God will

know the difference!” AndRachel felldownhardbeforeIevenheardthesoundofthewall and his hand. “Goddespises a coward who runswhileothersstandandsuffer.“Where will we be safe?

When Mama raises her eyesup to him they are so coldthere isn’t even any Mamahome inside there, and shesays,“NathanPrice,themeekshall inherit.You wait and

see.”I know the meek shall

inherit and the last shall befirst, but the Tribes of Hamwere last. Now will they befirst?Idon’tknow.In our family, Mama

comes last. Adah is next tolast because her one wholeside is bad, and then comesMama last of all, becausesomething in her is evenworse hurt thanwhatAdah’sgot.

Nelsontoldmehowtofindasafeplace.OnetimeIwokeupandtherehewas:Nelson.Oh, is he mad because I

triedtoseehimnaked,Idon’tknow.Mymouthcouldn’tsayanywords. But there hewasby the bed, and Mama gonefrombesideme.He put his hand over my

mouth, stooping down andnobody else there. Nobodyelse.Shhh,hesaidandputhishand.I thoughthewasgoing

tohurtme,butinsteadhewasmyfriend.Shhh,hesaid,andtook his hand off my mouthandgavemeapresent.Abu,Bandu.Takethis!Bandu is my name.

NommoBandu! Itmeans thelittlest one on the bottom.And it means the reason foreverything. Nelson told methat.What is it? I said, but not

any words came out of mymouth. I looked inside my

two hands, where he put it,and therewasa tinybox likewhat matches come in. Amatchbox.Thematchboxhada picture of a lion on theoutside and I thought therewould be a tiny little lioninside to bemy pet, like themean ones that eat the antsonly nicer. Stuart Lion. Butno. Nelson opened it up andtook out something, Icouldn’t tell what. It lookedlike a piece of chicken bone

withgristleandstringallonitand sticky and somethingblack. What was it,something that died? I wasscared and started fixing tocry.Nelson said, Don’t be

scared.Hesaid,thishasbeeninthemagicfire.Youcallthisnkisi. He made me touch itand it didn’t burnme. Look,hesaid.Hehelditrightuptomyeye.Therewasatinyholeinthesideandatinypegthat

fit in the hole, tied withstring. Put your spirit insidehere, he said, here quick,blow in thishole.Heopenedup the peg and I blew in thelittle hole and quick he saidmy name Nommo BanduNommo Bandu NommoBandu!andshutupthehole-with the little peg and Nowyou are safe.He said now ifanything happens to me, if Istart fixing to die orsomething, hold on to this

tightandbambula!RuthMaywilldisappear.How do you know? But

Nelson knows everythingaboutdeadpeople.Hismamaand father and brothers andbabysisterarealldeadonthebottomoftheriver.Idon’twanttodisappear,I

said.Buthesaid,Onlyifyouare

goingtodie.HesaidthiswayI won’t die, I will justdisappear for a second and

then I’ll turn up someplaceelse, where it’s safe. InsteadofdeadI’llbesafe.ButfirstIhave to think of that placeevery day, so my spirit willknow where to run away to,when it’s time. You have tothinkofyoursafeplaceeveryday.Nelson’sfacewasbiggerthanacandlerightinmyfaceand I could hear the goodwayhe smelled.That soapheuses for washing up and hisclothes.Allthosesmellswere

soloudinmyears.Nelsonismy friend that showed mehow to sing to the chickens.Bidumuka is themagicnameof a chicken. Nobody elseknowsthat,notevenLeahorFather.Nelsonsaid,Don’tforget!Iputthematchboxwiththe

lion picture on it, and themagic burned bones inside, Iputitundermypillow.Nkisi.SometimesIwakeupanditisstill there. If they come and

try tomakemegoupon theroof naked I will justdisappear, and turn up somewholeotherplace.But first Ihave to thinkofwhere Iwillgo. I can feel the box inmyhand. My pillow is wet andthetinylittleboxissoftbutIknow what is inside. Secret.Thereisthewindow,andit’sdaytime now and people inthe other room talking andthey don’t know? I have asecret. But Nelson has gone

somewhere and his mamadead; I wonder where and Ican’t remember the song wesangtothechickens.

LeahRUTH MAY’S

SICKNESS stayed with her,but Mother began pullingherself together. Seeing thetwo of them curled in thesame bed, one slowlyemergingandtheotherlosing

ground, put me back ontofamiliar, unpleasant thoughtsofAdahandmeinthewomb.I have prayed a thousandtimesforGodtotellme:DidIdothattoAdah?IfIshowedhermorekindnessnow,couldIbeforgivenformakingheracripple? But a debt of thatsize seems so impossible topay back it is a dread thingeventostarton.Mother used her own

reserves,without stealing the

life out of Ruth May oranyone else. She seemed todrawstrengthrightoutofthemuggy air. Sometimes I sawher siton the sideof thebedforawhilebeforegettingup,drawing in deep breathsthroughthin,pursedlips.Shehadhergoodandbadphases,but finally stoppedsleepwalkingonceandforall.It happened rather suddenlyone day, afterRachel burnedupaneggomelet.Sheburned

two in a row, to be exact—she had the fire in the stovestoked up way too high.Theonly way to get a slow heatforbakingbreadorcookingatenderthinglikeanomelet istobuildupabigfirefirstwithgood, stout wood and thencook while the coals dieslowly down. Rachel couldnever get the hang of that.Shewastryingtostartthefireand cook all at once, whichwill never get you

anywhere.You can’t keep anewfirelow;itmustgrowordie.Nelsontaughtmethat.ButNelsonhadgonetoget

water before dark so Rachelwas trying to cook all alone.It was her day in charge ofdinner and she had failed tothink ahead. Now I couldhearherscreamingvilethingsoutthereinthekitchenhouse.Iwent out to investigate andletherknowwewerehungry.“I’ll hungry you,”she

yelled, ‘Can’t you see I’veonlygottwohands?”Icould.Shewasusingboth

of them to gouge at theburnedskilletwithawoodenspatula of Nelson’s making.Herhairhadcomedownfromits French knot and stuck allover her face, and her goodblouse was smeared withblack ash. She looked likeCinderellainreverse,steppedout from her life at the ballforadayofmiseryamongthe

ashes.“You’ve built the fire up

waytoohot,”Itoldher.“Go to hell, Leah just go

straight,directlytohell.”“I’m just trying to help.

Look, see how the metal’sglowing red hot on top?Whenitgetslikethatyoujusthave to wait and let it cooloff.Thenyoucantryagain.”Rachelblewoutherbreath

hard. “Oh, whatever would Idowithoutmy child-progeny

sistertotellmewhattodo.”“Prodigy,”Icorrected.“Shut up, damn it! I wish

you’djustshutupforeverlikeyour Goddamn deaf-mutegenius twin!” She whirledaroundandthrewthespatula,not missing my head by allthatwideamargin.Itbangedloudlyonthebackdoorofthemain house. I was shocked,not somuchbyher languagebut by the strength of thatpitch. Usually Rachel threw

underhanded and was nothreatatall.“Oh,P.S.,Leah,there’sno

more eggs,” she added withsatisfaction. “For yourinformation.”“Well, we have to eat

something. I guesswe’ll justeattheburntones.”“This! Oh I’m sure. I’d

rather die than have to servethis to Father.” She made ahorrible face at the pan andgaveitaviciousshake.“This

adventureinfinedininglookslike it’s been drug throughhellbackwards.”Rachel looked up at me

and clapped her left handover her mouth. I turnedaround.TherewasMother inthe doorway behind me,holdingupthespatula.“Rachel,” Mother said. “I

believeyoudroppedthis.”Westoodfrozenbeforethe

altar of a red-hot cookstove.Rachel took the spatula

withoutaword.

“Rachel, sugar, let me tellyou something. I understandyou’re miserable. But I’mafraidthisisyourpenanceforsixteen years of putting upyour nose at my cooking. Iwant to see you bring.thatmess in here and serve it uptoyourfatherandall therestofus,includingyourself.AndIwant to see you clean yourownplate,withoutoneword.

Tomorrow I’ll start teachingyouhowtocook.”Mother kept her promise.

She’d gotten up changedfrom her month in bed. Forone thing, she was nowinclined to saywhateverwason hermind right in front ofGod and everybody. EvenFather. She didn’t speak tohimdirectly;itwasmorelikeshe was talking straight toGod,or theair,or thelizardswho’dpausedhalfwayupthe

walls, and if Father shouldoverhear her, that was hisnickel. She declared shewastakingusoutofhereas soonasshefoundthewaytodoit.She had even asked EebenAxelroot flat out if hewouldtake us. Not at the moment,was his reply, since he’dprobably get shot down overLeopoldvillewithaplaneloadofwhiteladies,andhedidn’twant to make that kind ofheadlines.Butonanotherday

he came back smilingsideways and confided toMamathateverymanhashisprice. From the looks ofMama,shemeanstopayit.I was shocked and

frightened to see her floutFather’s authority, buttruthfully, I could feelsomething similar movingaround inmyownheart. Forthe first time in my life Idoubted his judgment. He’dmade us stay here, when

everybodyfromNelsontotheKing of Belgiumwas sayingwhite missionaries ought togo home. For us to be herenow, each day, was Father’sdecisionandhisalone.Yethewasn’t providing for us, butonly lashing out at us moreandmore. Hewasn’t able toprotectMotherandRuthMayfromgettingsick.Ifit’sallupto him to decide our fate,shouldn’t protection be partofthebargain?

Iwantedtobelieveinhim.We had much more of theLord’s work to do here, thatwas plain. And ‘what bettertime todo it,Fatherhad toldme reasonably on the planecoming back fromLeopoldville, than in thefestive atmosphere ofIndependence, when allCongolese are free to learnfrom us andmake their ownchoices?Fatherbelieves theywill choose the Lord’s

infinite love, and us, ofcourse, as we are God’sspecialdelegationtoKilanga.He says “we’re being braveand righteous. Bravery andrighteousness—those are twothings that cannot gounrewardedinthesightoftheLord. Father never doubts it,andIcanseethatforhimit’strue. He’s lived all his daysby the laws of Christ,standing up tall and startingto preach in tent revivals

when he was hardly olderthan I am now, and for allthat time people flocked tohiswordandhiswisdom.Hewas brave in the war, I’msure, for he won a PurpleHeart. For Father, theKingdom of the Lord is anuncomplicated place, wheretall, handsome boys fight onthe side that always wins. IsupposeitresemblesKilldeer,Mississippi, where Fathergrew up, and played the

position of quarterback inhighschool.In thatkindofaplace it is even all right forpeople to knock into eachother hard every once in awhile, in a sportsmanlikeway,leavingafewbruisesintheserviceofthefinalscore.But where is the place for

girls in that Kingdom? Therules don’t quite apply to us,norprotectuseither.Whatdoa girl’s bravery andrighteousness count for,

unlesssheisalsopretty?Justtry being the smartest andmost Christian seventh-gradegirl in Bethlehem, Georgia.Your classmates will smirkand call you a square. Callyouworse,ifyou’reAdah.AllmylifeI’vetriedtoset

my shoes squarely into hisfootprints, believing if only Istayed close enough to himthosesameclean,simplelawswould rule my life as well.That the Lord would seemy

goodness and fill me withlight. Yet with each passingday I find myself fartheraway. There’s a great holywar going on in my father’smind, in which we’re meantto duck and run and obeyorders and fight for all theright things, but I can’talwaysmakeouttheordersoreven tellwhich side I amonexactly.I’mnotevenallowedtocarryagun.I’magirl.Hehasnoinkling.

If his decision to keep ushere in the Congo wasn’tright,thenwhatelsemighthebe wrong about? It hasopened up in my heart asickening world of doubtsand possibilities, wherebeforeIhadonlyfaith inmyfather and love for the Lord.Withoutthatrockofcertaintyunderfoot, the Congo is afearsome place to have tosinkorswim.

RachelIWASINTHEKITCHEN

HOUSE slaving over a hotstove when everybody camerunning by. All the raggedylittle children with themothersrightbehindthem,allhollering“TataBidibidi!TataBidibidi!” That means Mr.Bird,accordingtoLeah,whoran right out to join them. IfMr. Bird—whosoever thatmight be—was going to put

in an appearance, Leah surewasn’tgoingtomissit.Theyweresayinghe’dcomeuptheriverinsomekindofoldboatand was down thereunloading his family andwhatnot.Being the new Chef Boy-

ar-dee of the Price family, Ihad no time for fun andgames.TheonlywayI’deverfind out what was up inKilanga, nowadays, was if itpassed by the door of our

kitchenhouse.Well, turns out I didn’t

have to wait long, for theymade straight for ourdoorstep! What to ourwondering eyes shouldappearoutthereontheporchbutawhiteman,veryoldandskinny,wearingadenimshirtso old you could practicallysee through it and a littlewooden cross hanging on aleatherstringaroundhisneck,the way the Congolese wear

theirevil-eyefetishes.Hehada white beard and twinklyblueeyes, andall in allgavethe impressionofwhatSantaClauswouldlooklikeifhe’dconverted to Christian andgone without a good mealsince last Christmas.When Igot out to the porch he wasalready shaking hands withMother and introducing hiswife, a tall Congolesewoman, and their children,whowerevariableinageand

color butmostlywere hidingbehindthelongcolorfulskirtsof Mrs. Bird. Mother wasconfused, but she alwayshasthe good manners to behospitalizing even to perfectstrangers, so she asked theminandtoldmetorunsqueezesomeorangejuice.Sobacktothe kitchen for Rachel theslave!BythetimeIgotbackwith

a big dripping jar of orangejuice and flopped down in a

chair to rest, I’d alreadymissedeverything. I couldn’tsay what or who they were,but yet here was Motheryakking it up with them likeold home week. They sat inourliving-roomchairsaskingabout people in the villagelike they knew their wayaround. “Mama Mwanza,och,howisshe?MamaLoisstill doing coiffure andpressing palm oil? Bless herheart, shemust be a hundred

and ten, and she nevermarriedat all—that justgoesto show you. Now MamaTataba,whereisshe?Ah,butAnatole! We had better goseehimatonce.”Thatkindofthing. Reverend Santaseemedlikeakindlyoldman.The way he talked soundedpartYankee,partforeign,likeone of those friendly Irishpolicemen in theoldmovies:“Och,mindyou!”RuthMay,who’d been up

outofbedforafewdaysandseemed to be on the mend,was so enraptured with himshe sat with her headpractically leaningupagainsthisworn-outtrousers.Theoldman rested a hand on RuthMay’sheadandlistenedveryclosely to everythingMothersaid, nodding thoughtfully ina way that was quitecomplimentary.Hiswifewasapproximately a hundredyears younger than him and

attractive in her own way,andwasmostlyquiet.Butshecould speak Englishperfectly. They asked howthings -were going down atthe church. Father was outsomewhere looking fortrouble as usual, and wehardly knew how to answerthat question ourselves.Mother said, “Well, it’sdifficult. Nathan’s veryfrustrated. It’s all so clear tohim that the words of Jesus

willbringgracetotheirlives.But people here have suchdifferent priorities fromwhatwe’reusedto.”“They are very religious

people, you know,” the oldmansaid.“Forallthat.”“How do you mean?”

Motherasked.“Everythingtheydoiswith

one eye to the spirit. Whenthey plant their yams andmanioc, they’re praying.When they harvest, they’re

praying. Even when theyconceive their children, Ithinkthey’repraying.”Mother seemed very

interested. But Leah crossedherarmsandasked,“Doyoumean praying to their ownpagangods?”Reverend Santa smiled at

Leah. “What doyou imagineour God thinks of this littlecorner of His creation: theflowering trees in the forest,the birds, the drenching

downpours, the heat of thesun—do you knowwhat I’mtalkingabout?”“Oh, yes,” Leah said,

straight-Apupilasalways.“And do you thinkGod is

pleased-withthesethings?”“Oh, I think He glories in

them!”shehastenedtosay.”Ithink he must be prouder oftheCongothanjustaboutanyplaceHeevermade.”“Ithinkso,too,”hesaid.“I

think the Congolese have a

worldofGod’sgraceintheirlives, along with a dose ofhardshipthatcankillapersonentirely. I happen to thinkthey already knew how tomake a joyful noise unto theLordalongtimeago.”Leah leaned back in her

chair, probably wondering -what Father would say tothat. As if we didn’t know.He’d say the Irish and themarewellknowntobeCatholicpapistsandworshipersof the

false idols. The businessabout the flowers and littlebirdiesjustclinchesthedeal.“Haveyouheardthesongs

they sing here in Kilanga?”he asked. “They’re veryworshipful. It’s a grand wayto begin a church service,singingaCongolesehymntotherainfallontheseedyams.It’s quite easy tomove fromthere to the parable of themustard seed.Many parts ofthe Bible make good sense

here, if only you change afew words.” He laughed.“Andalotofwholechapters,sure, you just have to throwaway.”“Well, it’s everybitGod’s

word,isn’tit?”Leahsaid.“God’s word, brought to

you by a crew of romanticidealists in a harsh desertcultureeonsago,followedbya chain of translators twothousandyearslong.”Leahstaredathim.

“Darling, did you thinkGodwrote it all down in theEnglish of King Jameshimself?”“No,Iguessnot.”“Thinkofallthedutiesthat

were perfectly obvious toPaul or Matthew in that oldArabian desert that are purenonsense to us now.All thatfoot washing, for example.WasitreallyforGod’sglory,orjusttokeepthesandoutofthehouse?”

Leah sat narrow-eyed inher chair, for once stumpedforthecorrectanswer.“Oh, and the camel.Was it

a camel that could passthrough the eye of a needlemoreeasily thana richman?Or a coarse piece of yarn?The Hebrew words are thesame,butwhichonedidtheymean?Ifit’sacamel,therichman might as well not eventry. But if it’s the yarn, hemightwellsucceedwithalot

ofeffort,yousee?”HeleanedforwardtowardLeahwithhishands on his knees. “Och, Ishouldn’t be messing aboutwith your thinking this way,with your father out in thegarden. But I’ll tell you asecret. “When Iwant to takeGod at his word exactly, ItakeapeepoutthewindowatHis Creation. Because that,darling, He makes fresh foruseveryday,withoutalotofdubiousmiddlemanagers.”

Leahdidn’tcommitherselfone way or the other. “Theflowersandbirdsandall,youmean to say that’s yourGospel.”“Ah,you’rethinkingI’ma

crazy old pagan for sure.”Old Tata Bird laughedheartily, fingering the crossaround his neck (anotherwarning sign of Catholicpapism), andhedidn’t soundrepentant.“No,Iunderstand,”Mother

said thoughtfully. Sheappeared to understand himso well she’d like to adopthim and have hismixed-racefamilymoverightin.“You’llhavetoforgiveme.

I’ve been here so long, I’vecome to love thepeoplehereandtheirwaysofthinking.”Thatgoeswithoutsaying,I

thought. Given his maritalsituation.“Well, you must be

famished!” Mother said

suddenly, jumping up out ofherchair.“Stayfordinner,atleast.Nathanshouldbehomesoon.Doyouactuallyliveonthatlittleboat?”“Wedo,infact.It’sagood

homebasefordoingourwork—a little collecting, a littlenaturestudy,alittleministry,a little public health anddispensing of the quinine.OurolderchildrenstayinLeopoldville most of the

year for their schooling, but

they’ve come with us on alittle holiday to visit therelatives.” He glanced at hiswife,whosmiled.She explained quietly,

“Tata Fowells is especiallyinterestedinthebirds.Hehasclassified many kinds in thisregionthatwereneverknownbeforebytheEuropeans.”Tata Fa-wells?Where had

I heard that name before? Iwas racking my brain, whileMotherandtheMrs.beganan

oh-so-polite argument aboutwhether the family wouldstay for dinner. Motherapparently forgot we didn’thave one decent thing fit toeat, and little did that familyknowwhattheywereinforifthey stayed. Tata Fowells, Ikept turning that over.Meanwhile Adah pulled herchair up next to him andopened one of the oldmustybirdbooksshe’dfoundinthishouse, which she adores to

carryaround.“Och,” he cried happily,

“I’d forgotten these booksentirely. How wonderfulyou’re putting them to use.But you have to know, I’vemanybetteronesdownontheboat.”Adah looked like she

would just love to run downthere and read them allbackwards right this minute.She was pointing outdifferent pictures of long-tail

squawk jays and what not,and hewas so bubbling overwith information that heprobably failed to noticeAdahcan’ttalk.Oh! I suddenly thought to

myself:BrotherFowleslThatBrotherFowles!Theministerwho had this mission beforeus and got kicked out forconsorting with the nativestoomuch.Well, I shouldsayso! Now everything fell intoplace.But itwas too late for

me to say anything, havingmissed the introductions onaccount of being themaidservant.Ijustsatthere,-while Adah got bird lessonsandLeahcajoledtheshylittleFowles children to come inoff the porch and sit on thefloorwithher andRuthMayand read comic books withthem.Then suddenly the room

went dark, for Father was atthedoor.Weallfroze,except

for Brother Fowles, whojumped up and held out hishand to Father with the lefthand clasping his forearm,secret handshake of theCongolese.“Brother Price, at last,” he

said. “I’ve held you in myprayers,andnowI’vehadtheblessing of meeting yourlovely family. I am BrotherFowles, your predecessor inthismission.Mywife,Celine.Ourchildren.”

Father didn’t offer hishand. He was studying thatbig Catholic-looking crossaround the neck, andprobably thinking over allwe’d heard about BrotherFowles going off the deepend, plus every curse wordever uttered by the parrot.Finally he did shake hands,but in a coolway,Americanstyle. “Whatbringsyoubackhere?”“Ah,wewere passing this

way!Wedomostofourworkdownriver near theKwa, butmy wife’s parents are atGanda.We thought we mightlook inonyouandourotherfriends in Kilanga. Sure, weshould pay our respects toTataNdu.”You could see Father’s

skincrawlwhenheheardthename of his archenemy, thechief. Spoken in aYankaccent, to boot. But Fatherplayed the cool cat, not

admitting what a miserablefailure he had been so far atthe Christianizing trade.“We’re just fine and dandy,thankyou.Andwhatworkisit you do now?” Heemphasized the now, as if tosay,Weknowverywell yougot kicked out of preachingtheGospel.“I rejoice in the work of

the Lord,” said BrotherFowles. “I was just tellingyour wife, I do a little

ministering. I study andclassifythefauna.Iobserveagreatdeal,andprobablyoffervery little salvation in thelongrun.”“That is a pity,” Father

declared. “Salvation is theway, the truth, and the light.ForwhosoevershallcalluponthenameoftheLordshallbesaved. And how then shalltheybelieve inhimofwhomtheyhavenotheard?andhowshall they hear without a

preacher? ... As it is written,‘Howbeautifularethefeetofthemthatpreachthegospelofpeace, and bring glad tidingsofgoodthings!’“‘“Glad tidings of good

things,’ that ispreciousworkindeed,”saidBrotherFowles.“Romans, chapter ten, versefifteen.”Wow.ThisYankknewhis

Bible.Fathertookalittlestepbackwardsonthatone.“Certainly I do my best,”

Father said quickly, to coverhisshock.

“I taketoheart theblessedwords,’Believe on the LordJesus Christ, and thou shaltbesaved,andthyhouse.Andtheyspakeuntohimthewordof the Lord, and to all thatwereinhishouse.’“Brother Fowles nodded

carefully. “Paul and Silas totheir jailer, yes, after theangels so considerately set

themfreewithanearthquake.The Acts of the Apostles,chapter sixteen, is it? I’vealwaysbeenalittleperplexedby the next verse, ‘And hetook them the same hour ofthe night, and washed theirstripes.’““TheAmericanTranslation

mightclearthatupforyou.Itsays,‘washedtheirwounds.’“Father sounded like theknow-it-all kid in class youjustwanttostrangulate.

“It does, yes,” repliedBrotherFowles,slowly.“Andyet I wonder, who translatedthis?DuringmyyearshereintheCongoI’veheardsomanyerrors of translation, evenquitecomicalones.Soyou’llforgive me if I’m skeptical,Brother Price. Sometimes Iask myself: what if thosestripes are notwounds at all,butsomethingelse?Hewasaprisonguard;maybeheworea striped shirt, like a referee.

Did Paul and Silas do hislaundry for him, as an act ofhumility? Or perhaps themeaning is moremetaphorical: Did Paul andSilas reconcile the man’sdoubts?Didtheylistentohisdividedway of feeling aboutthis new religion they werespringing upon him all of asudden?”Thelittlegirlsittingonthe

floor with Ruth May saidsomething in their language.

Ruth May whispered,“Donald Duck and SnowWhite,theygotmarried.”Father stepped over the

children and pulled up achair, which he sat inbackwards as he loves to dowhenever he has a goodChristian argument. Hecrossed his arms over thechair back and smirked hisdisapproval at BrotherFowles. “Sir, I offer youmycondolences. Personally I’ve

never been troubled by anysuch difficulties withinterpretingGod’sword.”“Indeed, I see that,”

Brother Fowles said. “But Iassureyou it is no trouble tome. It can be quite a grandway to pass an afternoon,really.TakeforexampleyourRomans,chapterten.Let’sgoback to that. The AmericanTranslation, if you prefer. Alittle farther on we find thispromise: ‘If the first handful

of dough is consecrated, thewholemassis,andiftherootofatreeisconsecrated,soareits branches. If some of thebranches have been brokenoff,andyouwhowereonlyawild olive shoot have beengraftedin,andmadetosharethe richness of the olive’sroot,youmustnotlookdownupon the branches.Remember that you do notsupport the root; the rootsupportsyou.’“

Father kind of sat thereblinking, what with all therootsandshoots.But old Santa’s eyes just

twinkled; he was having aball.“BrotherPrice,”hesaid,“don’t you sometimes thinkabout this, as you share thefood of your Congolesebrethren and gladden yourheart with their songs? Doyougetthenotionwearethebranchthat’sgraftedonhere,sharing in the richness of

theseAfricanroots?”Fatherreplied,“Youmight

look to verse twenty-eightthere, sir. ‘From the point ofview of the good news theyare treated as enemies ofGod.’““Sure, and it continues:

‘butfromthepointofviewofGod’schoice,theyaredeartohim because of theirforefathers.”“Don’t be a fool, man!”

Father cried. “That verse

refers to the children ofIsrael.”“Maybe so. But the image

oftheolivetreeisaniceone,don’tyouthink?”Fatherjustsquintedathim,

like here was one tree he’dliketomakeintofirewood.Brother Fowles didn’t get

the least bit steamed up,however. He said, “I’m aplain fool for the natureimages in the Bible, BrotherPrice.Thatfondofit.Ifindit

all so handy here, amongthese people who have suchan intelligence and the greatfeeling for the living worldaround them.They’re veryhumble in their debts tonature. Do you know thehymnof therainfor theseedyams,BrotherPrice?”“Hymns to their pagan

gods and false idols? I’mafraid I haven’t got the timefor dabbling in that kind ofthing.”

“Well,you’rethatbusyI’msure.But it’s interesting, justthe same. In keeping withwhat youwere quoting therein your Romans, chaptertwelve.You remember thethirdverse,doyounot?”Father answered with his

teeth showing: “For I say,through the grace given untome, to every man that isamong you, not to think ofhimself more highly than heought...”

“... For as we have manymembersinonebody,andallmembers have not the sameoffice,sowe,beingmany,areonebodyinChrist...” “In Christ!” Father

shouted,asiftosay,“Bingo!”“And every one, members

one of another,” BrotherFowles went on to quote.“Having thengifts thatdifferaccording to thegrace that isgiven to us, whetherprophecy, or ministry, or he

that teacheth.He that giveth,lethimdoitwithsimplicity...He that shewethmercy,withcheerfulness. Let love bewithout dissimulation. Bekindly affectioned to oneanotherwithbrotherlylove.”“Chaptertwelve.Verseten.

Thank you, sir” Father wasplainly ready tocallahalt tothisbattleoftheBibleverses.I’d bet he’d like to of givenBrotherFowlesTheVerse tocopyoutforpunishment.But

then the old man would juststand there and rattle it offfrom memory with a fewextraimagesofnaturethrowninforfree.Father suddenly

remembered he needed tostomp off and do some veryimportant thing or another,and to make a long storyshort, they didn’t stay fordinner. They got the picturethat theyweren’twelcomeinour house or the whole

village probably, in Father’shumble opinion. And theywere the type that seemedlike they’d rather sit downand eat their own shoesbefore they’d put you out inany way. They told us theyplanned to spend theafternoon visiting a few oldfriends, but that they neededto be on up the river beforenightfall.We about had to tie

ourselvestothechairstokeep

from tagging after them.Wewere so curious about whatthey’dbesayingtoTataNduand them.Jeepers! All thistimewe’vebeenmoreorlessthinkingweweretheoneandonly white people who everset foot here. And all along,ourneighborshad thiswholefriendship with BrotherFowles they’d justkeptmumabout.You always think youknow more about their kindthan they know about yours,

whichjustgoestoshowyou.

They came back beforesundown and invited us tocome see their boat beforethey shoved off, so Motherandmy sisters and I troopeddown to the riverbank.Brother Fowles had somemorebookshewantedtogiveAdah. That’s not the half ofit, either. Mrs. Fowles keptbringingoutmorepresentstogive Mother: canned goods,

milk powder, coffee, sugar,quinine pills, fruit cocktail,and so many other things itseemed like they really wereMr. and Mrs. Santa Claus,after all. And yet their boatwas hardlymore than a littlefloating shack with a brightgreen tin roof. Inside, it hadall the comforts, though:books, chairs, a gas stove,you name it.Their kids ranaround and flopped on thechairs and played with stuff,

giving no indication theythought it peculiar to resideonabodyofwater.“Ohmystars,ohgoodness,

you’retookind,”Motherkeptsaying,asCelinebroughtoutone thing after another andput it into our hands. “Oh, Ican’tthankyouenough.”I was of a mind to slip

themanote,likeacaptivatedspygirlinthemovies:“Help!Getmeoutofhere!”Butthatloaded-down little boat of

theirs already looked like itwas fixing to sink if youlooked at it wrong. All thecanned goods they gave usprobably helped them stayafloat.Mother was also taking

stock of things. She asked,“Howdoyoumanagetostaysowellsupplied?”“We have so many

friends,” Celine said. “TheMethodist Mission gets usmilk powder and vitamins to

distribute in the villagesalong the river. The tins offood and quinine pills comefromtheABFMS.”“We’re terribly

interdenominational,” saidBrother Fowles, laughing.”!evenget a little stipend fromthe National GeographicSociety.”“The ABFMS?” Mother

queried.“AmericanBaptistForeign

Mission Service,” he said.

“They have a hospitalmissionuptheWambaRiver,haveyounotheardofit?Thatlittle outfit has done a worldof good in the ways ofguinea-worm cure, literacy,andhumankindness.They’veputoldKingLeopold’sghosttoshame,Iwouldsay.Ifsuchathingispossible.It’srunbythe wisest minister you’llever meet, a man namedWesley Green, and his wife,Jane.”

BrotherFowles added asan afterthought, “No offensetoyourhusband,ofcourse.”“But we’re Baptists,”

Mother said, sounding hurt.“AndtheMissionLeaguecutoff our stipend right beforeIndependence!”Mr. Fowles thought this

over before offering,tactfully, “For certain, Mrs.Price,thereareChristiansandthenthereareChristians.”“How far away is this

mission?Doyougetthereonyour boat?” Mother waseying the boat, the cannedgoods,andperhapsthewholeofourfuture.But bothBrother andMrs.

Fowles laughed at that,shaking their heads likeMotherhadaskediftheytaketheir boat to the moonfrequently to fetch greencheese.“We can’t take this old

bucket more than fifty miles

down the Kwilu,” heexplained. “You run into therapids. But the good roadfromLeopoldvillecrossestheWambaandreachesthisriveratKikwit.SometimesBrotherGreen comes up in his boat,hitches a ride on a truck andmeetsusatKikwit.Orwegoto the airfield at MasiManimba to meet ourpackages. By the grace ofGod, we always seem to getwhatever it iswe reallyneed

tohave.”“Werelyverymuchonour

friends,”Celineadded.“Ah, yes,” her husband

agreed. “And that means toget one good connectionmade,youhavetounderstandthe Kituba, the Lingala, theBembe, Kunyi,Vili, Ndingi,and the bleeding talkingdrums.”Celine laughed and said

yes,thatwastrue.Therestofus felt like fish out of water

as usual. If Ruth May hadbeenfeelinguptosnuffshe’dhave already climbed aboardandstartedjabberingwiththeFowles children in probablyall those languages plusFrench and Siamese. Whichmakes you wonder, are theyreallyspeakingrealwords,ordo little kids just start outnaturally understanding eachotherbefore theprimeof lifesets in? But Ruth May wasnot up to snuff, so she was

being quiet, hanging on toMother’shand.“They asked us to leave,”

Mothersaid.“Innouncertainterms.Really I think we should

have, but it was Nathan’sdecisiontostay.”“Sure there was quite a

rush for the gate, afterIndependence,”Brother Fowles agreed.

“People left for a millionreasons: common sense,

lunacy, faintness of heart.Andtherestofusstayed,fortheverysamereasons.Exceptforfaintnessofheart.Noonecan accuse us of that, canthey,Mrs.Price?”“Well...” Mother said

uncertainly.Iguessshehatedto admit that if it was up toherwe’dbehightailingitoutof here like rabbits. Me too,andIdon’tcarewhocallsmeyellow.Pleasehelp,Itriedtosay toMrs. Fowles justwith

myeyes.Get us out of here!Sendabiggerboat!FinallyMother just sighed

andsaid,“Wehatetoseeyougo.” I’m sure my sisters allagreed with that. Here we’dbeenfeelingliketheverylastpeople on earth of the kindthatusetheEnglishlanguageand can openers, and oncethat little boat went put-put-putuptheriverwe’dfeelthatwayagain.“YoucouldstayinKilanga

awhile,”Leahoffered,thoughshe didn’t tell them theycould stay with us. And shedidn’t say,You’d have someexplaining to do to Father,whothinksyou’reabunchofbacksliders. She didn’t haveto. Those words wereunspokenbyallpresent.“You’reverykind,”Celine

said. “We need to go to mymother’sfamily.Theirvillageis starting a soybean farm.We’ll be back this way after

the end of the rainy season,and we will be sure to visityouagain.”Which,ofcourse,couldbe

anytimefromnextJulytothetwelfthofnever,asfarasweknew. We just stood theregetting more and moreheartbroken as they gatheredthings up and counted theirkids.“Idon’tmeantoimposeon

you,”Mothersaid,“butRuthMay, my little one here—

she’s had a high fever formore than a month. Sheseems to be getting the bestof it now, but I’ve been soworried. Is there a doctoranywhere we could get toeasily?”Celine stepped over the

side of the boat and put ahand on Ruth May’s head,then stooped down andlooked in her eyes. “It couldbemalaria. Could be typhus.Notsleepingsickness,Idon’t

think. Let me get yousomethingthatmighthelp.”As she disappeared back

into theboat,BrotherFowlesconfided toMother in a lowvoice, “I wish we could domoreforyou.Butthemissionplanesaren’tflyingatallandtheroadsareanyone’sguess.Everything is at sixes andsevens.We’ll trytogetwordover to Brother Green aboutyourlittleone,but there’snosayingwhathecoulddo,just

now.” He looked at RuthMay,whoseemedtohavenoinkling they were discussingthe fateofher life.Heaskedcarefully,“Doyouthinkit’samatterofgreaturgency?”Mother bit her fingernail

and studied Ruth May.“Brother Fowles, I have noearthly notion. I am ahousewife from Georgia.”Just then Celine appearedwith a small glass bottle ofpink capsules. “Antibiotics,”

she said. “If it’s typhus orcholera or any number ofother things, thesemay help.If it’s malaria or sleepingsickness, I’m afraid theywon’t. In any case we willprayforyourRuth.”“Have you spoken with

Tata Ndu?” Brother Fowlesput in. “He is a man ofsurprisingresources.”“I’m afraid Nathan and

TataNdu have locked horns.I’mnotsurehewouldgiveus

thetimeofday.”“Youmightbesurprised,”hesaid.

They really were leaving,butMotherseemed justplaindesperate to keep theconversation going. Sheasked Brother Fowles whilehewoundupsomeropesandthings on the deck, “WereyoureallyonsuchgoodtermswithTataNdu?”He looked up, a little

surprised. “I respect him, ifthat’swhatyoumean.”“But as a Christian. Did

youreallygetanywherewith

him?” Brother Fowles stoodup and scratched his head,making his white hair standon end. The longer youwatched that man doingthings, the younger helooked.Finallyhesaid,“AsaChristian, I respect hisjudgments. He guides hisvillage fairly, all thingsconsidered. We never couldseeeyetoeyeonthebusinessofhavingfourwives...”“He has more than that

now”Leahtattled.“Aha. So you see, I was

not a great influence in thatdepartment,” he said. “Buteach of those wives hasprofitedfromtheteachingsofJesus, I can tell you. TataNdu and I spent manyafternoonswithacalabashofpalm wine between us,debatingthemeritsoftreatingawifekindly.InmysixyearshereIsawthepracticeofwifebeating fall into great

disfavor.SecretlittlealtarstoTata Jesus appeared in mosteverykitchen,asaresult.”Leah tossed him the tie

ropeandhelpedhimpushtheboat out of the shallow mudinto deeper water. She justslogged right in up to herknees, blue jeans and all,without the slightest regard.Adah was clutching her newbooks about the ornithopteryof butterflies to her bosom,while Ruth May waved and

called out weakly, “Wendambote!Wendambote!”“Doyoufeelwhatyoudid

was enough?” Mother askedBrotherFowles,asifithadn’tsunkinthatwe’dalreadysaidgood-bye here and thisconversation was over-and-out.Brother Fowles stood on

thedeckfacingback,lookingMother over like he justdidn’tknowwhattodoabouther. He shrugged finally.

“We’re branches grafted onthis good tree, Mrs. Price.The great root of Africasustains us. I wish youwisdomandGod’smercy.”“Thank you kindly,” she

said.Theywereprettyfarouton

thewaterwhenheperkedupsuddenly and shouted,”Oh,the parrot!Methuselah!Howishe?”We looked at each other,

reluctant to end the visit on

what you might call a sournote. It was Ruth May whoholleredoutinherpunylittlevoice,”Bird heaven! He’swent to bird heaven, Mr.Fowles!”“Ha! Best place for him,

the little bastard!” criedBrother Fowles, whichshocked the pants off usnaturally.Meanwhile, every child in

the village had gatheredaround and was jumping in

the mud of the riverbank.They’d all gotten presentstoo, I could see: packets ofmilk powder and such. Butthey were yelling so happilyit seemed like they lovedBrother Fowles for morereasons than just powderedmilk.Likekidswhoonlyeverget socks for Christmas, butstill believe with all theirheartsinSanta.Mother alone didn’twave.

She stood ankle-deep in the

mud, like it was her job tobear witness as their boatshrank down to a speck onthe shimmering water, andshedidn’tmovefromherposttill they were long out ofsight.

AdahToMARKETtomarket to

buy a fat pig! Pigfat a buy!To market to market! Butwherever youmight look, no

pigsnow.Hardly evenadogworth the trouble and stovewood.Goatsandsheep,none.Half-hour after daybreak thebuzzards rise from theleafless billboard tree andflap away like the sound ofold black satin dresses beattogether.Meatmarket closedfor the duration of thisdrought, no rain and still norain.Inthewayofherbivores,nothingleftheretokill.July had brought us only

the strange apparition of thefamily Fowles, and in itsaftermath, the conviction inall our separate minds thattheir visit could only havebeen a dream. All mindsexcept Father’s, that is, whofrequently takes the name ofBrother Fowles in vain,feeling certain now that allthe stones in his path werelaidbythisdeludedpurveyorofChristianmalpractice.AndAugustbroughtusno

pleasant dreams at all. RuthMay’s condition pitchedsuddenly into decline, asinexplicably as it had earlierimproved. Against all hopeandMrs.Fowles’santibioticsfaithfullydelivered, the feverrose and rose.RuthMay fellback into bed with her hairplasteredtoherheadinadarksweat. Mother prayed to thesmall glass god with pinkcapsulesinitsbelly.The secondhalfofAugust

alsobroughtusaspecialfive-dayKilangaweek,beginningand ending on market day,which did not contain aSunday but left Sundaysstanding on either side of itlike parentheses. Thatparticular combination standsasonechanceinseven,bytheway. It should occur onaverageseventimesperyear,separated by intervals justslightly longer than thatendured by Noah on his

putativeark.

Was this blue-moon eventspecialtoourneighbors?Didthey notice? I have no idea.Suchwasourfellowshipwithour fellow man in Kilanga.But in our household itpassed as a bizarre somberholiday, for on each of thosefive days the village chief ofKilanga, Tata Ndu, came toourhouse.UdnAtat.Hesenthis sons ahead of him

shouting and wavingceremonially preservedanimal parts to announce hiseminence.On each occasion he

brought a gift: first, freshantelope meat wrapped in abloody fold of cloth (howhungrily we swooned at thesight of that blood!). Daytwo: a neat spherical basketwith a tight-fitting lid, filledwithmangwansibeans.Third,alivegrousewithitslegstied

together; fourth, the soft,tanned pelt of an ant bear.And on the last day, a smallcarvingofapregnantwomanmade of pink ivory. OurFather eyed that little pinkwoman and became inspiredto strike up a conversationwithTataNduon thesubjectof false idols. But up untildayfive—andeverafterward,on the whole—Our Fatherwas delighted with this newattention from the chief. The

Reverend cockadoodledaboutthehouse,didhe.“OurChristian charity has comeback to us sevenfold,” hedeclared, taking liberty withmathematics, gleefullyslapping the thighs of hiskhaki pants. “Hot dog!Orleanna, didn’t I tell youNduwouldbeonour side intheend?”“Oh, is it the end now,

Nathan?” Mother asked. Shewas silent on the subject of

Tata Ndu as a houseguest.Weate themeatallrightandwere glad to have it, but thetrinketsshesequesteredinherbedroom, out of sight. Wewere curious to inspect andhandle these intriguingobjects, especially the littlepink madonna, but Motherfelt we should not showexcessive interest. In spite ofBrother Fowles’s vouchingfor his character, Mothersuspectedthesegiftsfromthe

chiefwerenotwithoutstringsattached. And she was right,it turned out. Though it tookus a month of Sundays tocatchon.At first we were simply

flatteredandastonished:UdnAtat walking right throughthe front door of our veryhouse, standing a momentbefore the shrine ofRachel’shandmirror-mirroronthewall, then settling himself

into our single good chair

with arms. Enthroned thereunderhishat,heobservedourhousehold through his un-glasses and swished theanimal-tail fly swatter thatdenoted his station in life.Whenever he took off hisstrange peaked hat, herevealed himself as a large,powerfulman.Hisdarkhalf-dome forehead aind gravelyreceding hairline emphasizedabroadface,broadchestandshoulders, and enormously

musculararms.Hepulledhiscolorful drape up under hisarmpits and crossed his armsoverthefrontofhischestasamanonlydoeswhenproudofhisphysique.OurMotherwasnot impressed. But shemustered manners enough tomake orange juice, of whichthechiefwasfond.OurFather,whonowmade

a point of being home toreceiveTataNdu,wouldpulluponeoftheotherchairs,sit

backward with his armsdrapedovertheback,andtalkScripture. Tata Ndu wouldattempt to sway theconversation back around tovillage talk, or to the vaguegossip we had all beenhearing about the riots inMatadi and Stanleyville. ButmainlyheregaledOurFatherwith flattering observations,such as: “Tata Price, youhavetrapdejoliesfilles—toomany pretty daughters,” or

less pleasant but moretruthful remarks such as:“You have much need offood, n’est-ce pas?” For hisesoteric amusement hecommanded the jolies filles(andweobliged)tolineupinfront of him in order ofheight. The tallest beingRachel,atfivefeetsixinchesand the full benefit of MissAmericaposture; the shortestbeing myself, two incheslesser than my twin on

account of crookedness.(Ruth May, being deliriousand prone, was exempt fromthelineup.)TataNducluckedhis tongue and said wewereall very thin. This causedRachel to quiver with prideand stroll about the houseprecededbyherpelvis in themanner of a high-fashionmodel.. She tended to showoff excessively during thesevisits,rushingtohelpMotherout in ways she would not

have dreamed of without anaudience.“TataNdu,”Motherhinted,

“our youngest is burning upwith fever. You’re a man ofsuch importance I hope bycoming here you aren’texposing yourself to somedreadfulcontagion.”Thiswasthenearestshecouldcometoaskingoutrightforhelp.

Tata Ndu’s attention thenlapsed for a number of days,

duringwhichtimewewenttochurch, swallowed ourweekly malaria pill, killedanother hen from ourdwindling flock, and stoleturns sneaking into ourparents’ bedroom toexaminine the small carvedwoman’sgenitalia.Then,aftertwo Sundays had passed, hereturned. This time his giftsweremore personal: a pagneof beautifully dyed cloth, acarved wooden bracelet, and

a small jar of a smellywaxysubstance,whosepurposewedeclined to speculate on ordiscuss with Tata Ndu.Mother accepted these giftswith both hands, as is thecustom here, and put themawaywithoutaword.Nelson, as usual, was the

one who finally took pityupon our benighted stupidityand told us what was up:kukwela. TataNduwanted awife.

“A wife” Mother said,staring at Nelson in thekitchenhouseexactlyasIhadseen her stare at the cobrathatonceturnedupinthere.Iwondered whether shemightactually grab a stick andwhack Nelson behind thehead, as she’d done to thesnake.“Yes, Mama Price,” he

saidtiredly,withoutatraceofapology.Nelsonwas used toour overreactions to what he

felt were ordinary things,suchascobrasinthekitchen.But his voice had aparticularly authoritative ringwhenhesaidit,forhehadhishead stuck in the oven.Mother knelt beside him,helping to steady the heavyashcanwhileNelsoncleanedthe ashes out of thecookstove. They both hadtheir backs to the door, anddidnotknowIwasthere.“One of the girls, you

mean,” Mother said. Shepulled on the nape ofNelson’s T-shirt, extractinghim from the stove so shemight speak to him face toface. “You’re saying TataNdu wants to marry one ofmydaughters.”“But, Nelson, he already

hassixorsevenwives!GoodLord.”“Yes.TataNduisveryrich. He heard about TataPrice having no money nowfor food. He can see your

childrenarethinandsick.ButheknowsitisnotthewayofTata Price to take help fromthe Congolese. So he canbargainman toman. He canhelp your family by payingTata Price some ivory andfiveorsixgoatsandmaybealittlebitofcashtotakethe

Mvulaoutofhis house.TataNdu is a good chief, MamaPrice.”“HewantsRachel!”“TheTermiteistheonehe

wants to buy, Mama Price.All those goats, and youwon’t have to feed heranymore.”“Oh,Nelson.Canyoueven

imagine?”Nelson squatted on his

heels, his ashy eyelidsblinking earnestly as heinspectedMother’sface.Surprisingly, she started to

laugh. Then, moresurprisingly,Nelsonbegan tolaugh,too.Hethrewopenhis

near-toothless mouth andhowled alongside Mother,bothofthemwiththeirhandson their thighs. I expect theywere picturing Rachelwrappedina.pagnetryingtopoundmanioc.Mother wiped her eyes.

“Why on earth do yousuppose he’d pick Rachel?”From her voice I could tellshe was not smiling, evenafterallthatlaughter.“He says the Mvula’s,

strangecolorwouldcheeruphisotherwives.”“What?”“Her color.” He rubbed at

his own black forearm andthenhelduptwoashyfingers,as if demonstrating how theink in Rachel’s sad case hadall come off. “She doesn’thave any proper skin, youknow,”Nelsonsaid,asifthisweresomethinganyonecouldsay of a woman’s daughterwithout offending her. Then

heleanedforwardandduckedhis head and shoulders farback into the stove for therest of the ashes. He did notspeakagainuntilheemergedfromthedepths.“Peoplesaymaybeshewas

borntoosoon,beforeshegotfinished cooking. Is thattrue?”HelookedatMother’sbellyinquiringly.She just stared at him.

“What do you mean, hercolor would cheer up his

otherwives?”He looked at Mother in

patient wonder, waiting formoreofaquestion.“Well, I just don’t

understand. You make itsoundlikeshe’sanaccessoryhe needs to go with hisoutfit.”

Nelson paused for a longtimetowipetheashfromhisface and puzzle over themetaphor of accessories and

outfits. I stepped into thekitchenhousetogetabanana,knowing there would likelybenothingmore to overhear.My mother and Nelson hadreached the limits of mutualunderstanding.

LeahHERE WAS OUR

PROBLEM:TataNduwouldbe very offended if Fatherturned down his generous

offertomarryRachel.Anditwasn’t just Tata Nduinvolved.Whateverwemightthinkofthisimposingmaninhis pointed hat, he is afigureheadwhorepresentsthewillofKilanga.Ibelievethisis why Brother Fowles saidwe should respect him, or atleast pay attention, nomatterhow out-of-whack the chiefmight seem. He’s not justspeaking for himself. Everyfew weeks Tata Ndu has

meetingswithhissous-chiefs,whohavetheirownmeetingswith all the families. So bythe time Tata Ndu getsaround to saying something,you can be pretty sure thewhole village is talking toyou. Anatole has beenexplaining to me the nativesystem of government. Hesaysthebusinessofthrowingpebbles into bowls with themost pebbles winning anelection—thatwasBelgium’s

ideaoffairplay,buttopeoplehere it was peculiar.To theCongolese(includingAnatolehimself, he confessed) itseems odd that if one mangets fifty votes and the othergets forty-nine, the first onewins altogether and thesecondoneplumbloses.Thatmeansalmosthalf thepeoplewill be unhappy, andaccording to Anatole, in avillage that’s left halfwayunhappy you haven’t heard

theendofit.Thereissuretobe trouble somewhere downtheline.Theway it seems to work

here is that you need onehundred percent. It takes agoodwhile to get there.Theytalkandmakedealsandargueuntil theyareprettymuchallin agreement on what oughttobedone,andthenTataNdumakes sure it happens thatway. If he does a good job,one of his sonswill be chief

afterhedies.If he does a bad job, the

women will chase Tata Nduout of town with big sticksand Kilanga will try out anewchief.SoTataNduisthevoiceof thepeople.Andthatvoice was now telling uswe’d be less of a burden toourselvesandothersifwelethimbuyRacheloffourhandsforsomegoats.Itkindofputusonthespot.Rachelwent into a frenzy,

and for once in my life Icouldn’t blame her. I wasvery glad he hadn’t pickedme.Mothercrossedherheartto Rachel that we weren’tgoing to sell her, butreassurances of this kind arenotthewordsyou’repreparedto hear coming out of yourmother’s mouth.The verythought of being married toTata Ndu seemed tocontaminate Rachel’s frameof mind, so that every ten

minutes or so she’d stopwhatever she was doing andscream with disgust. Shedemanded to Father’s facethat we go home this instantbefore she had to bear onemore day of humiliation.Father disciplined her withThe Verse that ends onhonoring thy father andmother, and no sooner hadshe finished it than Fathersmoteherwithitagain!We’drunoutofblankpapersoshe

had to write out the hundredverses inavery tinyhandonthe backs of old letters andenvelopes left fromwhenwewere still gettingmail. Adahand I took pity and secretlyhelped her some. We didn’teven charge her ten cents averse, as we used to backhome. For if we did, howwouldshepay?We couldn’t refuse visits

fromthechief,nomatterhowwe felt. ButRachel began to

behave very oddly wheneverhe came to the house.Frankly, she was odd whenhe didn’t, too. She wore toomany clothes at once,covering herself entirely andeven wearing her raincoatindoors, as hot and dry as itwas. She also did strangethings with her hair. WithRachel, that is a deep-seatedsign of trouble. There wasnervous tension in ourhousehold,believeyoume.

Ever since Independencewe’dheardstoriesofviolencebetween blacks and whites.Yetifwelookedoutourownwindow, here’s what we’dsee:MamaNguzaandMamaMwanza chatting in the roadand two little boys steppingsideways trying to pee oneach other. Everybody stillpoor as church mice, yetmore or less content. TheIndependenceseemedtohave

passed over our village, justastheplaguedidonthatlong

ago night in Egypt, sparingthose who had the rightsymbol marked over theirdoorsills. Still, we didn’tknow what the symbol was,or how we were spared.Webarely knewwhat was goingoninthefirstplace,andnow,if things had changed, wedidn’t know what to believeor how to act. There was an

unspoken feeling of danger,which we couldn’t discussbut felt we should beattending to at all times.MotherhadlittletoleranceforRachel’s tantrums. She toldRachel to straighten upbecauserightnowshehadherhands full with Ruth Maysick.RuthMaywasnowgetting

rashes all over her back andwashot to the touch.Mothergave her cool sponge baths

every hour or so. She spentmost nights curled up at thefoot of my parents’ irondouble bed. Mother decidedwe shouldmoveRuthMay’scotoutintothemainroomsoshe could be with us in thedaytime, where we couldkeepaclosereye.RachelandIhelpedmoveit,whileAdahrolled up the bedding. Ourcotsweremadeof ironpipeswelded together, about asheavy as you’d think a bed

couldbe.Firstwehadtopulldownallthemosquitonettingfrom the frame. Thenwith agrand heave-ho we shovedthe bed away from the wall.What we saw on the wallbehind it made us stare.“What are those?” Rachelasked. “Buttons?” I guessed,fortheywereperfectlyroundandwhite.Iwas thinking of our hope-

chest projects.Whatever thiswas,ithad

been Ruth May’s projectforaverylongtime.“Hermalariapills,”Mother

said,andshewasright.Theremusthavebeenahundredofthem, all partly melted andstuck in long crooked rowsbehind where the bed hadbeen.Mother stood looking at

them for a good long while.Thensheleft,andcamebackwith a table knife. Carefullyshe pried the pills off the

plasterwall,onebyone, intohercuppedhand.Thereweresixty-one.Adahkeptcount,

andwrotethatnumberdown.Exactly how many weekswe’dbeenintheCongo.

RachelMAN ALIVE, I am all

steamed up with no place togo.WhenTataNducomestoour house, jeez oh man. Ican’t even stand to look at

him looking at me. I revertmy eyes. Sometimes I dounladylike things like scratchmyself and pretend I’mretarded. But I suppose he’dbe just as happy to add aretarded wife to hiscollection; maybe he doesn’thave one yet. Jeepers.Theveryfactmyparentseven lethim in the door! I refuse togive Father the pleasure of areply whea he talks to me.Mothereither,ifIcanhelpit.

Ruth May is all she caresabout: poor Ruth May thisand Ruth May that! Well,jeez, maybe she is sick, butit’s no easy street for meeither, being here and takingthis guff. My family isthinkingofeverythingbutmypersonal safety.The instantweget back toGeorgia I amfilingforanadoption.And if that wasn’t already

thelivingend,nowmyknightin shining armor has arrived:

Mr. Stinkpot Axelroot. Hejust showed up in the yardoneday,rightwhenTataNduwas coming up the steps inhisstupidhatandhisno-glassglasses, and the two of themhad a word of exchange.After that Tata Ndu onlystayedabout tenminutesandthen left. I was just gettinggoing on my retarded-daughter presentation. Toobad!Well, it turns out Father

andMr.Axelroot hatchedupa plan to get me out ofmarrying Tata Ndu withouthurting the whole village’sfeelings.They’resettingitupto look like I was alreadypromised in marriage toEeben Axelroot! I aboutcroaked. Mother says don’tlet it getmedown, it is onlyfor appearance’s sake. Butthat means now he comesaroundthehouseallthetime,Coo,andI

have to act engaged!And,naturally,wehave toact likeit out on the front porch soeverybody can see. Sit outthereandwatchthegrassdryup, is my social life at thispoint in time.Don’t let itgetme down? Man, oh man! Ialwayswantedtobethebelleoftheball,but,jeepers,isthiseverthewrongball.Theveryfirsttimewewere

alone for ten seconds on theporch, believe it or not,

Axelroottriedtogetfresh.Heputhisarmonthebackofmychair.IslappedhimhardlikeElizabeth Taylor in the HotTin Roof and I guess thatshowed him a thing or two.But then he laughed, if youcanbelieve.Well!Iremindedhim this entire engagementwas a lot of bunk and don’tyouforgetit.“Mr.Axelroot,”I said, “I will commiserateyour presence on this porchwithmebut only as a public

service to keep the peace inthisvillage.Andfurthermore,it would help if you took abathonceeveryyearortwo.”I’m willing to be aphilanderist for peace, but aladycanonlygosofarwhereperspiration odor isconcerned. I kept thinkingofBrigitte Bardot and all thosesoldiers.So he behaves pretty well

now.IjustcallhimAxelroot.He calls me Princess, which

really is maybe too muchpolish for the jalopy, but hemeans it in the right way, Ithink. He can be halfwaydecentifhetries.Heactuallydid start taking baths andleaving his horrible hat athome, praise the Lord.Motherhateshimasmuchasever,andIguessIdotoo,butwhat am I supposed to do? Italktohim.Aslongasyou’resittingouttherepretendingtobeengagedtosomebody,you

might as well pass the time.And his company does keepthechildrenaway.Theydon’tcareforAxelroot.Hesmacksthem. Well, all right, heshouldn’t,Iknowthat!Butatleast I don’t have to besurrounded with little bratsjumping up and pulling onmy hair all the livelong day.Normally they clamberaround me until I feel likeGulliver among theLepidopterans.

My unspoken plan is that,ifIcanbutterhimupenough,maybe he’ll change hismindandflyusoutofhere.Motheralready secretly offered himher wedding ring plus athousand dollars, whichsupposedlywe’ddigupafterwe got back to Georgiawithout Father or any visiblemeans of self-support.Axelroot said, “Cash only,ladies,” he doesn’t takecredit. But maybe he’ll take

pity!

So I pass the time bytelling him stories fromhome:thekidsIknewbackatBethlehem High and thingswe used to do. It makes mehomesick. But, oh boy, ifthose fast cheerleaders whoteased me for being apreacher’s kid could see menow, practically engaged toan older man! He has beenaround the block, let me tell

you, being born in SouthAfricaandspendinghisyouthhereandthere,partlyeveninTexas, from what I gather.His accent sounds normal.And he makes up thesecockalamie stories to standmyhaironendaboutbeingaflying fighter. How he hasshot very influential men incold blood and dropped firebombs from the air that canburnupawholefieldofcropsin ten seconds flat. He’s not

just an errand boy flyingmissionaries around, no, sir!That’s only his cover, or sohe informed me. He claimshe’sactuallyaveryimportantfigure in the Congo at thismoment of history.Sometimes he rattles off allthese names of people I cannever keep straight: CIADeputyChief,CongoStationChief.Hehascodenamesforeverybody. Big Shot is theDeputyChief,andtheStation

ChiefhecallsDevilOne.Oh,it’s all a game I’m sure. Aman of his age might seemtoo old to be playing Zorro,butthenconsiderthesource.I asked him, “If you’re

such an important figure inthe Congo, how come allwe’veseenyoudoispaytoo-cheap prices for people’sstuff to sell in the city andcome back with ourpowdered milk and comicbooksfromLeopoldville?”

He says he hasn’t been atliberty to discuss his realwork, but now he has U.S.protectionandhecan tellmea thing or two, so long as Ikeep it under my hat. Well,natch, even if it were true—who would I tell? Aninnocent teenager in themiddle of God’s green hellwithnotelephone,andnotonspeaking terms with herparents? Although Fatherhasn’tnoticedI’mnottalking

to him, as far as I can tell.Mother has, though.Sometimes she tries to getchummyand askme a lot ofpersonal questions. She’shopingtofindout,WhoistherealRachelPrice?But I won’t tell her. I

prefertoremainanomalous.

RuthMayATNIGHTthe lizards run

upthewallsandupsidedown

overthebedlookingdownatme.They stick up therewiththeir toes. Mice, too. Theycantalktome.TheysaidTataUndowantstomarryRachel.She did her hope chestalready, so shecan.ButTataUndo is a Congolese. Cantheymarryus?Idon’tknow.But I’d sure like to seeRachel in the white dress;she’ll be pretty. Then theysaid she was going to marryMr. Axelroot instead, but he

is mean. Sometimes I dreamit is Father she’s marryingand I get mixed up and sad.Because then: where isMama?The lizards make a sound

like a bird at night. In thedreams that I get to watch Ican catch the lizards andthey’re my pets. They stayright in my hand and don’trun off. When I wake up Idon’thavethemanymoreandI’msad.SoIdon’twakeupif

Idon’thaveto.I was in the dark in

Mama’s room but now I’mout here. It’s bright andeverybody talks and talks. Ican’tsaywhatIaimto.Imissmy lizardsatnight, iswhat Iwant to say. They won’tcomeout in the bright and ithurtsmyeyestoo.Mamaputsthecoldwet ragallover andthenmy eyes feel better, butshe doesn’t look right. She’sallbig,andeverybodyis.

Circus mission. That’swhat they said. Tata Undokeeps on coming over.He isorange sometimes, hisclothes. Black skin and anorange dress. It looks pretty.He told FatherRachelwouldhave to have the circusmissionwheretheycuthersoshe wouldn’t want to runaround with people’shusbands. I can’t hear himwhen he talks French butFather toldMama about it at

night.Thecircusmission.Hesaidtheydoittoallthe

girls here. Father said, Can’tyou see howmuch work wemust do? They are leadingthese female children likelambstotheslaughter.Mamasaid, Sincewhendid he startto care about protectingyoung ladies. She said herfirst job was to take care ofher own and if he was anykindof a father hewoulddothesame.

Father said he was doingwhathecouldandatleastMr.Axelrootwasabetterbargain.Mama had a conniption fitandrippedasheetintwo.Shedoesn’t like either one ofthem but they still have tocome because Tata Undo isthe chief of everything, andMr.Axelrootisabargain.Buteverybodykeepsonhavingaconniption fit. Rachelespecially.Mama found the pills I

stuckonthewall.Theycameout of my mouth. I couldn’thelp it. They tasted too badand they stick on the wallbetter after they go in yourmouth.Mamagotthemalloffwithaknifeandputtheminawhiteteacup.Isawwheresheput it, on the shelf with theBayeraspirinswe ranoutof.Rachel said, What are wegoing to do with those? andMama said, Take them ofcourse, Ruth May will have

toandalltherestofuswhenwe runout.But Idon’twantto,theymakemesick.Rachelsaidshewon’teither.Shegotdisgusted and said, Ye gads,like ABC gum, already beenchewed. Rachel getsdisgusteda right smart lotofthetime.Mothersaid,FineifyouwanttogetsicklikeRuthMaygoonahead,makeyourownbedandthenlieinit.Sothat’swhathappenedtome.Imade my own bed and now

I’msick.I thoughtIwasjusttoo hot but she told RachelI’m sick bad. Mama andFather talk about itsometimes and he says TheGood Lord and she says ADoctor. They don’t agreewith each other and I’m thereason.Iwent to thedoctorbefore

in Stanleyville two times,when I broke my arm andwhen it was fixed. My castgot dirty. He cut it off with

the biggest scissors thatdidn’thurt.Butnowwecan’tgo because they are havingbig fights andmakingall thewhite people go naked inStanleyville.They killedsome. When we went upthere the first time I sawthose little dirty diamonds ina sack in the back of theairplane.Mr.Axelroot didn’tliketocatchmespyingonhisstuff.WhilewewerewaitingforFathertocomebackfrom

the barbershop Mr. Axelrootputhishandsonmehard.Hesaid, You tell anybody yousaw diamonds in those bagsyour Mama and Daddy bothwillgetsickanddie.Ididn’tknow what the diamondsweretillhesaidthat.Ididn’ttell. So I got sick instead ofMama and Daddy both. Mr.Axelroot still lives down athisshackandwhenhecomesupherehelooksatmetoseeif I told. He can see right

insidelikeJesus.Hecomestoour house and says he heardwhatall’sgoingonwithTataUndowanting to getmarriedto Rachel. All the peoplearoundhereknowabout that.Fathersayswhitepeoplehaveto stick together now so wehave to be Mr. Axelroot’sfriend. But I don’t want to.Whenwewerewaitingintheairplane, he put his hands onmehard.I broke my arm because I

was spying and Mama toldmenotto.ThistimeIgotsickbecause Baby Jesus can seeever what I do and I wasn’tgood. I tore up some ofAdah’s pictures and I lied toMama four times and I triedtoseeNelsonnaked.AndhitLeah on the leg with a stickand saw Mr. Axelroot’sdiamonds.Thatisalotofbadthings. If I die I willdisappear and I know whereI’llcomeback.I’llberightup

there in the tree, same color,same everything. I will lookdownonyou.Butyouwon’tseeme.

RachelSEVENTEEN! I am now

one score and seven yearsold. Or so I thought, untilLeahinformedmethatmeanstwenty-seven. If God reallyaims to punish you, you’llknow it when He sends you

not one but two sisters whoare younger than you butalready have memorized theentire dictionary. I just thankheavensthatonlyoneofthemtalks.Not that I actually got a

speck of attention on mybirthday. Two birthdays nowIhavehadintheCongo,andIthoughtthefirstonewastheworst there could be. Lastyear on my birthday Motherat least did cry, and showed

me the Angel Dream cake-mixboxshebroughtoverallthe way from the BethlehemPiggly Wiggly to help easethe burden of spending mytenderteenyears inaforeignland. I felt put out because Ididn’t get any nice presents:no sweater set, nophonograph records—oh, Ithought that day was thelowestagirlcango.Boy oh boy. Never did I

dream I’d be spending

anotherbirthdayhere,anotherAugust 20 in the exact sameclothesandunderwearaslastyear, all grown shabby,exceptfortheBobbiegirdleIquitwearingrightoffthebat,thishorridstickyjunglebeingno place for Junior FigureControl. And now on top ofeverything, abirthdaypassedbywithhardlyanybodyevennoticing. “Oh, it’s Augusttwentieth today, isn’t it?” Iasked several timesout loud,

looking at my watch liketherewassomethingIneededto do. Adah, on account ofkeepingherbackwardsdiary,is the only one that keeps aclose track ofwhat day it is.Her and Father, of course,who has his little churchcalendar forallhis importantappointments,incaseheevergets any. Leah just ignoredme,sittingherselfrightdownat Father’s desk to work onher teacher ‘s pet arithmetic

program. Leah thinks she isallhighandmightyeversinceAnatole asked her to helpteach some lessons at theschool. Really, what a thingtogetalljazzedupabout.Itisonlymath,thedullestboreinthe entireworld, andheonlyletsher teach thevery littlestkidsanyway.Iwouldn’tdoiteven if Anatole paid me ingreenback American dollars.I’d probably get highwayhypnosis, watching the snot

run down all those littlesnotroads from theirnoses totheirlips.So I asked Adah rather

loudly, “Say, isn’t today’sdate the twentieth ofAugust?” She nodded that itwas,and I lookedaroundmein amazement, for there wasmy very own family, settingthe breakfast table andmakinglessonplansandwhatnotas if thisweresimplythenext day after yesterday and

not even anything as specialas Thursdays back home inBethlehem, which wasalways thedaywehad to setoutthetrash.Mother did finally

remember, as it happened.Afterbreakfastshegavemeapairofherownearringsandamatching bracelet I hadadmired. It’s only cut glass,but a very pretty shade ofgreen that happens to set offmy hair and eyes.And since

itwasabout theonly jewelryI’d seen in an entire year, itcouldhavebeendiamonds—Iwasthatdepraved.Anywayitwas nice to have some smalltoken.She’dwrappeditupina piece of cloth and writtenon a cardmade fromAdah’snotebook paper: For mybeautiful firstborn child, allgrownup.SometimesMotherreally does try. I gave her akiss and thanked her. Butthen she had to go back to

giving RuthMay her spongebaths, so that was the wholeshow.RuthMay’s fever shotup to a hundred and five,Adahgotstungonthefootbya scorpion spider and had tosoak it in cold water, and amongoose got in the chickenhouse and ate some eggs, allon the same day: mybirthday!Andallofthemjusttodetractattentionawayfromme. Except, I guess, themongoose.

AdahTATA JESUS is

BANGALA!” declares theReverendeverySundayattheendofhis sermon.More andmore, mistrusting hisinterpreters, he tries to speakin Kikongo. He throws backhis head and shouts thesewords to the sky, while hislambs sit scratchingthemselves in wonder.

Bangala means somethingprecious and dear. But theway he pronounces it, itmeans the poisonwood tree.Praise the Lord, hallelujah,my friends! for Jesus willmake you itch like nobody’sbusiness.AndwhileOurFatherwas

preaching the gospel ofpoisonwood, his owndaughterRuthMayrosefromthe dead. Our Father did notparticularly notice. Perhaps

heisunimpressedbecauseheassumedall along thiswouldhappen.HisconfidenceintheLord is exceptional.Dog ho!Evol’s dog! The Lord,however,mayormaynot beaware that our motherassisted this miracle byforcing Ruth May to eat thesamepillstwice.Sllip emas. There is no

stepping in the same rivertwice. So say the Greekphilosophers, and the

crocodiles make sure. RuthMay is not the same RuthMay she was. Yam Htur.None of us is the same:Lehcar, Hael, Hada.Annaelro. Only Nahtanremains essentially himself,the same man however youlookathim.Theothersofushavetwosides.Wegotobedourselves and like poor Dr.Jekyll we wake up changed.Our mother, the recentagoraphobe, who kept us

pumpkin-shelled indoorsthroughallthemonthsofrainand epidemic andIndependence, has nowturned on her protector: sheeyes our house suspiciously,accuses it of being“cobwebby” and “stranglinguswiththeheat.”Shespeaksof it as a thingwithwill andmotive. Every afternoon shehas us put on our coolestdresses and run away fromour malignant house. Down

the forest path we march,singlefile,tothestreamforapicnic.Whenwe run off andshe thinkswe cannot see hershe sways in the clearing,gently, like a tree blown bywind. Despite the risk ofhookworm, she removes hershoes.And now rejoice, oh, ye

faithful, for Ruth May hasrisen, but she has the nakedstareofazombieandhaslostinterest in being first or best

at anything. Nelson will notgo near her. This is histheory: the owlwe held as atemporarycaptivememorizedourfloorplansoitcouldfindits way back through awindow and consume hersoul.My other sisters, in

different ways, have becomestrickenwithstrangebehaviorregarding men. Rachel ishysterical and engaged. Theengagement is feigned, but

that does not keep her fromspending hours at a timeplaying“MirrorMirrorontheWall” inhernewgreenglassearrings, then throwingtantrums of protest againstherupcomingmarriage.AndLeah, the tonier twin.

Leah has come down with adevout interest in the Frenchand Kikongo languages—specifically, in learning themfrom Anatole. In themornings she teaches

arithmetic to his youngerpupils, and afterward spendsmany hours at his bright-white shirtsleeve conjugatingthe self-same reflexive verbs— I’homme se noie—whicha year ago she declaredpointless. Apparentlyreflexive verbs gain a newimportanceforcertaingirlsattheageoffifteen.Sheisalsobeing instructed in the art ofbow hunting. Anatole gaveher as a gift a small, highly

functional bow and a quiverof arrows with red tailfeathers—like the “Hope” inMiss Dickinson’s poem, andlikethequitehopelesslydeadMethuselah, our formerparrot.Anatole,withhisveryownknife,slippedthesegiftsfor Leah out of a branch ofgreenheartwood.Here is my palindrome

poem on the subject: Eros,eyesore.Nelson, however, is

cheered. He views Leah’sbowandarrowsasapositivedevelopment in ourhousehold after so manyotherdiscouragingones,suchas the death, for all practicalpurposes, of Ruth May.Nelson has taken it uponhimself to supervise Leah’smilitaryeducation.Hemakestargets of leaves, and pinsthemtothetrunkofthegreatmango at the edge of ouryard. The targets grow

smallereachday.Theybeganwithagiantelephant-earleaf,like a big triangular apronflapping in thebreeze,whichwas nearly impossible tomiss.OneatatimeLeahsentherwobbling arrows throughtheslashedgreenmargin.Butshe has worked her waysteadily down, until she nowaims at the round, shiny,thumb-sized leaflet of aguava.Nelsonshowsherhowto stand, close one eye, and

whack her arrow tremblingintotheheartofaleaf.Sheisafrighteninglygoodshot.Myhunt-goddess twin and

I are now more distant kinthan ever, I suppose, exceptin this one regard: she isbeginning to be looked uponin our village as bizarre. Atthe least, direly unfeminine.If anything, I am nowconsidered the more normalone. I am the benduka, thesinglewordthatdescribesme

precisely: someone who isbent sideways and walksslowly.But formy twinwhonow teaches school andmurders tree trunks I haveheard various words appliedby our neighbors, none withmuch fondness. The favoredword, bdkala, covers quite alotofground,includingahotpepper, a bumpy sort ofpotato, and the male sexualorgan.Leah does not care. She

claims that since Anatolegaveherthebow,andsinceitwas Anatole whorequisitioned her to teachschool, she must not bebreaking any social customs.She fails to see that Anatoleisbreaking rules forher, andthis will have consequences.Like an oblivious HesterPrynne she carries her letter,the green capital D of herbowslungoverher shoulder.D for Dramatic, or Diana of

theHunt,orDevilTakeYourSocialCustoms.Offwithherbow to market she goes andeven to church, although onSundays she must leave thearrows behind. Even ourmother,whoisnotonthebestof termswithJesusjustnow,still draws the line atmarching into His housetotingammunition.

Leah

ANATOLE’S FACE INPROFILE, with his down-slanted eye and highforehead, looks like aPharaoh or a god in anEgyptian painting. His eyesare the darkest brownimaginable. Even the whitesare not white, but a palecream color. Sometimes wesitatthetableunderthetreesoutside the schoolhouse afterthe boys are finished withtheir school day. I study my

French and try not to botherhim too much while heprepares the next day’slessons.Anatoleseyesrarelystrayfromhisbooks,andI’lladmit I find myself thinkingof excuses to interrupt hisconcentration. There are toomanythingsIwanttoknow.Iwant to know why he’slettingmeteachintheschoolnow, for instance. Is itbecause of Independence, orbecauseofme?Iwant toask

him if all the stories we’rehearing are true: Matadi,Thysville,Stanleyville.Acantrader passing throughKilangaonhiswaytoKikwitgave us terrifying reports ofthe slaughter in Stanleyville.He said Congolese boyswearing crowns of leavesaround their heads wereinvulnerable to Belgianbullets,whichpassedthroughthemand lodged in thewallsbehind them. He said he’d

seen this with his own eyes.Anatole was standing righttherebutseemedtoignorethetales. Instead, he carefullyexaminedandthenpurchaseda pair of spectacles from thecan trader. The spectacleshave good lenses thatmagnify things: when I trythem on, even French wordslook large and easy toread.TheymakeAnatolelookmore intelligent, thoughsomewhatlessEgyptian.

Most of all I want to askAnatole this one unaskablequestion:Doeshehatemeforbeingwhite?Instead I asked, “Why do

Nkondo and Gabriel hateme?”

Anatole gave me asurprised look over the hornrimsandgenuinelensesofhisnew glasses. “Nkondo andGabriel, more than theothers?” he said, slowly

bringing his focus onto thepresentconversation,andme.“Howcanyoutell?”I blew air out throughmy

lipslikeanexasperatedhorse.“Nkondo and Gabriel morethan the others because theyplay their chairs like drumsanddrownmeoutwhenItrytoexplainlongdivision.”“They are naughty boys,

then.”Anatole and I both knew

thiswasnotexactlythecase.

Drumming on chairs mighthave been of no specialconsequence in a Bethlehemschoolwherelittleboysactedup whenever they took amind. But these boys’families were scrapingtogether extra food or cashfortheirsonstogotoschool,and no one ever forgot it.Going to school was a bigdecision. Anatole’s studentswere as earnest as the grave.Only when I tried to teach

math, while Anatole wasworking with the olderstudents, did they raisepandemonium.“Okay, you’re right.They

all hate me,” I whined.”‘!guess I’m not a goodteacher.”“You are a fine teacher.

Thatisn’ttheproblem.”“Whatistheproblem?”“Understand, first, you are

a girl. These boys are notaccustomed to obeying their

own grandmothers. If longdivisionisreallysoimportantto a young man’s success intheworld,howcouldaprettygirl know about it? This iswhat they are thinking. Andunderstand, second, you arewhite.”What did he mean, pretty

girl! “White,” I repeated.“Then theydon’t thinkwhitepeople know about longdivision,either?”“Secretly, most of them

believe white people knowhowtoturnthesunonandoffand make the river flowbackward. But officially, no.What they hear from theirfathersthesedaysisthatnowIndependence is here andwhitepeopleshouldnotbeinCongotellinguswhattodo.”“They also think America

and Belgium should givethemalotofmoney,Ihappento know. Enough foreverybody tohave a radioor

a car or something. Nelsontoldmethat.”“Yes, that isnumberthree.

They think you represent agreedynation.”I closed the book on

French verbs for the day.“Anatole,thatdoesn’tmakeabitofsense.Theydon’twantus to be friends, and theydon’t respect us, and inLeopoldville they’reransacking white people’shouses. But they want

America to give themmoney.” “Which part does not

make sense to you?” “All ofit.”“Beene, think,” he said

patiently, as if Iwere one ofhisschoolboysstumpedonaneasy problem. “When one ofthe fishermen, let’s say TataBoanda,hasgoodluckontheriver and comes home withhis boat loaded with fish,whatdoeshedo?”

“Thatdoesn’thappenveryoften.”“No,butyouhaveseen it

happen.Whatdoeshedo?”“Hesings at the topofhis

lungs and everybody comesandhegivesitallaway.”“Eventohisenemies?”“Iguess.Yeah.IknowTata

Boanda doesn’t like TataZinsana very much, and hegives Tata Zinsana’s wivesthemost.”“All right. To me that

makes sense.When someonehas much more than he canuse, it’s very reasonable toexpect hewill not keep it allhimself.”“But Tata Boanda has to

give it away, because fishwon’t keep. If you don’t getridof it, it’s justgoing to rotand stink to high heaven.”Anatole smiled and pointedhisfingeratmynose.“Thatisjust how aCongolese personthinksaboutmoney.”

“Butifyoukeepongivingaway every bit of extra youhave, you’re never going toberich.”“Thatisprobablytrue.”“And everybody wants to

berich.”“Isthatso?”“Sure. Nelson wants to

save up for a wife.Youprobably do, too.” For somereasonIcouldn’t lookathimwhenIsaidthat.”TataNduisso richhehassixwives,and

everybodyenvieshim.”“TataNduhasaveryhard

job.Heneedsa lotofwives.Butdon’tbesosureeveryoneenvies him. I myself do notwant his job.” Anatolelaughed.“Orhiswives.”“Butdon’tyouwantlotsof

money?”“Beene,Ispentmanyyears

working for the Belgians inthe rubber plantation atCoquilhatville,andIsawrichmenthere.Theywerealways

unhappy and had very fewchildren.”“They probably would

have been even moreunhappyifthey’dbeenpoor,”Iargued.Helaughed.“Youmightbe

right. Nevertheless, I did notlearntoenvytherichman.”“But you need some

money,” I persisted. I dorealize Jesus lived the life ofpoverty,but thatwasanotherplace and time. A harsh

desert culture, as BrotherFowles had said. “You needenough to pay for food anddoctorsandall.”“All right then, some

money,” he agreed. “Oneautomobile and a radio forevery village.Your countrycould give us that much, e-e?”“Probably. I don’t think it

would really make a dent.Back in Georgia everybodyweknewhadanautomobile.”

“A bu, don’t tell stories.Thatisnotpossible.”“Well, not everybody. I

don’t mean babies andchildren. But every singlefamily.”“Notpossible.”“Yes, it is! Some families

evenhavetwo!”“What is thepurposeofso

many automobiles at thesametime?”“Well, because everybody

has someplace to go every

day. Towork or to the storeorsomething.”“And why is nobody

walking?”“It’snotlikehere,Anatole.

Everything’s farther apart.People live in big towns andcities. Bigger cities thanLeopoldville,even.”“Beene, you are lying to

me.Ifeveryonelivedinacitythey could never growenoughfood.”“Oh,theydothatoutinthe

country. In big, big fields.Peanuts and soybeans andcorn, all that.The farmersgrow it, then they put it onbig trucks and take it all tothe city,where people buy itfromthestore.”“Fromthemarket.”“No, it isn’t a bit like the

market.It’sagreatbighousekind of thing, with brightlights and all these shelvesinside. It’s open every day,and just one person sells all

thedifferentthings.”“One farmer has so many

things?” “No, not a farmer. A

storekeeper buys it all fromthefarmers,andsellsittothecitypeople.”“And so you don’t even

know whose fields this foodcame from? That soundsterrible. It could bepoisoned!”“It’s not bad, really. It

worksout.”

“Howcan therebeenoughfood, Beene? If everyonelivesinacity?”“There just is.Things are

differentfromhere.”..“Whatissodifferent?”“Everything,” I said,

intending to go on, but mytongue only licked the backsofmy teeth, tasting thewordeverything. I stared at theedge of the clearing behindus,wherethejungleclosedusout with its great green wall

of trees, bird calls, animalsbreathing,allaspermanentasa heartbeat we heard in oursleep. Surrounding us was athick, wet, living stand oftrees and tall grassesstretching all the way acrossCongo.Andwewerenothingbut little mice squirmingthrough it in our dark littlepathways.InCongo,itseemsthe land owns the people.How could I explain toAnatole about soybean fields

where men sat in hugetractorslikekingsonthrones,taming the soil from onehorizon to the other? Itseemed like a memory trickor a bluegreen dream:impossible.“At home,” I said, “we

don’thavethejungle.”“Then what is it you

have?”“Big fields, like a manioc

garden as wide and long asthe Kwilu. There used to be

trees, I guess, but people cutthemdown.”“And they did not grow

back?”“Our trees aren’t so

vivacious as yours are. It’staken Father and me thelongesttimejusttofigureouthow things grow here.Remember when we firstcameandclearedoutapatchfor our garden? Now youcan’t even see where it was.Everything grew like Topsy,

andthendied.Thedirtturnedintodead,redsloplikerottenmeat. Then vines grew allover it.We thoughtweweregoing to teach people herehow to have crops like wehavebackhome.”Helaughed.“Maniocfields

as long and “wide as theKwilu.”“Youdon’tbelieveme,but

it’s true!Youcan’t picture itbecause here, I guess, if youcut down enough jungle to

plant fields that big, the rainwould just turn it intoa riverofmud.”“And then the drought

wouldbakeit.”“Yes!And if you ever did

get any crops, the roadswould be washed out soyou’d never get your stuffintotownanyway.”He clucked his tongue.

“Youmust find theCongo averyuncooperativeplace.”“You just can’t imagine

howdifferent it is fromwhatwe’re used to. At home wehave cities and cars andthings because nature isorganized a whole differentway.”He listened with his head

cockedtotheside.“Andstillyour father came heredetermined to plant hisAmerican garden in theCongo.”“My father thinks the

Congo is just lagging behind

andhecanhelpbringituptosnuff. Which is crazy. It’slikehe’s trying toput rubbertiresonahorse.”Anatole raised his

eyebrows. I don’t supposehe’s ever seen a horse. Theycan’t live in the Congobecauseof tsetseflies.I triedto think of some other workanimal for my parable, buttheCongohasnone.Notevencows.The point Iwas tryingtomakewassotruetherewas

notevenagoodwaytosayit.“Onagoat,” Isaidfinally.

“Wheels on a goat. Or on achicken, or a wife. Myfather’s idea of what willmake things work betterdoesn’t fit anythinghere.”“Ayi, Beene. That poor

goatofyourfather’sisaveryunhappyanimal.”And his wife! I thought.

But I couldn’t help picturingagoatwithbig tires stuck in

the mud, and it made megiggle.Then I felt stupid. Icould never tell if AnatolerespectedmeorjustthoughtIwasanamusingchild.“I oughtn’t to laugh atmy

father,”Isaid.“No,”hesaid,touchinghis

lips and rolling his eyesupward. “I shouldn’t! It’s a sin.”

Sin, sin, I felt drenched andsick of it. “I used to pray toGod to make me just like

him.Smartandrighteousandadequate to His will,” Iconfessed.“NowIdon’tevenknowwhattowishfor.IwishI were more like everybodyelse.”He leaned forward and

looked into my eyes. Hisfinger moved from his lipstowardmy faceandhovered,waitingforaplacetoplantitsblessing.“Beene,ifyouweremorelikeeverybodyelse,youwould not be so beene-

beene.” “I wish you’d tell me

what that means, beene-beene.Don’tIhavearighttoknowmyownname?”His hand dropped to the

table. “I will tell yousomeday.”If I never learned my

French conjugations fromAnatole, at least I would tryto learn patience. “Can I askyousomethingelse?”Heconsideredthisrequest,

his left hand still holding hisplaceinhisbook.“Yes.”“Why do you translate the

sermons for my father? Iknow what you think of ourmissionhere.”“Doyou?”“Well, I think I do. You

came to dinner that time andexplained how Tata Ndudoesn’t like so many peoplefollowing Christian ways,instead of the old ways. Iguessyouprobablythinkthat,

too, that the old ways werebetter.Youdon’tcarefortheway the Belgians did theelections, and I don’t thinkyou’re even so sure aboutgirlsteachingschool.”“Beene, the Belgians did

not come to me and ask,Anatole Ngemba, how shallwe make the election? Theymerely said, ‘Kilanga, hereareyourvotes.Youmaycasttheminthiscalabashbowlorthat calabash bowl, or toss

them all in the river.’My jobwastoexplainthatchoice.”“Well, but still. I don’t

think you’re very keen onwhat my father aims toaccomplishhere.”“I don’t entirely know

what he aims to accomplishhere.Doyou?”

“Tell the stories of Jesus,and God’s love. Bring themalltotheLord.”“And if no one translated

his sermons, how would hetellthosestories?”“That’s a good question. I

guess he’d keep trying inFrench and Kikongo, but hegets those mixed up prettybad. People probably neverwould get it straightwhat hewasdoinghereexactly.”“Ithinkyouareright.They

might like your father more,if they couldn’t understandhim, or they might like himless. It’s hard to say. But if

they understand his words,they can make up their ownminds.”I looked long and hard at

Anatole. “You respect myfather,then.”“What I respect is what I

have seen. Nothing can staythe same, when somebodynew walks into your housebringing gifts. Let’s say hehas brought you a cookingpot. You already had acooking pot you liked well

enough, but maybe this newone isbigger.You’ll beverypleased,andgloataboutitbygiving the old one to yoursister.Ormaybe thenewpothas a hole in the bottom. Inthatcaseyouwill thankyourvisitor verymuch, and whenheisgoneyou’llputitintheyardforfeedingfishscalestothechickens.”“So you’re just being

polite. You don’t believe inJesusChristatall.”

He clicked his tongue.“What I believe in is not soimportant.Iamateacher.DoIbelieveinthemultiplicationtables? Do I believe in lalanguefrancaise,withitsextraletters hanging onto everyword like lazy children? Nomatter. People need to knowwhat they are choosing. I’vewatched many white mencome into our house, alwaysbringingthingsweneversawbefore. Maybe scissors or

medicine or a motor for aboat.Maybebooks.Maybeaplanfordiggingupdiamondsor growing rubber. Maybestories about Jesus. Some ofthesethingsseemveryhandy,andsometurnouttobenotsohandy. It is important todistinguish.”“Andifyoudidn’ttranslate

theBible stories, thenpeoplemightsignuptobeChristianforthewrongreasons.They’dfigure our God gave us

scissors and malaria pills soHe’sthewaytogo.”Hesmiledatmesideways.

“Thiswordbeene-beene,youwant toknowwhat itmeans,then?”“Yes!”“It means, as true as the

truthcanbe.”Ifeltatinglingblushinmy

cheeks, and theembarrassment made meblushmore.Itriedtothinkofsomething to say, but

couldn’t.MyeyesreturnedtoFrench sentences I found Icouldn’ttranslate.“Anatole,” I said finally,

“if you could have anythingintheworld,whatwouldyouwant?”Withouthesitationhe said,

“To see a map of the wholeworldatonce.”“Really?Youneverhave?”“Not all of it at once. I

can’tworkoutwhether it’satriangle,acircle,orasquare.”

“It’s round,” I said,astonished.Howcouldhenotknow? He’d gone toplantationschoolsandservedinthehousesofmenwhohadshelves full of books. Hespoke better English thanRachel. Yet he didn’t knowthe true shape of the world.“Notacircle,butlikethis,”Isaid, cupping my hands.“Round like a ball. Reallyyou’veneverseenaglobe?”“I heard about a globe. A

maponaball.Iwasn’tsureIunderstood it correctlybecauseIcouldn’tseehowitwouldfitonaball.Haveyouseenone?”“Anatole, I have one. In

America lots of people havethem.”Helaughed.“Forwhat?To

help them decide where todrivetheautomobile?”“I’mnotjoking.They’rein

schoolroomsandeverywhere.I’ve spent so much time

staring at globes I couldprobablymakeone.”He gave me a doubting

look.“I could. I mean it. You

bring me a nice cleancalabash and I’llmakeyouaglobeofyourown.”“I would like that very

much,” he said, speaking tomenowasagrown-upfriend,notachild.For thefirst timeever,Ifeltcertainofit.“You know what, I

shouldn’tbe teachingmath. Ishould teach geography. Icouldtellyourboysabouttheoceans and cities and all thewondersoftheworld!”He smiled sadly. “Beene,

theywouldnotbelieveyou.”

RachelTHE DAY AFTER. MY

BIRTHDAY, Axelroot cameoverandwewentforawalk.Imoreorlessknewtoexpect

him. His routine was to flyouttohismysterydestinationon Thursdays, come backMondays, and come to ourhouse on Tuesdays. So I’dput on my tulip-tailoredpoison-green suit, which hasnowofficiallyfadedtopoisondrab and lost two of itsbuttons. For the first half oflast year I prayed for a full-lengthmirror,andthesecondhalf I praised the Lord wedidn’t have one. Still, who

cares if my suit wasn’tperfect.Itwasn’tadate,justamake-believe date forappearances. I planned towalk with him around thevillage, and not a speckfarther. I swore to Mother Iwould not set foot into theforest with him or anywhereout of sight. She says shedoesn’ttrusthimasfarasshecould throwhim,andbelieveyoume from the look in hereye I think she could throw

himprettyfar.Butheispoliteand has cleaned up his style.Standing in the doorwaywaiting for me in hisregulation Sanforized wash-and-wear khakis and pilotsunglasses, why, he verynearly almost lookedhandsome. If you couldignore the telltale signs thatheisacertifiedcreep.Sowestrolledout into the

unbearable heat of Augusttwenty-first, Nineteen-

thousand-and-sixty. Bugsbuzzed so loud it hurt yourears, and tiny red birdsperched on the ends of longgrass stalks beside the road,allswayingthiswayandthat.Outside our village theelephantgrassgrowssotallitmeetsabovetheroadtomakea shady tunnel. Sometimesyou can start thinking theCongo is almost pretty.Almost.Andthen,don’tlooknow but a four-inch-long

cockroach or something willscurryacrossthepathinfrontof you. That is exactly whathappened next, and Axelrootkind of jumped on it andsmashedit.Icouldn’tbeartolook.The sound was badenough, honestly. A crossbetween crackle and squish.But I suppose it was acivilrousgestureonhispart.“Well,Idohavetosay,it’s

nice to be protected for achange,” I said. “Aroundmy

house if a giant cockroachturns up someone will eithertameitforapetorcookitfordinner.”“You have an unusual

family.”“Andhow!”Isaid.”That

is about thepolitestwayyoucouldputit.” “I’ve been meaning to

ask,”hesaid.”Whathappenedtoyour sister?”“Whichone?As far as I can tell they allthree got dropped on their

heads when they werebabies.”He laughed. “The one that

limps,” he said. “Adah.” . “Oh, her. Hemiplegia. Halfher brain got wrecked someway before she was born sothe other half had to takeover, and it makes her docertain things backwards.” Iamusedtohavingtogivethescientific explanation forAdah.“I see,” he said. “Are you

awarethatshespiesonme?”“She spies on everybody.

Don’t take it personally.Staring at somebody withoutmakingapeepisherideaofaconversation.”We strolled past Mama

Mwanza’s and a bunch ofother houses where mostlyold men were sitting onbucketswithoutasingletoothin their heads.We were alsograced by the presence oflittle children runningaround

totally naked except for astring of beads around theirbellies. I ask you, whybother? They all ran out totheroadtoseehowclosetheycould get to us before theyhad to screamand run away.Thatisthefavoritegame.Thewomenwere all down at themanioc fields because it wasstilltheendofthemorning.Axelroottookoutapackof

Lucky Strikes from his shirtpocketandshookitsideways

toward me. I laughed andstartedtoremindhimthatI’mnot old enough, but thenrealized, my gosh, I wasseventeen years old. I couldsmoke if I wanted to—whyevernot?EvensomeBaptistssmoke on appropriateoccasions.Itookone.“Thanks. You know I

turned seventeen yesterday,”I told him, resting thecigarette lightly on my lipsandpausingintheshadeofa

palm treesohecould light itforme.“Congratulations,” he said,

muffled through the cigaretteheputinhisownmouth.“I’dhavetakenyouforolder.”That made me tingle, but

not half as much as whathappenednext.Rightthereinthemiddleoftheroadhetookthecigaretteoutofmymouthandputitinhis,thenstruckamatch on his thumbnail andlit the two of them together,

exactly like HumphreyBogart.Then,ever sogently,heputthelitcigarettebackinmylips.Itseemedalmostlikewe had kissed. Chills randownmyback,butIcouldn’ttell for sure if it was thrillchills or the creeps.Sometimes it is very hard toknow the difference. I triedout holding the filter tipbetween my two fingers likethegirls inmagazine ads.Sofar so good with smoking, I

thought. Then I drew in abreath, puckeredmy lips andpuffed it out, and almostinstantly I felt dizzy. Icoughed a time or two, andAxelrootlaughed.“I haven’t smoked for a

while,” I said.” You know.It’s hard for us to get thingsnow.”“I can get you all the

American cigarettes youwant.Justsaytheword.”“Well, I wouldn’t actually

say anything about it to myparents. They’re not bigsmokers.” But it dawned onme to wonder, How in theworldwouldhegetAmericancigarettes in a countrywhereyou can’t even buy toiletpaper? “You know a lot ofmen in high places, don’tyou?”Helaughed.“Princess,you

don’tknowthehalfofit.”“I’msureIdon’t,”Isaid.A bunch of the younger

men were up on top of thechurch-schoolhouse patchingthe roof with palm leaves.Father must have organizedthis barnstorming party, Ithought,and thenIpanicked:Oh Lordy! Here I was rightout in broad daylightrefreshing my taste with aLucky Strike. But a quickglancearoundtoldmeFatherwas nowhere to he seen,thankgoodness. Just abunchofmen singing and blabbing

in the Congo language andfixingaroof,that’sallitwas.Why fix the roof now?

That was a good question.Last year around the time ofmy birthday it was pouringdown rain every singleafternoon,comeheckorhighriver, but this summer, not adrop yet. Just the bugsscreeching in the crackly drygrass and the air gettingheavier and heavier on thesemuggy waiting-for-it days.

The mugginess just madeeverybodyitchforsomething,Ithink.Just then a large group of

women passed us comingbackfromtheirmaniocfield.Hugebundlesofgiantbrownroots tied together with ropewerebalancedontheirheads.The women moved slowlyand gracefully putting onefoot ahead of the other, andwith their thin bodies alldrapedincolorfulpagnesand

their heads held so straightandhigh—honestly,thoughitisstrangetosay, theylookedlikefashionmodels.Maybeithas just been too long sinceI’veseenafashionmagazine.But some of them here Iguess are very pretty in theirway. Axelroot seemed tothinkso.Hegavethemalittlesalute to the tip of his hat,which he probably forgot hewasn’t wearing. “Mbote a-akento akwa Kilanga.

Benzikakooko.”Every single one of them

lookedawayfromus, towardthe ground. It was verystrange.“Whatintheworlddidyou

say to them?” I asked afterthey’dpassedby.“Hey there, ladies of

Kilanga. Why don’t you cutme some slack for a change.That’s more or less what Isaid.” “Well, sir, they suredidn’t,didthey?”

He laughed. “They justdon’t want any trouble withjealoushusbands.”This iswhat Imean about

Axelroot: you can’t for oneminute let yourself forget heisacreep.Rightthereinfrontof me, his supposed fiancee,flirtingwiththeentirefemalecontribution ofKilanga.Andthe bit about jealoushusbands,I’msure.Asfaraswe could see nobody inKilanga liked Axelroot one

iota—manorwoman.Motherand Father had commentedonthis.Thewomenseemedtodespise him especially.Whenever he tried to makedeals with them to fly theirmanioc and bananas toStanleyville, I hadpersonallyseenthemspitonhisshoes.“No great loss, believe

me,” he said. “I prefer a-akentoakwaElisabethville.”“And what is so special

about women from

Elisabethville?”He tipped back his head,

smiled, and blew smoke intothe muggy sky. Today itreally looked like it mightrainatlast,andfeltlikeittoo.The air felt like somebody’shotbreathalloveryourbody,evenunderyourclothes.“Experience,”hesaid.Well, I knew I had better

change the train of thisconversation. I took anonchalant puff on my

cigarettewithoutbreathing invery much. I still felt dizzy.“Where is Elisabethville,anyway?”“Down south, Katanga

Province. The new nation ofKatanga, I should say. Didyou know Katanga hassecededfromtheCongo?”I sighed, feeling light-

headed. “I’m just happy toknow somebody hassucceeded in something. Isthat where you go on your

trips?”“Sometimes,” he said.

“From now on, more thansometimes.”“Oh, really.You have new

orders fromthecommando, Isuppose.”“You have no idea,” he

said again. I was getting alittle tired of hearing how Ihadnoidea.Honestly,didhethinkIwasachild?“I’m sure I don’t,” I said.

We’d gotten to the edge of

the village, past the chief’shouse, where we weresupposed to make a point ofTataNdu seeing us together,which we both forgot about.Nowwewereoutwheretherewere no more huts and thetall elephant grass started toget tangled upwith the edgeof the jungle. I’d sworn Iwouldn’t go past the end ofthe village, but it’s awoman’s provocative tochange her mind. Axelroot

just kept walking, andsuddenly I didn’t care whathappenednext.Ikeptwalkingtoo. Maybe it was thecigarettes: I felt very rash. Iwouldgethimtoflyusoutofhere by hook or by crook, iswhat I was thinking deep inmyheart.Itwascoolerintheforest anyway, and veryquiet. When you listenedthere were only bird soundswith silence in between, andthosetwosoundsputtogether

somehow seemed evenquieterthannosoundatall.Itwasveryshadowyandnearlydark, even though it was themiddle of the day. Axelrootstopped and put out hiscigarette with his boot. Hetook mine from me, cuppedrny chin in his hand, andstartedtokissme.Oh, lordy!My first kiss, and I didn’tevengetachancetogetreadyfor it. Ididn’tandIdidwanthimtodoit.

MostlyIdid.Hetastedliketobacco and salt and thewhole experience was verywet. Finally I pushed himaway.“That’s enough of that,” I

said. “If we do anything, weshould do it where peoplewillseeus,youknow.”“Well, well.” He was

smiling, and ran the back ofhishandalongthesideofmyface. “I’d expect moremodesty from a preacher’s

daughter.”“I’ll show you preacher’s

daughter. Go to hell,Axelroot!” I turned aroundandstartedwalkingfastbacktowardthevillage.Hecaughtup tome andput his armonmyshouldertoslowmebackdowntoastroll.“Mustn’t let Tata Ndu see

us having a lovers’ quarrel,”hesaid,leaningdownintomyface.Itossedmyheadsomyhair flew right in his nosy

mug. We were still in theforestanyways,nowherenearTataNdu’shouseoranybodyelse’s.“Come on,” he coaxed.

“Givemeasmile.Oneprettysmile and I’ll tell you thebiggest damn secret inAfrica.”“Oh,I’msure,”Isaid.But

I was curious. I glanced athim. “So what’s the secret?Does my family get to gohome?”

He laughed. “You stillthinkyou’retheepicenterofacontinent, don’t you,Princess?”“Don’t be ridiculous,” I

said. I would have to askLeah if anepisender sentoutgood thingsor bad. If amanyou are supposedly engagedtocallsyouone,yououghttoknow.He’d slowed me down till

we were walking at anabsolutesnail’space.Itmade

me nervous. But he wasgoingtotellmehissecretifIjust waited. I could tell hewasitchingto,soIdidn’task.I know a thing or two aboutmen. Finally, here itcame.”Somebody’s going todie,”heannounced.“Well,bigsurprise,”Isaid.

“Somebody dies around hereabout every ten and a halfseconds.” But of course Iwondered:Who?Ifeltalittlescaredbutstilldidn’task.We

kept walking, step by step. Ihad to. He still had his armaround me. “Somebody thatmatters,”hesaid. “Everybody matters,” I

informedhim.“IntheeyesofourLordJesusChristtheydo.Even the sparrows that fallout of their little nest andwhatnot.”He positively snorted at

that. “Princess, you havemuchtolearn.Alive,nobodymattersmuchinthelongrun.

But dead, some men mattermorethanothers.”I was sick of his guessing

game.“Allrightthen,who?”He put hismouth so close

tomyearIcouldfeelhislipson my hair. Hewhispered,”Lumumba”“Patrice Lumumba, the

President?” I asked out loud,startled. “Or whatever he is?Theonetheyelected?”“Asgoodasdead,”hesaid

inaquiet, so-whatvoice that

chilledmyblood.“Do you mean to tell me

he’ssickorsomething?”“Imean his number is up.

He’sgoingtogetit.”“And how would you

happentoknowthat?”“I would happen to know

that,” he said, mocking me,“because I’m inaposition toknow. Take my word for it,sister.YesterdayBigShotsenta cable to Devil One withorders to replace the new

Congolese government byforce. I intercepted the newsincodeonmyradio.Myownorderswill be coming beforethe end of the week, Iguaranteeyou.”Now that was so much

bunk I am sure, becausenobody in our village has aradio. But I let him go ontalking in his little riddles ifthat was what buttered histoast.HesaidDevilOnewassupposed to get his so-called

operatives to convince thearmy men to go againstLumumba. Supposedly thisDevil One person was goingto get one million dollarsfromtheUnitedStatestopaysoldierstodothat,goagainstthe very person they all justelected. A million dollars!When we couldn’t even getfifty measly greenbacks amonth for our bread andboard. That was a likelystory. I almost felt sorry for

Axelroot, wanting so bad toimpress me into kissing himagain that he’d make upridiculous stories. Imaybeapreacher’s daughter, but Iknowathingortwo.Andoneofthemis,whenmenwanttokissyoutheyactliketheyarejust on the brink of doingsomething that’s going tochange the whole wideworld.

AdahPRESENTIMENT—is that

long Shadow—on the Lawn— Indicative that Suns godown— The Notice to thestartled Grass That Darkness—is about topass—Pity thepoor dumb startled grass, Ido. Ssap ot tuoba. I am fondofMissEmilyDickinson:Nosnikddy lime, a contraryname with a delicioussourgreen taste. Reading hersecrets and polite small

cruelties of her heart, Ibelieve she enjoyed takingthedumbgrassbysurprise,inher poem. Cumbered in herbody, dressed in black,hunched over her secretnotebookwithwindowblindsshut against the happycareless people outside, shemakes small scratchingsoundswithherpen,coveringwith nightfall all creaturesthat really shouldknowwhatto expect by now, but don’t.

She liked herself best indarkness,asdoI.In darkness when all cats

are equally black, I move asgracefully as anyone.Bendukaisthebent-sidewaysgirl who walks slowly, butben-duka is also thenameofafast-flyingbird,theswallowwith curvedwingswho dartscrookedlyquickthroughtreesneartheriver.ThisbirdIcanfollow. I am the smooth,elegant black cat who slips

from the house as a liquidshadow after dark. Night isthe time for seeing withoutbeing seen. With my ownnarrow shadow for a boat Inavigate the streams ofmoonlight that run betweenshadow islands in the date-palm grove. Bats pierce thenight with bell voices likeknives. Bats stab! And owlscallouttothebikinda,spiritsof the dead. The owls, onlyhungry like everyone else,

lookingforsoulstoeat.

In the long perishing ofchildrenfromkakakakaIsawthe air change color: it wasblue with bildla, the wailingfor the dead. It came insideour house,where ourmotherstopped up her ears and hermouth.Bi layebandu!Bi layebandulWhywhywhy,theysang, the mothers -whostaggered down our roadbehind small tightlywrapped

corpses, mothers crazy-walking on their knees, withmouthsopenwidelikeaholeripped in mosquito netting.Thatmouthhole!Jaggedtornplace in their spirits that letsthe small flying agonies passinandout.Motherswitheyessqueezed shut, dark cheekmuscles tied in knots, headsthrashingfromsidetosideasthey passed.All thiswe sawfrom our windows. Twotimes I saw more. The

Reverend forbade us toobserveanyritualoverwhichhe was not asked to preside,but twice, at night, I slippedout to spy on the funerals.Inside a grove of trees themothers threw themselves onmounds of dirt that coveredtheir children. Crawled ontheirhandsandknees,triedtoeat the dirt from the graves.Other women had to pullthem away. The owls croonandcroon,andtheairmustbe

thick with the spirits ofchildrendead.Months have passed since

then, and the Reverend hasspoken with every motherwho lost children. Some arepregnantagain.He reports tohis family after a long day’swork: these women don’twish to speak of the dead.They will not say theirchildren’s names. He hastried to explain how baptism—the batiza—would have

changed everything. But themothers tellhimno,no, theyhad already tied the nkisiaround the child’s neck orwrist, a fetish from theNganga Kuvudundu to wardoff evil. They were goodmothers and did not neglectthis protection, they tell theReverend. Someone else justhad a stronger evil. OurFather tries to make themunderstand the batiza is nofetish but a contract with

Jesus Christ. If baptized, thechildren would be in heavennow.And the mothers look at

him slant-eyed. If mydaughter were in heavencouldshestillwatchthebabywhile I work inmymanioc?Could she carry water forme? Would a son in heavenhavewivestotakecareofmewhenIamold?Our Father takes their

ironical and self-interested

tone to indicate a lack ofgenuine grief. His scientificconclusion: theCongolesedonot become attached to theirchildrenasweAmericansdo.Oh,amanoftheworldisOurFather. He is writing alearnedarticleonthissubjectfor the Baptist scholars backhome.Outside the house of

Toorlexa Nebee I peerthrough the window, reep I,yps a ma I, in darkness one

small dark left eye at theglass. Banana leaves coverthe dirty glass like paperywindow blinds leaving longnarrow triangles for my eye.Toorlexa Nebee caught menearhislatrineoneafternoon,loitering he said, as if thatstinkingplacewereacovetedshelter and myself asupplicant to his excrement,and now he believes he hasfrightened me off for good.Forgoodandevil.Now Igo

only at night when all isplainer: plain-lit shapesinside, his face and radioringedwithbrightdevilhalosinkerosene-lanternlight.Theradio a live mass of wireoozing from his trunk, aseething congregation ofsnakes.Hespeaksthroughthesnakes and he speaksunutterable things. Names incode. Some I understand:Eugor, I-W, W-I Rogue. Aformofname thatbelongs to

someformofaman.BetweentwoleavesIfinallysawWI.Rogue. He came in theairplane at dusk and stayeduntil morning, hidden in thehouse of Toorlexa. The twomen drank whiskey frombottles and filled the roomwith a stratified lake ofcigarettesmoke in theflame-white light of night. Theypronouncedalitanyofnamesto themass of snakes. Othernames they spoke aloud to

eachother.Always they say: as good

as dead. PatriceLumumba.Tlie voice on theradiosaid itmany times.Butthe name the twomen spokeout loud to each other wasThe President. NotLumumba. President:Eisenhower,WeLikeIke.EkiEkilEw.TheKingofAmericawants a tall, thinman in theCongotobedead.Toomanypebblescastforthebottle.The

bottlemustbebroken.My knees plunged, a rush

ofhotbloodmademefall.Afaintness of the body is myfamiliar, but not the sudden,evil faint of a body infectedby horrible surprise. By thissecret: the smiling bald manwith thegrandfather facehasanother face. It can speakthroughsnakesandorderthatapresidentfaraway,afterallthose pebbles were carriedupriver in precious canoes

that did not tip over, thisPresident Lumumba shall bekilled.Icrepttomybedandwrote

what I had seen and heard,then wrote the endingbackward.Staredatthewordsin my notebook, my captivepoem:Redrum sekil ohwekiekilew.Bymorning it had lost the

power to shock. Really, indaylight,whereisthesurpriseof this? How is it different

from Grandfather Godsending the African childrentohell forbeingborn too farfrom a Baptist Church? Ishould like to stand up inSunday school now and ask:MayAfrica talkback?Mightthosepaganbabiessendustohell for living too far from ajungle?Becausewehavenottasted the sacrament of palmnuts?Or.Might the tall, thinman rise up and declare:Wedon’t like Ike. So sorry, but

Ike should perhaps be killednow with a poisoned arrow.Oh, the magazines wouldhave something to say aboutthat all right. What sort ofman would wish to murderthepresidentofanotherland?Nonebutabarbarian.Amanwithaboneinhishair.Iwant to see nomore but

go back anyway, called backone-track jet-black Ada,damn mad Ada. Ada whoswears to wear black and

scratch out dreadful poems.Ha! I want to make theshadow pass over all theclean,startledfaces,all thosewho believe in presidentgrandfathers. Starting withLeah.Called back among the

banana leaves that do notspeak in the silent night, Ilisten.JoefromPariscoming,theradiosays.JoefromParishas made a poison that willseem to be a Congolese

disease,amereAfricandeathfor Lumumba. W. I. Roguesays they will put it in histoothpaste. Toorlexa laughsand laughs, for here they donot use toothbrushes. Theychew the muteete grass toclean their teeth. Toorlexagrows angry then. He haslived here ten years andknows more, he says. Heshould be running the show,he says.And Iwonder,whatistheshow?

Through triangles betweenquiet banana leaves I sawflame-haloed faces laugh atthe promise of deatheverlasting.Presentiment thatlongshadowpassesover,andwearethestardedgrass.

LeahTHIS AWFUL NIGHT is

theworstwe’veeverknown:thensongonya.Theycameonus like a nightmare. Nelson

bang-bang-banging on thebackdoorgottangledupwithmysleep,sothat,evenafterIwas awake, the next hourshad the unsteady presence ofadream.Before I evenknewwhere I was, I foundmyselfpulled along by somebody’shand in the dark and ahorrible fiery sting sloshingup my calves. We werewading through very hotwater, I thought, but itcouldn’tbewater,soItriedto

ask the name of the burningliquid that had flooded ourhouse—no, for we werealready outside—that hadfloodedthewholeworld?“Nsongonya,” they kept

shouting, “Lesfourmis! Uncorps d’armee!” Ants. Wewerewalkingon,surrounded,enclosed, enveloped, beingeaten by ants. Every surfacewascoveredandboiling,andthe path like black flowinglava in the moonlight. Dark,

bulbous tree trunks seethedand bulged. The grass hadbecome a field of darkdaggers standing upright,churningandcrumplinginonthemselves. We walked onants and ran on them,releasingtheirvinegarysmellto the weird, quiet night.Hardlyanyonespoke.Wejustran as fast as we couldalongside our neighbors.Adults carried babies andgoats;childrencarriedpotsof

food and dogs and youngerbrothers and sisters, thewhole village of Kilanga. Ithought of Mama Mwanza:wouldhersluggishsonscarryher? Crowded together wemoved down the road like arushing stream, ran till wereached the river, and therewestopped.Allofusshiftingfrom foot to foot, slapping,somepeoplemoaninginpainbutonlythebabiesshriekingand wailing out loud.

Strong men sloshed in slowmotion through waist-deepwater, dragging their boats,while the rest of us waitedour turn to get in someone’scanoe.“Beene, where is your

family?”I jumped. The person

besidemewasAnatole.“I don’t know. I don’t

really know where anybodyis, I just ran.” I was stillwaking up and it struck me

nowwith force that I shouldhavebeenlookingoutformyfamily. I’d thought to worryaboutMamaMwanzabutnotmy own crippled twin. Amoan rose out of me: “Oh,God!”“Whatisit?”“I don’t know where they

are.Oh,dearGod.Adahwillget eaten alive. Adah andRuthMay.”His hand touched mine in

thedark.“I’llfindthem.Stay

here until I come back foryou.”He spoke softly to

someone next to me, thendisappeared. It seemedimpossible to stand stillwhere the ground was blackwith ants, but there wasnowhere else to go. Howcould I leave Adah behindagain? Once in the womb,oncetothelion,andnowlikeSimonPeterIhaddeniedherforthethirdtime.Ilookedfor

her,orMotheroranyone,butonly saw other mothersrunning into the water withsmall, sobbing children,trying to splashand rub theirarmsandlegsandfacescleanofants.Afewoldpeoplehadwadedoutneck-deep.Faroutin the river I could see thehalf-white,half-blackheadofbalding old Mama Lalaba,who must have decidedcrocodileswere preferable todeathbynsongonya.Therest

ofuswaitedintheshallows,-where thewater’s slick shinewasveiledwithadarklaceoffloating ants. Father forgiveme according unto themultitude of thy mercies. Ihave done everything sowrong,andnowtherewillbeno escape for any of us. Anenormous moon trembled onthe dark face of the KwiluRiver. I stared hard at theballooning pink reflection,believing this might be the

last thing Iwould look uponbeforemyeyeswerechewedout of my skull. Though Ididn’tdeserve it, Iwanted torise to heaven rememberingsomethingofbeautyfromtheCongo.

RachelITHOUGHTIHADDIED

and gone to hell. But it’sworsethanthat—I’maliveinhell.

While everybody wasrunningfromthehouse,Icastaround in a frenzy trying tothinkwhat to save. Itwas sodarkIcouldhardlysee,butIhad a very clear presence ofmind.Ionlyhadtimetosaveone precious thing.Something from home. Notmyclothes,therewasn’ttime,and not the Bible—it didn’tseem worth saving at thatmoment, so help me God. Ithad to bemymirror.Mother

was screaming us out thedoor with the very force ofherlungs,butIturnedaroundand shoved straight past herandwentback,knowingwhatI had to do. I grabbed mymirror. Simply broke theframeNelsonhadmadeforitand tore it right down fromthewall.ThenIranasfastasmylegswouldcarryme.Out in the road it was a

melee of shoving, strangerstouching and shoving at me.

The night of ten thousandsmells. The bugs were allover me, eating my skin,starting at my ankles andcrawling up under mypajamas till they would endup only God knows where.Father was somewherenearby, because I could hearhimyellingaboutMosesandthe Egyptians and the riverrunningwithblood andwhatnot. I clasped my mirror tomy chest so it wouldn’t get

lostorbroken.We were running for the

river. At first I didn’t knowwhy or where, but it didn’tmatter. You couldn’t goanywhere else because thecrowd just forced you along.It caused me to recallsomething I’d read once: ifever you’re in a crowdedtheaterandthere’safire,youshould stick out your elbowsand raise up your feet. Howto Survive 101 Calamities

was the name of the book,which coveredwhat to do inany dire situation—fallingelevators, train wrecks,theater fires exetera. Andthank goodness I’d read itbecause now I was in a jamand knew just what to do! Istuck my elbows very hardinto the ribs of the peoplewhowerecrushing inaroundme, and kind of wedgedmyselfin.ThenIjustmoreorlesspickedupmyfeetand it

worked like a charm. Insteadof getting trampled I simplyfloated likeastick ina river,carried along on everyoneelse’spower.Butas soonaswe reached

the river my world camecrashing down. The rushcame to a standstill, yet theants were still swarmingeverywhere. The minute Istood up on the riverbank Igotcoveredwith themagain,positively crawling. I

couldn’t bear it anothersecond and wished I woulddie. They were in my hair.Never in my innocentchildhood did I prepare forbeing in theCongo one darknightwith ants tearing atmyscalp. I might as well becookedinacannibalpot.Mylifehascometothis.It took me a moment to

realize people were climbinginto boats and escaping! Iscreamed tobeput inaboat,

but they all ignored me. Nomatter how hard I screamed.Fatherwasoveryondertryingto get people to pray forsalvation, and no onelisteningtohimeither.ThenIspottedMamaMwanzabeingcarriedonherhusband’sbacktoward the boats. They wentright past me! She diddeservehelp,poorthing,butIpersonally have a delicateconstitution.I waded out after her and

triedtogetintotheirfamily’sboat. All the Mwanzachildrenwerestillclamberingin, and since I am theirneighbor I thought surelythey would want me withthem, but I was suddenlythrown back by someone’sarm across my face. Slambang,thankyouverymuch!Iwas thrown right into themud. Before I even realizedwhat had happened, myprecious mirror had slipped

from my hand and crackedagainst thesideof theboat.Iscooped it up quickly fromtheriver’sedge,butasIstoodup the pieces slid apart andfelllikeknivesintothemud.Istood watching in shock asthe boat sloshed away fromthe shore.They leftme.Andmymirror,strewnallaround,reflectingmoonlight in crazyshapes. Just left me flat, inthemiddleofallthatbadluckandbrokensky.

RuthMayEVERYBODY WAS

WHOOPING and hollowingand I kicked my legs to getdown but I couldn’t becauseMama had a hold of me sotight it was hurting my arm.Hush, little baby! Hush! Shewasrunningalong,soitkindof bouncedwhen she said it.She used to sing me: Hush,little baby!Mama’s going to

buyyoualookingglass!She was going to buy me

every single thing, even if itall got broke or turned outwrong.When we got down there

whereeverybodywassheputme over her shoulder andstepped in the boat sidewayswith somebody’s handsholding me up and the boatwas wobbly. We sat down.She made me get down. Ithurt,thelittleantswerebiting

usalloverbadanditburned.ThattimeLeahfedonetotheant lion,Jesussawthat.Nowhis friends are all comingbacktoeatusup.ThenwesawAdah.Mama

reachedouttoherandstartedto cry and talk loud, likecrying-talking, and thensomebody else had a hold ofme. It was somebodyCongolese and not evenMama anymore, so I criedtoo. Who will buy me a

looking glass that gets brokeandamockingbirdthatwon’tsing?Ikickedandkickedbuthe wouldn’t put me down. Iheard babies crying andwomencryingand I couldn’tturnmyheadaroundtosee.Iwas going away fromMamaisallIknew.Nelson says to think of a

good place to go, sowhen itcomestimetodieIwon’t,I’lldisappear and go to thatplace. He said think of that

place every day and night somy spiritwill know theway.But I hadn’t been. I knewwherewassafe,butafterIgotbetter I forgot to think aboutit anymore. ButwhenMamarandown the roadwithme Isaw everybody was going todie. The whole world a-crying and yelling bad. Somuchnoise. I putmy fingersinmy ears and tried to thinkofthesafestplace.I know what it is: it’s a

greenmamba snake away upinthetree.Youdon’thavetobe afraid of them anymorebecauseyouareone.Theylieso still on the tree branch;they are the same everythingasthetree.Youcouldberightnext to one and not evenknow. It’s so quiet there.That’s just exactly what Iwant to go and be, when Ihave to disappear.Your eyeswill be little and round butyou are so far up there you

can look down and see thewhole world, Mama andeverybody. The tribes ofHam, Shem, and Japheth alltogether. Finally you are thehighestoneofall.

AdahLIVE WAS I ere I saw

evil. Now I am on the othersideofthatnightandcantellthestory,soperhapsIamstillalive,thoughIfeelnosignof

it.AndperhapsitwasnotevilI saw butmerely theway ofall hearts when fear hasstripped off the husk of kindpretensions. Is it evil to lookat your child, then heftsomething else in your armsandturnaway?Nod,nab,abandon.Mother, I can read you

backwardandforward.LivewasIereIsawevil.I should have been

devoured inmybed, forall I

seem to be worth. In onemomentalive,andinthenextleftbehind.Tugged fromourbeds by something orsomeone,theruckus,bangingand shouting outside, mysisters leaped up screamingand were gone. I could notmake a sound for the ants atmy throat. I dragged myselfout tomoonlightandfoundanightmarevisionofdark red,boiling ground. Nothingstood still, no man or beast,

not even the grass thatwrithed beneath the shadow,dark and ravenous.Not eventhestartledgrass.Only my mother stood

still.There she was, plantedbeforeme in the path, risingon thin legs out of therootless devouring earth. Inher arms, crosswise like aloadofkindling,RuthMay.I spoke out loud, the only

time:helpme.“Yourfather...”shesaid.“I

think he must have gone onahead with Rachel. I wishhe’d waited, honey, he’dcarryyoubutRachelwas...Idon’t know how she’ll getthrough this.Leahwill,Leahcantakecareofherself.”! She can you can’t you

can’t!Ispokeagain:Please.She studied me for a

moment, weighing my life.Thennodded,shiftedtheloadinherarms,turnedaway.

“Come on!” shecommanded over hershoulder. I tried to stayclosebehind her, but even underthe weight of Ruth May shewassinuousandquick in thecrowd.Myheelswerenippedfrom behind by other feet.Stepped on, though I felt itvaguely, already numb fromthe burning ants. I knewwhen I went down.Someone’s bare foot was onmy calf and then my back,

and Iwas being trampled.Acrush of feet on my chest. Irolled over again and again,covering my head with myarms. I foundmyway tomyelbowsand raisedmyselfup,grabbing withmy strong lefthandat legs that draggedmeforward. Ants on myearlobes, my tongue, myeyelids.Iheardmyselfcryingout loud—such a strangenoise, as if it came frommyhair and fingernails, and

again and again I came up.OnceIlookedformymotherand saw her, far ahead. Ifollowed, bent on my ownrhythm. Curved into thepermanent song ofmy body:left...behind.Ididnotknowwho itwas

that liftedmeover thecrowdand set me down into thecanoewithmymother. I hadto turnquickly to seehimashe retreated. It was Anatole.Wecrossedtherivertogether,

mother and daughter, facingeach other, low in the boat’squietcenter.Shetriedtoholdmy hands but could not. Forthe breadth of a river westaredwithoutspeaking.That night I could still

wonderwhyshedidnothelpme.LivewasIereIsawevil.Now I do not wonder at all.That night marks my life’sdark center, the momentwhen growing up ended andthe long downward slope

toward death began. Thewonder to me now is that Ithoughtmyselfworth saving.But Idid. Idid,oho,did I! Ireachedoutandclungforlifewithmygoodlefthandlikeaclaw,graspingatmovinglegsto raisemyself from the dirt.Desperatetosavemyselfinariver of people savingthemselves. And if theychancedtolookdownandseeme struggling underneaththem, they saw that even the

crookedgirlbelievedherownlife was precious. That iswhatitmeanstobeabeastinthekingdom.

LeahSUDDENLYTHEN Iwas

pushed from behind andpulled by other hands into aboat and we were on thewater, crossing to safety.Anatole clambered in behindme. I was stunned to see he

had Ruth May over hisshoulder, like a fresh-killedantelope.“Issheokay?”“She is sleeping, I think.

Twenty seconds ago shewasscreaming. Your mother andAdah have gone ahead withTataBoanda,”hesaid.“Praise God. Adah’s all

right?”“Adah is safe. Rachel is a

demon. And your father isgiving a sermon about

Pharaoh’s army and theplagues. Everyone is allright.”I squatted low with my

chin on my knees andwatchedmybare feetchangeslowly from dark auburn, tospeckled,towhiteastheantsdispersed and forayed outintothebottomofthecanoe.Icould hardly feel the painnow—the feet I gazed atseemedtobesomeoneelse’s.I gripped both sides of the

boat,suddenlyfearingImightvomit or pass out. When Icouldholdmyheadupagain,I askedAnatole quietly, “Doyou think this is the hand ofGod?”He didn’t answer. Ruth

Maywhimpered inhersleep.I waited so long for hisanswer I finally decided hehadn’theardme.And then he simply said,

“No.”“Thenwhy?”

“The world can alwaysgiveyoureasons.Norain,notenough for the ants to eat.Something like that.Nsongonya are alwaysmoving anyway, it is theirnature.WhetherGodcaresornot.” He sounded bitteragainst God. Bitter withreason. The night felt like adream rushing past me toofast, like a stream in flood,and in this uncontrollabledream Anatole was the one

person who cared enough tohelpme.Goddidn’t.Itriedtosee through the thickdarkness that clung to theriver, searching out theoppositeshore.“Godhatesus,”Isaid.“Don’tblameGodforwhat

ants have to do. We all gethungry.Congolesepeoplearenot so different fromCongoleseants.”“Theyhave to swarmover

avillageandeatotherpeople

alive?”“When they are pushed

down long enough they willriseup.If theybiteyou, theyare trying to fix things in theonlywaytheyknow.”The boat was crammed

withpeople,butinthedarkIcouldn’t recognize theirhunchedbacks.AnatoleandIwerespeakingEnglish,anditseemednooneelsewasthere.“What does that mean?

That you think it’s right to

hurtpeople?”“Youknowmeasaman.I

don’t have to tell youwhat Iam.”What I knew was that

Anatole had helped us inmore ways than my familycouldevenkeeptrackof.Mysister was now sleeping onhisshoulder.“But you believe in what

they’re doing to the whites,even if you won’t do ityourself. You’re saying

you’re a revolutionary liketheJeuneMouPro!’Thedark, strongarmsofa

stranger paddled us forwardwhile I shuddered with colddread.ItoccurredtomethatIfeared Anatole’s anger morethananything.“Things are not so simple

asyouthink,”hefinallysaid,sounding neither angry norespeciallykind.“Thisisnotatime toexplain thehistoryofCongolese revolutionary

movements.”“Adah says President

Eisenhowerhassentorderstokill Lumumba,” I confessedsuddenly. After holding inthis rank mouthful of wordsformanydays,Ispilledthemoutintoourant-infestedboat.“She heard it on Axelroot’sradio. She says he’s amercenary killer working fortheAmericans.”I waited for Anatole to

make any response at all to

this—but he didn’t. Acoldness like water swelledinside my stomach. Itcouldn’tpossiblybe true,yetAdah has always had thepowertoknowthingsIdon’t.She showed me theconversation betweenAxelroot and another man,written down in her journal.Since then I’ve had no clearview of safety.Where is theeasy land of ice-cream conesand new Keds sneakers and

We Like Ike, the countrywhere I thought I knew therules.WhereistheplaceIcango home to? “Is it true,Anatole?”Thewatermovedunderus

and away, a cold, rhythmicrush.“Itoldyou,thisisnotatimetotalk.”“I don’t care! We’re all

going to die anyway, so I’lltalkifIplease.”If he was even still

listening, he must have

considered me a tediouschild. But I had so muchfrightinmeIcouldn’tstopitfromcomingout.Ilongedforhimtoshushme, just tellmetobestillandthatIwasgood.“I want to be righteous,

Anatole.Toknow right fromwrong, that’s all. I want tolive the right way and beredeemed.” I was tremblingso hard I feared my bonesmightbreak.Noword.

I shouted to make himhear.“Don’tyoubelieveme?When I walk through thevalleyoftheshadowtheLordis supposed to be with me,andhe’snot!Doyouseehimhereinthisboat?”The man or large woman

whose back I’d been leaningagainst shifted slightly, thensettled lower. I vowednot tospeakanotherword.ButAnatolesaidsuddenly,

“Don’t expect God’s

protection in places beyondGod’s dominion. It will onlymake you feel punished. I’mwarning you.When things gobadly, you will blameyourself”“Whatareyoutellingme?”“IamtellingyouwhatI’m

tellingyou.Don’ttrytomakelife a mathematics problemwith yourself in the centerand everything coming outequal. When you are good,bad things can still happen.

And if you are bad, you canstillbelucky.”I could see what he

thought: that my faithinjustice was childish, nomoreusefulherethantiresona horse. I felt the breath ofGod grow cold on my skin.“Wenevershouldhavecomehere,” I said. “We’re justfools that have gotten by sofar on dumb luck. That’swhatyouthink,isn’tit?”“Iwillnotanswerthat.”

“Then you mean no. Weshouldn’thavecome.”“No, you shouldn’t. But

you are here, so yes, youshould be here. There aremorewordsintheworldthannoandyes.”“You’re the only one here

who’ll even talk to us,Anatole! Nobody else caresaboutus,Anatole!”“Tata Boanda is carrying

yourmother and sister in hisboat. Tata Lekulu is rowing

hisboatwithleavesstuffedinhis ears while your fatherlectures him on loving theLord. Nevertheless, TataLekulu is carrying him tosafety.Didyouknow,MamaMwanzasometimesputseggsfromherownchickensunderyour hens when you aren’tlooking?Howcanyousaynoonecaresaboutyou?”“MamaMwanzadoesthat?

Howdoyouknow?”Hedidn’tsay.Iwasstupid

not to have figured it out.Nelson sometimes foundorangesandmaniocandevenmeat in our kitchen housewhen nothing was there thenight before. I suppose webelieved so hard in God’sprovidence that we justaccepted miracles in ourfavor.“Youshouldn’thavecome

here,Beene,butyouarehereandnobodyinKilangawantsyou to starve. They

understand that white peoplemake very troublesomeghosts.”I pictured myself a ghost:

bones and teeth. Rachel aghost with long white hair;Adah a silent, staring ghost.Ruth May a tree-climbingghost, the squeezeof a smallhandonyourarm.Myfatherwasnotaghost;hewasGodwith his back turned, handsclaspedbehindhimandfierceeyes on the clouds. God had

turned his back and waswalkingaway.QuietlyIbegantocry,and

everything inside me cameout through my eyes.“Anatole, Anatole,” Iwhispered. “I’m scared todeath of what’s happeningand nobody here will talk tome. You’re the only one.” Irepeated his name because ittook the place of prayer.Anatole snameanchoredmeto the earth, the water, the

skin thatheldme in likeajarofwater.Iwasaghostinajar.“Iloveyou,Anatole.”“Leah!Don’teversay that

again.”Ineverwill.We arrived at the opposite

shore. Someone’s rescuedhenfluttereduptothebowofourboatandstruttedplacidlyalong the gunwale, itsdelicate wattles shaking as itpluckedupants.For the firsttime that night, I thought of

ourpoorchickensshutupforthe night in their coop. Ipicturedtheirboneslaidcleanandwhite in apileon topoftheeggs.Two days later, when the

rebel army of tiny soldiershad passed through Kilangaandwecouldgohomeagain,that is exactlyhowwe foundourhens.Iwassurprisedthattheir dislocated skeletonslooked just the way I’dimaginedthem.ThisiswhatI

must have learned, the nightGod turned his back on me:how to foretell the future inchickenbones.

BookFour

BELANDTHESERPENT

Do you not think that BelisalivingGod?Doyounot seehowmuch

heeatsanddrinkseveryday?

BEL AND THESERPENT,i:6

OrleannaPriceSANDERLINGISLANDTHE STING OF A FLY,

theCongolesesay,canlaunchthe end of the world. Howsimplythingsbegin.Maybeitwasjustachance

meeting. A Belgian and anAmerican, let’s say, two oldfriends with a hunger incommon, a hand in thediamond business. A fly

buzzes and lights. They swatit away and step into theBelgian’s meticulouslypolished office inElisabethville. They’recareful to ask after eachother’s families and profits,and tospeakofhowtheyareliving in a time of greatchange, great opportunity. Amapof theCongoliesonthemahogany table betweenthem.Whiletheytalkoflaborand foreign currency their

hungermoves apart from thegentlemanly conversationwithawillofitsown,lickingattheedgesofthemaponthetable, dividing it betweenthem.Theytaketurnsleaningforward to point out theirmoves with shrewdcongeniality,playing it likeachess match, the kind ofgame that allows civilizedmen to play at make-believemurder.Betweenmoves theytip their heads back, swirl

blood-coloredbrandyinglassglobes and watch it crawldown the curved glass inliquid veins. Languidly theybringtheirmaptoorder.Whowill be the kings, the rooks,andbishopsrisinguptostrikeat a distance? Whichsacrificial pawns will beswept aside? African namesroll apart like the heads ofdried flowers crushed idlybetweenthumbandforefinger—Ngoma,Mukenge,Mulele,

Kasavubu, Lumumba. Theycrumbletodustonthecarpet.Behind the gentlemen’s

barbered heads, darkmahogany planks stand atattention.Thepanelingofthisoffice once breathed thehumid air of a Congoleseforest,gavesheltertolife,feltthe scales of snake belly onits branches.Now the plankshold their breath, with theirbacks to the wall. So do themounted heads of rhinoceros

and cheetah, evidence of theBelgian’s skill as a sporthunter. Cut down, they arenowmute spies in the housebuilt by foreigners. Outsidethewindowpalmfrondsrattlein a rising wind. Anautomobile creeps past.Leaves of unravelingnewspaperblowintotherankwater that runs in an openditch; the newspaper wheelsalong thestreet, scattering itssheets onto the water, where

they float as translucentsquares of lace. No one cansaywhetherit’sgoodnewsorbad. A woman stridesalongside theditchunderherbasketof roastedcorn.WhentheBelgian rises to close thewindow, the scent of all thisreaches him: the storm, theditch, the woman with thecorn. He shuts the windowandreturnstotheworldofhisownmaking.Thecurtainsaredamask. The carpet is

Turkish. The clock on thetable isGerman, old but stillaccurate. The heads on thewall observe with eyes ofimported glass. The perfecttimepiece ticks, and in thatsmall space between secondsthefancyhasturnedtofact.Giventime,legionsofmen

aredrawnintothegame,bothebonyandivory:theCongo’sCIA station chief, theNational Security Council,even the President of the

United States. And a youngCongolesemannamedJosephMobutu, who’d walkedbarefoot into a newspaperoffice to complain about thefood he was getting in thearmy. A Belgiannewspaperman thererecognized wit and rawavarice—a usefulcombinationinanygame.Hetook this young Mobutuunder his wing and taughthim to navigate the airy

heights where foreignersdwell.A rookwhowould beking.And the piece thatwillfall? Patrice Lumumba, apostalworkerelectedtoheadhis nation.The Belgians andAmericans agree, Lumumbais difficult. Altogether tooexciting to the Congolese,and disinclined to let Whitecontrol the board, preferringthe counsel and company ofBlack.The players move swiftly

andinsecret.Eachbroadturnsweeps across rivers, forests,continents, and oceans, -witnessed only by foreignglass eyes and once-mightynative trees cut away fromtheirroots.I’ve surmised this scene,

assembled it piece by pieceover many years from thethings I read, when it allbegan to come out. I try toimagine these men and theirgame, for it helps place my

own regrettable acts on abroader field, where theyseem smaller. What trivialthingwasIdoing“whiletheydivided the map beneath myfeet? Who was the womanwalking by with the roastedcorn? Might she have beensomedistantkinofsomeoneIhaggledwithonmarketdays?How is it that neither of usknew the ways of the worldforsolong?Fifteen years after

Independence, in 1975, agroup of Senators called theChurch Committee took itupon themselves to look intothesecretoperations thathadbeen brought to bear on theCongo. The world rockedwith surprise. The ChurchCommittee found notes fromsecret meetings of theNational Security CouncilandPresidentEisenhower. Intheir locked room, thesemenhad put their heads together

and proclaimed PatriceLumumba a danger to thesafetyoftheworld.ThesamePatriceLumumba,mind you,who washed his face eachmorning from a dented tinbowl, relieved himself in acarefully chosen bush, andwentout to seek the facesofhis nation. Imagine if hecouldhaveheardthosewords—dangerous to the safety ofthe world!—from a roomfulof white men who held in

their manicured hands thedisposition of armies andatomic bombs, the power toextinguisheverylifeonearth.Would Lumumba havescreamed like a cheetah? Ormerely taken off his glasses,wiped them with hishandkerchief, shaken hishead,andsmiled?On a day late in August,

1960, a Mr. Allen Dulles,who was in charge of theCIA, sent a telegram to his

Congolese station chiefsuggestingthathereplacetheCongolese government at hisearliest convenience. Thestation chief, Mr. LawrenceDevlin,wasinstructedtotakeasboldanactionashecouldkeepsecret:acoupwouldbeall right. There would bemoney forthcoming to paysoldiers for thatpurpose.Butassassination might be lesscostly.A gang ofmen quickwith guns and unfettered by

conscience were at hisdisposal. Also, to cover allbases, a scientist named Dr.Gottliebwashired tomakeapoison that would producesuch a dreadful disease (thegood doctor later testified inthe hearings), if it didn’t killLumumba outright it wouldleave him so disfigured thathe couldn’t possibly be aleaderofmen.

On the same August day,

this isall Iknew: thepain inmy household seemed plentylargeenoughtofillthewholeworld. Ruth May wasslipping away into her fever.And it was Rachel’sseventeenth birthday. I waswrapping up green glassearrings in tissue paper,hoping to make some smallpeace with my eldest child,while I tried to sponge thefireoutofmyyoungest.AndPresident Eisenhower was

right then sending his ordersto take over the Congo.Imagine that. His householdwas the world, and he’dfinishedmaking up hismindabout things. He’d givenLumumba a chance, he felt.The Congo had beenindependent for fifty-onedays.Mr.Devlin andhis friends

sat down with the ambitiousyoung Mobutu, who’d beenpromoted to colonel. On

September 10, they providedone million dollars in UNmoney for the purpose ofbuying loyalty, and the StateDepartment completed itsplans for a coup that wouldputMobutu in charge of theentire army. All the duckswere linedup.OnSeptember14, the army took control ofthe momentarily independentRepublic of Congo, andLumumba was put underhouse arrest in Leopoldville,

surrounded by Mobutu’sfreshlypurchasedsoldiers.Throughout those days,

while we scratched andhaggledforourdailybread,IhadaphotographofPresidentElsenhower for company inmy kitchen house. I’d cut itoutofamagazineandnailedit over the plank counterwhereIkneadedthebread.ItwassomuchapartofmylifeI remember every detail ofhim:theclear-rimmedglasses

and spotted tie, the broadsmile, the grandfatherly baldheadlikeawarm,brightlightbulb. He looked sotrustworthy and kind. Abeacon from home,remindingmeofourpurpose.On November 27, very

early in the day, probablywhile I was stoking ourwoodstove for breakfast,Lumumba escaped. He wassecretlyhelpedalongbyanetof supporters stretchingwide

across the Congo, fromLeopoldville to our ownvillage and far beyond. Ofcourse, no one spoke to meabout it. We’d only heardfaint rumors that Lumumbawas in trouble. Frankly, wewere more interested in thenews that heavy rain wasfalling to the west of us andmight soon reach our ownparched village. The rainprovidedthePrimeMinister’scover, as it turned out.

Leopoldville had beendrenchedthepreviousnight.Ican imagine the silk textureof that cool air, the smell ofCongolese earth curling itstoes under a thatch of deadgrass. In the dense fog, thenervousredglowofaguard’scigarette as he sits dreaming,cursingthecoldbutprobablyrejoicing in the rain—mostlikely he’d be the son offarmers. But in any case,alonenow,atthefrontgateof

Lumumba’s prison house inLeopoldville. The tires of astationwagonhisstoastopinthe darkness. The guard sitsup, toucheshisuniform, seesthe station wagon is full ofwomen. A carload ofhousehold employees fromthe night shift on their wayhome to the shantytownmargins of the city. The boyputs on an attitude ofimpatience: he’s much toobusywithmatters of state to

be bothered by maids and achauffeur. He flicks histhumb and forefinger,motioning for the stationwagontopass.Behind the backseat,

pressed against the white-stockinged knees of themaids, the Prime Ministercrouchesunderablanket.A Peugeot and a Fiat are

waitingdownthestreettofilein behind the station wagon.All three cars head east, out

of the city. After they’vecrossedtheKwangoRiverbyferryboat, the PrimeMinisterrises from the backseat,stretches his long, narrowframe, and joins his wife,Pauline, and small son,Roland, inacarbelongingtothe Guinean embassy. Itproceeds alone, east towardStanleyville, where loyalcrowds wait to hail theirchief, believingwith all theirhearts that he’ll restore their

dreamsofafreeCongo.But the roads are terrible.

The same delicious mudthat’s salvation to manioc isthe Waterloo of anautomobile. They inchforward through the night,untildawn,whenLumumba’sparty is halted by a flat tire.He paces on the flattenedgrass by theditch, remainingremarkably clean, while thedriver labors to change thetire. But the effort stirs the

black,wetroadtoamire,andwhen he starts up the caragain, it won’t move.Lumumba kneels in themudto add the force of his ownshoulder to thebackbumper.It’snouse;they’rehopelesslyboggeddown.They’llhavetowait for help. Still exuberantwith freedom, they remainconfident. Two ofLumumba’s former cabinetmembers are behind them,coming from Leopoldville in

anothercar.But there has been bad

luck. Those two men havereached the Kwango Riverand are gesturing helplesslyat an astonished fisherman.They want him to go wakethe ferryman. The ferrysquatslowinthewaterattheopposite shore, where it leftoff Lumumba’s party thenightbefore.These fugitivedignitaries are both fromtheBatetelatribeandlearned

French in mission schools,buthavenoinklingofhowtotalktotheKwangotribesmenwho fish the rivers east ofLeopoldville. It nevermattered before; prior toIndependence, hardly anyonegave a thought to the largeideaofageographicalCongo.But now, on the morning ofNovember 28, it meanseverything.Theriverisnotsowide. They can plainly seethe ferry,andpoint to it.But

the fisherman stares at thesemen’s city suits, their cleanhands, and their mouths,which exaggerateincomprehensible syllables.Hecansee they’redesperate.He offers fish. This is howthingsgo.Lumumba’s party waited

most of the day, until theywerefoundandrescuedbyaregional commissioner,who took themtoBulungu.There they paused, since

Lumumba’s wife and sonwere hungry and needed toeat. While he waited in theshade of a tree, brushingdried mud from his trousers,the Prime Minister wasrecognized by a villager andpulled into what quicklybecameanexcitedcrowd.Hegave an impromptu speechabout the unquenchableAfrican thirst for liberty.Somewhere deep in thatcrowd was a South African

mercenarypilotwhoownedaradio. Very shortly, the CIAstation chief knewLumumbawas free. All across theCongo on invisible radiowaves flew the code words:TheRabbit has escaped.Thearmy recaptured Lumumbaless thanfiftymilesfromourvillage.People flocked to theroads, banging with sticksand fetishes on the hoods ofthe army convoy that tookhim away. The event was

reported quicklywith drums,across our province andbeyond, and some of ourneighbors even ran there onfoot to try to help theircaptured leader. But in themidst of all that thunder, allthatnewsassaultingourears,we heard not a word.Lumumba was taken toThysville prison, then flownto Katanga Province, andfinally beaten so savagelytheycouldn’t return thebody

to his widow withoutinternationalembarrassment.Pauline and her children

grieved, but having no bodyto bury properly is a terriblethingforaCongolesefamily.Abodyunmournedcan’trest.It flies around at night.Pauline went to bed thosenights begging her husbandnot to gnawwith his beak atthe living. That’s what Ibelieve, anyway. I think shewouldhavepledwithhimnot

tostealthesoulsofthosewhowouldtakehisplace.Despiteher prayers, the Congo wasleft in the hands of soulless,emptymen.Fifteen years after it all

happened, I sat by my radioinAtlantalisteningtoSenatorChurch and the specialcommittee hearings on theCongo. I dug my nails intomypalms till I’d piercedmyown flesh. “Where had Ibeen? Somewhere else

entirely? Of the coup, inAugust, I’m sure we’dunderstoodnothing.Fromthenext five months ofLumumba’s imprisonment,escape,andrecapture,Irecall—what? The hardships ofwashing and cooking in adrought.A humiliating eventin the church, and risingcontentions in the village.RuthMay’sillness,ofcourse.And a shocking scrap withLeah, who wanted to go

hunting with the men. I wasoccupied so entirely by eachday, I felt detached fromanything so large as amonthorayear.Historydidn’tcrossmymind.Nowitdoes.NowIknow, whatever yourburdens, to hold yourselfapart from the lot of morepowerful men is an illusion.On thatawfulday inJanuary1961, Lumumba paid with alife and so did I. On thewings of an owl the fallen

Congo came to haunt evenour little family, wemessengers of good-willadrift on a sea of mistakenintentions.Strange to say, when it

came I felt as if I’d beenwaiting for it my wholemarried life.Waiting for thatax to fall so I could walkaway with no forgiveness inmy heart.Maybe the tragedybegan on the day of mywedding, then. Or even

earlier,when I first laid eyesonNathanat thetentrevival.A chance meeting ofstrangers,andtheendofthe-world unfolds. Who can saywhereitstarts?I’vespenttoomanyyearsbackingoverthatmuddy road: If only I hadn’tlet the children out of mysightthatmorning.IfIhadn’tletNathantakeustoKilangain the first place. If theBaptists hadn’t taken uponthemselves the religious

conversion of theCongolese.What if the Americans, andthe Belgians before them,hadn’t tasted blood andmoneyinAfrica?Iftheworldof white men had nevertouchedtheCongoatall?Oh, it’s a fine and useless

enterprise, trying to fixdestiny. That trail leadsstraight back to the timebeforeweeverlived,andintothatdeepwellit’seasytocastcurses like stones on our

ancestors. But that’s nothingmore than cursing ourselvesand all that made us. Had InotmarriedapreachernamedNathan Price, my particularchildren would never haveseenthelightof thisworld.Iwalked through the valley ofmyfate,isall,andlearnedtolovewhatIcouldlose.You can curse the dead or

pray for them, but don’texpect themtodoa thingforyou. They’re far too

interested in watching us, tosee what in heaven’s namewewilldonext.

WhatWeLostKILANGA, JANUARY

17,1961LeahYouCAN’TJUSTPOINT

to theonemost terrible thingandwonderwhyithappened.Thishasbeenawholeterribletime, from the beginning of

thedrought that left somanywithout food, and then thenightof theants, tonow, theworsttragedyofall.Eachbadthing causes somethingworse. As Anatole says, ifyou look hard enough youcan always see reasons, butyou’ll go crazy if you thinkit’s all punishment for yoursins.IseethatplainlywhenIlook at my parents. Goddoesn’tneedtopunishus.Hejust grants us a long enough

lifetopunishourselves.Looking back over the

monthsthatledtothisday,itseems the collapse of thingsstarted in October, with thevote in church. We shouldhavebeengoodsportsandlitout of the Congo right then.How could Father not haveseen his mistake? Thecongregationofhisveryownchurchinterruptedthesermonto hold an election onwhetherornottoacceptJesus

ChristasthepersonalSaviourofKilanga.It was hot that day, in a

season so dry our tongueswenttosleeptastingdustandwoke up numb. Our favoriteswimmingholesinthecreek,which should have beenswirling with fast brown‘waterthistimeofyear,werenothing but dry cradles ofwhite stones.Women had todraw drinking water straightfrom the river, while they

cluckedtheirtonguesandtoldstories of women fallen tocrocodiles inotherdryyears,-which were never as dry asthis one. The manioc fieldswere flat: dead. Fruit treesbarren. Yellow leaves werefalling everywhere, litteringthegroundlikeacarpetrolledout for the approachingfootsteps of the end of time.The great old kapoks andbaobabs that shaded ourvillage ached and groaned in

their branches.They seemedmore like old people thanplants.We’dheardrumorsof rain

intherivervalleyswestofus,and those tales aroused thedeepest thirst you canimagine—the thirst of dyingcrops and animals. The deadgrasson thedistanthillswasa yellowish red, not orangebut a drier color: orange-white,likethehazeintheair.Monkeys gathered in the

high,barebranchesatsunset,whimperingtooneanotherasthey searched the sky.Anything living that couldabandon its home, some ofour neighbors included, hadmigrated westward, in thedirection from which wehearddrumseverynight.TataKuvudundu cast his bonepredictions, and nearly everygirl in thevillagehaddancedwith a chicken held to herhead, to bring down rain.

People did what they could.Church attendance rose andfell; Jesusmayhavesoundedlike a helpful sort of God inthebeginning,butHewasnotbearingout.ThatSundaymorningTata

Ndu himself sat on the frontbench. Tata Ndu rarelydarkened the door of thechurch, so this was clearly asign, though who could saywhether a good or bad one.Hedidn’tappeartobepaying

much heed to the sermon.Nobody was, since it didn’thavetodowithrain.Amonthearlier when thunderstormsseemedimminent,FatherhadcounseledhiscongregationtorepenttheirsinsandtheLordwouldrewardthemwithrain.But in spite of all thisrepentance the rain hadn’tcome,andnowhe toldusherefused to be party to thesuperstitions. This morninghe was preaching on Bel in

the temple, from theApocrypha. Father hasalways stood firm on theApocrypha, though mostotherpreacherslookdownonhim for it. They claim thosebookstobetheworkoffear-mongerswhotaggedthemonto the Old Testament just toscare people. Yet Fatheralwayssays,iftheLordcan’tinspire you to leave offsinning any other way, whythen, it’s His business to

scarethedickensoutofyou.BelandtheSerpentwasn’t

so frightening, as it mainlyfeatured the quick wits ofDaniel.This timeDanielwasout to prove to theBabylonians that they wereworshiping false idols, butevenIwashaving trouble paying

attention. Lately I’d rarelyfelt touched by Father’senthusiasm, and never byGod.

“NowtheBabylonianshadan idol they called Bel” hedeclared, his voice the onlyclear thing in the haze thathung over us. People fannedthemselves.“Every day they bestowed

uponthestatueofBeltwelvebushels of flour, forty sheep,andfiftygallonsofwine.”Anatole translated this,

substituting ,manioc, goats,andpalmwine.Afewpeoplefanned themselves faster,

thinkingofallthatfoodgoingto just one hungry god. Butmosthaddozedoff.“The people revered the

statue ofBel andwent everyday toworship it, butDanielworshiped the Lord ourSaviour.AndtheKingsaidtohim,’Whydon’t youworshipBel?’Why, Daniel replied,’Ido not revere false idols butthe living God, who is chiefof all mankind.’ And theBabylonians said”—here my

father droppedhis voice to amore conversational tone—’“Can’t you see Bel is aliving God? Don’t you seehowmuchheeatsanddrinkseveryday?’“Daniel laughed and told

them, ‘Don’t be fooled!Thatisonlya statuemadeof clayandbronze.’“Father paused, and waited

for Anatole to catch up. Ipersonally like Bel and thetemple; it’s agood story, but

with all the delays fortranslation it was going tooslowly to hold people’sinterest. It’s a private-eyestory, really. That’s how I’dtell it, if it were up to me:Daniel knew very well thatthe King’s high priests weresneaking in at night andtakingallthatfood.SoDanielsetupatrick.Aftereveryoneleft their offerings in thetemple,hewentinandspreadfireplace ashes all over the

floor. That night the priestssnuck in as usual through asecret stairway under thealtar. But they didn’t noticethe ashes, so they left theirfootprintsalloverthefloorofthetemple.Theywerehavinga big old party every night,complimentsof theirpalBel.But with the ashes on thefloor, Daniel caught themred-handed.Fatherwaspoisedtogoon

withthestorywhensuddenly

TataNdu stood right straightup, cutting him off in themiddle of hammering homehis message. We all stared.TataNduhelduphishandand declared in his deep,

big-man’s voice, giving eachsyllable the exact same sizeand weight: “Now it is timefor the people to have anelection.”“What?”Isaidoutloud.But Father, who’s

accustomed to knowing

everything before it happens,took this right in stride. Herepliedpatiently,“Well,now,that’s good. Elections are afine and civilized thing. InAmerica we hold electionseveryfouryears todecideonnew leaders.” He waitedwhileAnatole translated that.Maybe Father was droppingthe hint that it was time forthevillagerstoreconsiderthewhole proposition of TataNdu.

Tata Ndu replied withequal patience, “A yi bandu,ifyoudonotmind,TataPrice,we will make our electionnow. Id, maintenant! Hespoke in a carefulcombinationoflanguagesthatwas understood by everyonepresent. This was some kindof a joke, I thought.Ordinarily Tata Ndu had nomore use for our style ofelectionsthanAnatoledid.“With all due respect”,my

father said,”this is not thetimeortheplaceforthatkindof business. Why don’t yousit down now, and announceyourplansafter I’ve finishedwith the sermon? Church isnot the place to vote anyoneinoroutofpublicoffice.”“Churchistheplaceforit,”

said Tata Ndu.”Id,maintenant,we aremaking avote for Jesus Christ in theoffice of personal God,Kilangavillage.”

Father did not move forseveralseconds.Tata Ndu looked at him

quizzically. “Forgive me, I“wonder if I have paralyzedyou?”Father found his voice at

last.“Youhavenot.”“Abu,wewillbegin.Beto

tutakwekusala”There was a sudden

colorful bustle through thechurch as women in theirbright pagnes began tomove

about. I felt achill rundownmy spine. This had beenplanned in advance. Thewomen shook pebbles out ofcalabashbowls into the foldsof their skirts and movedbetween the benches, firmlyplacing one pebble into eachoutstretched hand. This timewomen and children werealso getting to vote,apparently. Tata Mwanza’sfathercameforwardtosetuptheclayvotingbowlsinfront

ofthealtar.OneofthevotingbowlswasforJesus,theotherwas against. The emblemswere a cross and a bottle ofnsamba, new palm wine.Anyone ought to know thatwasnotafairmatch.Fathertriedtointerruptthe

proceedings by loudlyexplaining that Jesus isexempt from popularelections. But people wereexcited, having just recentlygotten the hang of the

democratic process. Thecitizens of Kilanga wereready to cast their stones.They shuffled up to the altarinsinglefile,justexactlyasifthey were finally comingforward to be saved. AndFather stepped up to meetthem as if he also believedthis was the heavenly rollcall. But the line of peoplejust divided around him likewateraroundaboulderinthecreek, and went on ahead to

make their votes. The effectofitwasn’tverydignified,soFather retreated back to hispulpitmadeofwired-togetherpalmfrondsandraiseduponehand, intending I guess topronounce the benediction.But the voting was all overwith before he could reallyget a word in sideways.TataNdu’s assistant chiefs begancounting the pebbles rightaway.Theyarranged theminclusters of five in a line on

the floor, one side matchedupagainsttheother,foralltosee.“C’estjuste”TataNdusaid

while they counted. “Wecanall see with our own eyes itwasfair.”My father’s face was red.

“This is blasphemyl” Hespread his hands wide as ifcasting out demons only hecould see, and shouted,“Thereisnothingfairhere!”TataNduturneddirectlyto

Father and spoke to him insurprisingly careful English,rolling his r’s, placing everysyllablelikeastoneinahand.“Tata Price, white men havebroughtusmanyprogramstoimprove our thinking,” hesaid. “The program of Jesusand theprogramofelections.You say these things aregood. You cannot say nowtheyarenotgood.”A shouting match broke

out in the church, mostly in

agreement with Tata Ndu.Almost exactly at the sametime, two men yelled, “Kunianga,ngeyeuyelekutalal”Anatole,who’dsatdownin

hischairalittledistancefromthe pulpit, leaned over andsaid quietly to Father, “Theysay you thatched your roofandnowyoumustnotrunoutofyourhouseifitrains.”Fatherignoredthisparable.

“Matters of the spirit are not

decided at the marketplace,”he shouted sternly. Anatoletranslated.“Abu,kwe?Where,then?”

asked Tata Nguza, standingup boldly, la his opinion, hesaid, a white man who hasneverevenkilledabushbuckfor his family was not theexpert on which god canprotectourvillage.When Anatole translated

thatone,Father looked takenaback.Wherewecomefrom,

it’s hard to see theconnectioin.Father spoke slowly, as if

to a half-wit, “Elections aregood, and Christianity isgood.Botharegood.”We inhis family recognized thedanger inhisextremelycalmspeech, and the rising colorcreeping toward his hairline.“You are right. In Americawe honor both thesetraditions. But we make ourdecisions about them in

differenthouses.”“Then you may do so in

America,” said Tata Ndu. “Iwill not say you are unwise.ButinKilangawecanusethesamehouseformanythings.”Fatherblewup.“Man,you

understand nothing! You areapplyingthelogicofchildrenin a display of childishignorance.” He slammed hisfistdownonthepulpit,whichcaused all the dried-up palmfronds to shift suddenly

sideways and begin fallingforward,oneatatime.Fatherkickedthemangrilyoutoftheway and strode toward TataNdu, but stopped a few feetshortofhismark.TataNduismuchheavierthanmyfather,with very large arms, and atthat moment seemed moreimposingingeneral.Father pointed his finger

like a gun at Tata Ndu, thenswungitaroundtoaccusethewhole congregation. “You

haven’t even learned to runyour own pitiful country!Your children are dying of ahundred different diseases!You don’t have a pot to pissin! And you’re presumingyou can take or leave thebenevolence of our LordJesusChrist!”If anyone had been near

enough to get punched rightthen, my father would havedisplayed un-Christianbehavior. It was hard to

believeI’deverwantedtobeneartohimmyself.IfIhadaprayer left inme, itwas thatthis red-faced man shakingwith rage would never lay ahandonmeagain.TataNduseemedcalmand

unsurprised by anything thathad happened. “A, TataPrice,” he said, in his deep,sighing voice. “You believewearemwana,yourchildren,who knew nothing until youcame here. Tata Price, I am

anoldmanwholearnedfromother old men. I could tellyou the name of the greatchief who instructed myfather,andalltheonesbeforehim, but you would have toknow how to sit down andlisten.Thereareonehundredtwenty-two.Sincethetimeofour mankulu we have madeour laws without help fromwhitemen.”He turned toward the

congregationwiththeairofa

preacher himself. Nobodywas snoozing now, either.“Ourwaywas to sharea fireuntilitburneddown,ayi?Tospeak to each other untilevery person was satisfied.Younger men listened toolder men. Now the Beelezitell us the vote of a young,carelessmancountsthesameasthevoteofanelder.”In the hazy heat TataNdu

paused to take off his hat,turn it carefully inhishands,

thenreplaceitabovethehighdomeofhisforehead.Noonebreathed.“Whitementellus:Vote, bantu! They tell us:Youdonotallhavetoagree,cen’estpasnecessaire!Iftwomen vote yes and one saysno, the matter is finished. Abu,evenachildcanseehowthat will end. It takes threestones in the fire to hold upthepot.Takeoneaway,leavetheothertwo,andwhat?Thepotwillspillintothefire.”

We all understood TataNdu’s parable. His glassesand tall hat did not seemridiculous. They seemed liketheclothesofachief.“But that is the white

man’slaw,n’est-cepas’?”heasked. “Two stones areenough. nousfautseulementlamajorite.”It’s true, thatwaswhatwe

believed: the majority rules.How could we argue? Ilooked down at my fist,

which still clutched mypebble. I hadn’t voted, norMothereither.Howcouldwe,with Father staring right atus?Theonlyoneofuswho’dhadthenervewasRuthMay,who marched right up andvoted for Jesus so hard herpebble struck the cross andbounced. But I guess we allmadeourchoices,onewayortheother.Tata Ndu turned to Father

and spoke almost kindly.

‘Jesus is a white man, so hewill understand the lawof lamajorite, Tata Price. Wendambote.”JesusChrist lost, eleven to

fifty-six.

RachelMAYBE I SHOULDN’T

SAYsobut it’s true:Leah isthecauseofallourproblems.ItgoesbacktowhensheandFather commenced World

War Three at our house.Whatacrazymixed-upscene.Leah would rare up and talkback toFather straight to hisface, and then, boy oh boy.The rest of us would duckandcoverlikeyouhavetodowhenever they drop the A-bomb. Leah always had theuppermost respect forFather,but after the hullabaloo inchurch where they votedFather out, she just plumbstoppedbeingpolite.

How it started was herdeclaring she was goinghunting with her little bowand arrow. My sister, littleMiss The-Lord-Is-My-Shepherd, now thinks she isRobin Hood. I am surprisedshe hasn’t tried to shoot anappleoffmyhead, ifwehadanapplethatis.Thereisnotaspeckof foodanywhere.Theants ate everything peoplehadstoredup,whichwasnotmuch to begin -with because

of the drought. It clouds upevery morning and getsmuggy for an hour, but thenthesunbeatsdownanddriesup everything. Market daylooks like you just came outof your fallout shelter afterthe bomb attack: nobodytherebutafewoldguyswithcar parts and knives andcookpots, hoping to trade forfood. Lots of luck, Charlie!We’re only still scraping bywith whatMrs. Fowles gave

us off their boat, plus someeggs,becausethankgoodnessMama Mwanza brought usovertwolayinghensaftertheantsateupours.She letsherchickens just run here, there,and everywhere, so theyescapedtheirfatefuldeathbyflapping up into the treetops.I happen to think Axelrootcouldgetussomefoodtoo,ifhe tried, but he has beenmaking himself scarce formonths now, supposedly

because he’s on some top-secretmission.It’senoughtodriveyoucrazy.Hesaidhe’dbring me cigarettes andHershey’s chocolatewhenhecame back, and I was verythrilled at the time, I’m sure,but, jeez,ohman.RightnowI’d settle for a good old-fashioned loaf of WonderBread.Well, the next thing we

knew, Tata Ndu announcedthewholevillagehastogoon

abighunt,andthatwillsaveus. All of us together! It isquite involved. The plan, asNelson explained it, is theystart a fire in a huge circlearoundthebighillbehindthevillage.Thathillismostlytalldead grass, not jungle, so itwouldburnupinaflash.Thewomenaresupposedtowavepalm leaves and chase theflames in toward the middleuntil all the trapped animalsinside get completely nerve-

racked and jump out throughthe fire. That is the cue forthemen to shoot them. Kidsand old folks get thewonderful j ob of walkingalong behind and picking upallofGod’screaturesthatgotburnt to a crisp.Nelson sayseveryperson in thevillage isto be there, requiredprecipitation.Well, fine, I can go walk

through a burnt field and getcovered with soot from head

to toe. I gave up long agotryingtopassthewhite-glovetest. But Lean’s little plan isto go with the men right upfront and shoot things withher bow and arrow.Her newbestfriend,Anatole,seemstoencourageit.Whentheyheldthemeeting about it, he keptremarking how she is a verygoodshot,andifwe’redyingofhungerwhyshouldwecarewho shoots the antelope aslong as it gets killed? And

Nelson jumped right in toagree with Anatole, sayingwe should be glad for everyarrow that shoots straight,even if it comes from a girl.Honestly. Nelson is justproud of being the one thattaughthertoshoot.AndLeahis just primarily a show-off.Tata Ndu and the older

men were all against, at themeeting. Tata Kuvudunduespecially. He sat with his

lips pursed until whenever itcame around again for histurn to talk. Then he’d standup in his white wraparoundrobe and tell whole entirestories about horrid thingsthat happened in the oldendays: poison water comingout of the ground, elephantsgoing berserk, exetera,wheneverpeopledidn’t listen to him and

insisted on doing things notthenormalway.Then they’d

all say, “Oh, yeah, Iremember.” The old men allnodded a lot, sitting upstraight with their elbowsclose to their sides, handsontheirlaps,andfeetflatontheground a little bit pigeon-toed. The younger menleaned back on their stoolswith their knees wide apart,taking up all the room theyneeded, and were quick toyell out what was on theirminds. Mostly it was in

French and such, but Adahtook things down in Englishin her notebook and held itwhere I could read it. So foronce shemade herself usefulaswellasabumponalog.Naturally Father had his

ownaddendaforthemeeting.When he got his one chanceto speak, he tried to turn thewholehuntaroundintoakindof new, improved prayermeetingwithanimalshootingat the end. Which nobody

listenedto,becausetheywereall jazzed up about a girlwantingtohuntwiththemen.I’m sure Father resented hisown daughter being such adistraction. It’s just lucky forFatherheneverhadanysons.Hemighthavebeenforcedtorespectthem.Intheenditcamedownto

Tata Ndu, Tata Kuvudundu,and Anatole doing thetalking. Tata Ndu in hisorange-and-white-striped

cloth wrapped across hischest. He gave theimpression, “I am the chiefand don’t you forget it,” andofcourseTataKuvudundu isthe voodoowitch doctor andyou don’t forget that either,whatwithhimhavingsixtoesand going cross-eyed in themiddle of a sentence just forthe scary effect. ButAnatoleistheschoolteacher,afterall,andalotoftheboysthatnowat the ripeageofnineteenor

so have wives and familiesformerly learned their two-plus-twofromhiminthefirstplace. They still call himMonsieurAnatole, instead ofthe usual “Tata,” because hewas their schoolmaster. So itgot to be divided down thelines of young against old,withAnatolepersuadingalotof the younger men. And inour village, believe you me,people die for the slightestprovocation so there are not

that many old people stillhangingaround.Leahhadtositinthefront

of the room all night longwithout saying a peep. Shekept looking at Anatole, butafterawhileyoucouldn’ttellreally if he was on her side.Hestoppedmentioningwhat a good shot she was

andmoved on to the subjectof whether you should kill aratforitsskinorkillaratforbeing a rat. Whatever that

maymean.TataNdusaidifitrunsinarat’sskinit isarat.Then they all got to yellingabout foreigners, the armytakeover, and somebodythrowninprisonwhichifyouask me is at least a morefavorable subject thanrats.At the end it got turned

intoanothershowdown:werewe going to keep talkingaboutthisallnight,orhaveavote? Anatole was very

against the voting. He saidthis was a matter to bediscussed and agreed onproperly, because even ifKilangaranonewhitefamilyout of town, there were amillion more whites in theworld and if you couldn’tlearntotellagoodratfromabadone,you’dsoonbelivingwithbothinyourhouse.And,he said, don’t be surprisedwhen your own daughter orwife wants to shoot a bow

and arrow behind your back.Well, everybody laughed atthat, but I failed to see thehumor. Was he calling usrats?Tata Ndu had had just

aboutenough.Hemarchedupand plunked down two bigclay voting bowls in front ofLeah. Itkindofmadepeoplemad when he did it.Youcould see them siding withAnatole, that it needed moretalk. But, no, time’s up. As

for Leah, she looked like achicken fixing to get thrownin the stewpot. But was Isupposed to feel sorry forher?Sheaskedforit!Withallher attention-gettingmechanisms. Some of themenstill seemed to think thewhole thing was funny, somaybe they thought she’dshoot an arrow through herfoot,forallIknow.Butwhenit came time towalk up andcast their votes, fifty-one

stoneswent in thebowlwithLeah’s bow-and-arrow by it.Forty-five for the one withthecookpot.Man alive, Tata

Kuvudundu was not one bithappy then.He stoodup andhollered that we’d turnedoverthenaturalwayofthingsand boy,wouldwe be sorry.Hemade a very big point oflooking at Anatole when hesaid that, but he also seemedputoutwithTataNduforthe

voting activity, which gotbackfired on him. Tata Ndudidn’t say much, but hefrowned so hard his big baldforeheadwrinkleduplikethebreaddoughwhenyoupunchit down. He held his bigmuscle-man arms across hischest, and even though hewasanelderlymanoffiftyorso, he looked like he couldstill beat the pants offanybodyintheroom.“The animals are listening

to us tonight!” TataKuvudundu yelled out andkind of started singing withhis eyes closed. Then hestopped. It got real quiet andhelookedveryslowlyaroundthe room. “The leopardswillwalkupright likemenonourpaths. The snakes will comeout of the ground and seekour houses instead of hidingin their own. Bwe?You didthis.Youdecidedtheoldwaysarenogood.Don’tblamethe

animals, it was yourdecision.Youwant to changeeverything,andnow,kuleka?Doyouexpecttosleep?”Nobody said a word, they

just looked scared. TataNdusatwithhisheadthrownbackand his eyes just little slits,watching.“No one will sleep!”Tata

Kuvudundu suddenlyshrieked, leaping up andwavinghisarmsintheair.Everybody else kind of

jumped at that, but Leah satstock-still. Like I said,showingoff.Shedidn’t evenblink.Thenweallgotupandleft and she followed us out,andnooneinourfamilysaidbootoeachotherall thewayhome. When we got to thedoorFatherstopped,blockingthe way. Oh, brother. Wewere going to have to standout there on the porch andhear the moral of the story.“Leah,” he said, “who is the

master of this house?” Shestoodwithherchindown,notanswering.Finally she said, “You

are,”inavoiceaslittleasanant.“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear

you?” “You are!” shescreamedathim.Mother and I jumped, but

Father merely replied in anormal voice, “Whatoccurredthiseveningmaybeof some consequence to the

village, but it’s of noconsequence toyou.Godhasordained that you honor thyfather and submit thyself totherulesofhishouse.”Leah didn’t even move.

Herchinwasstilltilteddown,buthereyeswere straightonhim like nobody’s business.“So,” she said quietly, “youagreewithTataNdu and thewitchdoctor.”Fathersuckedinhisbreath.

“They agree with me. It’s

nonsenseforyoutohuntwiththemen.You’reonlycausingtrouble,andIforbidit.”Leah slung her bow over

hershoulder.“I’mgoingwiththe men and that’s final.”Marched off the porch, rightout into the dead of night,wheresupposedlytheanimalswere wide awake andwalking around like humanbeings.MotherandAdahandI stood there with our trapshanging open. You could

have knockedus overwith afeather.Father went crazy. We’d

alwayswonderedwhatwouldhappen if we flat-outdisobeyedhim.Nowwewerefixing to see.He lit out afterherwithhiswideleatherbeltalready coming out of hispants as he stomped throughthe dirt. But by the time hegottotheedgeoftheyardshewas gone. She’d vamoosedintothetallgrass,andoffshe

was headed for the jungle,whereitwasplaintoseehe’dnever find her. Leah canclimb trees like achimpanzee, when nobody’sevenchasingher.Insteadofcomingback,he

actedlikehe’djustdecidedtostrolloutthereforthesakeofthrashing the trees with hisbelt, and man alive, hedid.We heard him for anhour.We peeked out thewindow and saw he’d cut

downawhole standof sugarcane by lashing it with hisbelt.Westartedtogetscaredabout what he’d dowhen hefinallycamein,fortherewasreally no telling. Our doorsdidn’t lock,butMothercamein our room with us andhelped us push the bedsaround so the door wasblocked. We went to bedearly,withmetalpotlidsandknives and things from thekitchen to protect ourselves

with, because we couldn’tthinkofanythingelse.Itwaslikethearmortheyhadinthenights of old. Ruth May putanaluminumsaucepanonherhead and slid two comicbooks down the seat of herjeans in case of a whipping.Mother slept in Leah’s bed.Or lay therequiet, rather, forreallynoneofussleptawink.Leah came in the windowbeforedawnandwhisperedtoMother awhile, but I don’t

thinksheslepteither.Half thevillagewas in the

same boat with us, eventhough I guess for differentreasons. After the way TataKuvudundu carried on at themeetingandgaveofftheevileye, nobody could sleep.AccordingtoNelsonthatwasthe one and only topic ofconversation.They said theiranimalswerelookingatthem.Peoplekilledthelastfewtheyhad—goats, chickens, or

dogs. You could smell theblood everywhere. They puttheanimals’headsinfrontoftheir houses in calabashbowls, to keep away thekibaazu,theysaid.Well,whyweretheydumb

enough to vote for Leahanyway, is what I askedNelson. If they knew it wasgoingtogetTataKuvudundusoriledup?Nelson said some of them

that voted for her were put

outwithTataNdu,andsomewere put out with Father, soeverybody ended up gettingwhat they didn’t want, andnow had to go alongwith it.Nobodyevencaresthatmuchone way or another aboutLeah,iswhatNelsonsaid. Oh, well, I told him.That

iswhatwecallDemocracy.Strangetosay,atourhouse

the next morning it wassuddenly peace on earth.Father acted like nothing

much had happened. He hadcutsandpoisonwoodboilsonhis arms from all histhrashing in the bushes, butyet he just drank his tea atbreakfastwithoutawordandthenputsomepoulticeonhisarms and went out on theporch to read his Bible. Wewondered: Is he looking fortheworld’slongestTheVersetogiveLeahonthesubjectofimpudence? Is he looking upwhatJesusmighthavetosay

about preachers that murdertheir own daughters? Ormaybe he’d decided hecouldn’twin this fight, sohewasgoingtopretenditneverhappened and Leah wasbeneath his notice. WithFather,life’sjustonesurpriseafteranother.Leah did at least have the

brainstomakeherselfscarce.ShestayedeitheratAnatole’sschool or out in the woodshaving a bow-and-arrow

contest with Nelson to seewho could shoot a bug off abranch.Thatwas the kind ofthing she usually did. Butthere was plenty of nervoustension left inourhousehold,believe you me. Ruth MaypeedinherpantsjustbecauseFather coughed out on theporch.Andguesswhohadtobe theone togethercleanedup: me. I did not appreciatewhat we were being putthrough,allbecauseofLeah.

Thateveningwasthenightbefore the hunt, with Leahstillkeepingherdistance.ButherpalAnatolefoundanevilsign outside his hut. So wewere told byNelson.Motherhad sent him over to theschool to take Leah someboiledeggsfordinner,andhecame running back to tell usAnatole was over therelooking like he’d seen aghost. Nelson wouldn’t saywhat the evil sign was, just

that itwasadreadedkibaazusign of a bad curse put onAnatole.We kind of thoughthe might have made thewholethingup.Nelsoncouldbedramatic.Well,no,sir.Nextmorning

bright and early, Anatolefound a green mamba snakecurled up by his cot, and itwas justby thegraceofGodhe didn’t get bit on the legand die on the spot. Goodluck,or amiracle, one.They

said he usually always getsout of bed before daybreakand goes out for hisconstitutionalandwouldhavestepped right on it, but thatmorning for some reason hewoke up too early anddecided to lighthis lampandread in bed awhile beforegettingup,andthat’swhenhesaw it. He thought someonehad thrown a rope inside hishouse for another evil sign,but then it moved! No more

signs; this was the true evilthing!Thestorywentbuzzingaround the village quickereven than if we’d hadtelephones. People wererunning around because itwasthebigdayandtheyhadto get ready, but this gavethemsomethingextratothinkabout, and boy oh boy, theydid. Idon’tcare if theywerefollowersofGodalmightyorthe things that bump you inthe night, they were praying

to it now, believe you me.Thanking their lucky starsthat what happened toAnatole hadn’t happened tothem.

AdahBETO NKITUTASALA

means: What are we doing?Doing, we are what? Alasatutiknoteb.Alas.Thenightbefore the hunt therewas nosleep at all. Eye on sleep

peelsnoeye!Wethoughtwewere looking, but could notsee what was before us.Leopards walked upright onthe paths and snakes movedquietly from their holes. TheS on the floor -was not forsleep.People are bantu; the

singular is muntu. Muntudoes not mean exactly thesame as person, though,because it describes a livingperson, a dead one, or

someonenotyetborn.Muntupersists through all thoseconditions unchanged. TheBantu speak of “self” as avisionresidinginside,peeringout through the eyeholes ofthe body, waiting forwhateverhappensnext.Usingthe body as a mask, muntuwatches and waits withoutfear, because muntu itselfcannot die. The transitionfrom spirit to body and backto spirit again is merely a

venture. It is a ride on thepowerofnommo,theforceofa name to call oneself.Nommo rains from a cloud,rises in the vapor from ahuman mouth: a song, ascream, a prayer. A drumgives nommo in Congo,where drums have language.Adancegivesnommowherebodies are not separate fromthewillthatinhabitsthem.Inthat other long-ago place,America, I was a failed

combination of too-weakbodyandoverstrongwill.Butin Congo I am those thingsperfectlyunited:Adah.The night before the hunt,

while no one slept, everymuntuinKilangadancedandsang: drums, lips, bodies. Insong theynamed theanimalsthat would become our feastandsalvation in themorning.And they named the thingsthey feared: Snake. Hunger.Leopardsthatwalkuprighton

thepathslikemen.Thesearethe nommo, they chanted,these bodies living anddancing and joining togetherwithslick,blackotherbodies,all beating the thing withfeathers:beatingoutthedear,dearhope,achance togoonliving.Butmuntudidnotcareif thebodies livedordiedonthe morrow. Muntu peeredout through the eyeholes,watching closely to seewhatwouldhappennext.

Before first light we allcame together at the edge ofthe village, not down by theriver, where Our Fatherwould have gathered us, butaway from there, on the sidetoward the hill, where oursalvation lay. We made ourmarch into the field ofelephantgrass, trampeduponthe big hill rising. Grass astall as livingmen, and taller,but dry and white as a deadwoman’shair.Withsticksthe

men laid the tall grassdown.They beat it in unison as ifbeating down grass were adance, grunting softly in along, low rhythm that ranback to us from the head ofthe file.Men with bows andarrows, men with spears,evenafewwithgunswereupahead of us.Their chantwasthe only sound in the coolmorning haze. Children andwomenfollowed,carryingthelargest baskets their arms

were able to circle. Minehung on a strap over myshoulderbecausemyarmsdonot circle well. Behind uscame the oldest women,carrying smoldering torches,greenheart poles wrapped inpalm-oil-soaked rags. Highup they held their torches,bruisingtheairoverheadwiththe smoke of our procession.The sun hung low on theriver, seeming reluctant toenterthisstrangeday.Thenit

rose redly into the purpledsky,resemblingablackeye.At a signal given by Tata

Ndu our single file dividedand curved outward to eitherside of the hill. A solemnwishbone of eager, hungrypeople—thatishowwemighthave appeared to the muntudead and unborn whowatched from above. In halfanhour the frontsof the twolines met, and we hungrywishbone people of Kilanga

completed our circle aroundthehill.Ashout flutteredup.The fire starters laid downtheirtorches.Youngerwomenopened their pagnes and ranforward, fanning the flameslike moths dancing before acandle.Ourcirclewassolargethe

shouts we heard from theother side seemed to comefrom another country. Soonall sound was swallowed bythe fire. It did not roar but

grumbled, cracked, shushed,sucking the air from ourthroatsandallspeechwithit.Theflameroseandlickedthegrass and we all movedforward, chasing the line ofbrightness ahead of us.Chasing flames that passedhungrily over the startledgrass, leaving nothing of lifebehind. Nothing but hot,black, bare ground anddelicate white filaments ofash, which stirred and

crumbled under the trampleof bare feet. Now the menrushed ahead with bowscocked, impatient for thecircle to shrink toward itscenter. Smaller and smallerthecircleungrew,withalltheformer life of a broad grassyplain trapped inside. Theanimals all caught up in thisdance together, mice andmen. Men who pushed andpranced, appearing to us asdark stick puppets before the

wall of fire. The old peopleand children came alongslowly behind.Wewere likeodd ruined flagpoles, bentdouble, with our brightclothes flapping. Slowscavengers. We fanned outacrossthehissingblackfield,picking up charred insects.Mostcommonwere thecrispnguka caterpillars, favoritesnack of Anatole’sschoolboys,which resembledsmall twigs and were

impossible to see until Ilearned to sense theirparticular gray curve. Wepicked them up by thebasketfuluntil they filledmymind’s eye so completely IknewIwouldseetheminmysleep.Easier tofindwerethedikonko, edible locusts andcrickets, whose plumpabdomens were shrunktranslucentlikeballoonshalf-filledwithwater.CaterpillarsoneafteranotherIlaidonmy

tongue,theircharcrispbristletaste a sweet momentarysalve to a body aching forprotein.Hungerofthebodyisaltogether different from theshallow, daily hunger of thebelly.Thosewhohaveknownthis kind of hunger cannotentirely love, ever again,thosewhohavenot.The firemoved faster than

we did, we the young andelderlyshepherdessesofdeadinsects.SometimesIstoodup

straight to let the blood runfrom my head to the numbslabs of muscle at the backsofmythighs.Motherheldontight to the hand of RuthMay, her chosen child, butalsostayednearme.Sincetheterrible night of the ants,Motherhadbeencreepingherremorse in flat-footed circlesaround me without everspeaking of it, wearing herguilt like the swollen breastsof anursingmother.So far I

had refused to suckle andgive her relief, but I keptclose by. I had no choice,sincesheandRuthMayandIwere thrown together bycaste,setapartfromLeahtheHuntress.Bychoice,wealsostayed far from Rachel andFather.Theirnoisypresences,of two different kinds,embarrassedusinthisfieldofearnest, quiet work.SometimesIsetahandabovemyeyesandlookedforLeah,

butdidnot seeher. Instead Iwatched Ruth May crunchthoughtfully on a caterpillar.Soiled and subdued, shelooked like a smallmalnourished relative of myprevious sister. The farawaylook of her eyes must havebeenthemuntuofRuthMay,chained to this brieflybelligerent child throughforelife, life, and afterlife,peering out through hersockets.

Thefireranaheadattimes,and sometimes flagged, as ifgrowing tired like the rest ofus. The heat wasunspeakable. I imagined thetasteofwater.As theringburnedsmaller

we suddenly caught sight ofits other side, the red-orangetonguesandblackashclosingin. The looming shapes ofanimals bunched up inside:antelopes, bushbucks, broad-headed warthogs with

warthog children runningbehind them. A troop ofbaboonsranwitharchedtailsflying as they zigzagged, notyet understanding theirentrapment. Thousands ofinsectsbeattheairtoapulpysoup of animal panic. Birdshitthewalloffireandlitlikebottle rockets. When itseemed there was no moreair, no more hope, theanimals began to run outthroughthefireintotheopen,

where spears and arrowswaited.Theantelopesdidnotleapgracefullyas I imaginedtheywould;theywheeledlikespooked horses around theinside of the circle, thensuddenly veered out as if byaccident or blindness. Seeingtheir companions shot in theneckwitharrows,theyheeledin panic, sometimes turningbacktotheflamesbutmostlyrunning straight on, straighttoward people and death. A

small spotted antelope felldown very near me andpresented me with thestrange, singular gift of itsdeath. I watched its heavingsides slowly come to rest, asif it had finally caught itsbreath. Dark blood leakedfromitsdelicateblackmouthontothecharredground.

For every animal struckdown,thereroseanequalandopposite cry of human

jubilation. Our hungrywishbone cracked and ranslick with marrow. Womenkneltwiththeirknivestoskinthe meat, even before thehooves stopped beating theground inpanic.Of the largeanimals who came throughthe fire—bushbuck, warthog,antelope— few escaped.Others would not come outand so they burned: smallflame-feathered birds, thechurning insects, and a few

female baboons who hadmanaged against all odds tocarry their pregnanciesthrough the drought. Withtheir bellies underslung withpreciousclingingbabies,theyloped behind the heavy-manedmales,whowould tryto save themselves, but onreaching the curtain of flamewhere the others passedthrough, they drew up short.Crouchedlow.Understandingno choice but to burn with

theirchildren.Thecurtainofheatdivided

the will to survive fromsurvival itself. I could havefallen trembling on thegroundbutstoodandwatchedinstead, watched Kilanga’schildrenshoutanddanceeachtimetheyfoundthescorched,angular bodies of a motherbaboon and baby searedtogether.Onaccountofthesedeaths, Kilanga’s gleefulchildren would live through

another season. The bantuwho watched from abovewould have seen a blackfestival of life and deathindistinguishable one fromthe other against the black-scorchedground.Asthatdaywouldturnout,

my sister Rachel became(briefly) a vegetarian. Mysisters Ruth May and Leah:forager and hunter. I becamesomethingelse.Onthedayofthe hunt I came to know in

the slick center of my bonesthisonething:allanimalskillto survive, and we areanimals.The lion kills thebaboon; the baboon kills fatgrasshoppers. The elephanttearsuplivingtrees,draggingtheir precious roots from thedirt they love. The hungryantelope’s shadow passesover the startled grass. Andwe,evenifwehadnomeatoreven grass to gnaw, still boilourwater tokill the invisible

creatures that would like tokill us first. And swallowquinine pills. The death ofsomething living is the priceof our own survival, and wepay it again and again. Wehave no choice. It is the onesolemnpromiseevery lifeonearth is born and bound tokeep.

LeahI KILLED MY FIRST

GAME, a beautiful tawny

beastwithcurvedhornsjandablackdiagonalstripeacrosshis flank: a young maleimpala. He was completelybewildered by the fire, tooyoung to have any goodstrategy for danger, but oldenough to need to put on ashow. He ran pell-mell,snorting like a playgroundbully till he was one of thelastofhiskindleftinsidethecircle.Iknewhe’dsooncomethrough.The way his hooves

tore at the ground was sodesperate, and his familyalreadygone.IcrouchednearNelson,watching.Nelsonhadtaken down two bushbucks,one after the other, andsignaled to me that he wasgoing to claim his arrows.Theimpalahewasleavingtome.Ifolloweditwithmyeyeas Nelson had taught me todo,lookingforthepathofitshopes. Suddenly I sawexactlywhere itwouldbreak

through the fire. He wouldcomestraight towardmeandveer to my right, where hismother had gone. Even aplayground bully will wanthismotherinthebitterend.Iheld my breath to stop myarms from trembling. I hadthe hunger and thirst of afamine all to myself, smokein my burning eyes, and nostrengthleft.IprayedtoJesustohelpme, then toanyothergod who would listen. Help

mekeepmy left armstraightandmyrightpulledbackandmy arrow tight against thegutstring ready to sing andfly. One, he came anddodged... two, he camecloser... three, he broke hisgait,paused...four!He leaped sideways away

fromme, all four legs drawntogether in midair for half asecond, and then he ran on.OnlywhenIsawthesprayofbrownblooddidIunderstand

I’d hit him. My own heartplungedandburstagainstmyears. I have killed an animallargerthanmyself! Iscreamedas ifstruckby

an arrow myself. Before Irealized my legs had movedme Iwas chasing the impaladownthepathofhishopes—the foresthe could seeat theend of the long, charredvalley, where he would findhismotherandsafety.Buthecrumpled, slowed and fell

down. I stood over him,breathing fast. It took me aminute to understand what Isaw: twoarrows inhis flank.Neither one of them fletchedred,asmyarrowswere.AndTata Ndu’s oldest sonGbenyeshoutingatmetogetaway,goonaway,“A,baki!”MeaningthatIwasathief.But then Nelson was

besideme,wavingmyarrow.“This arrow killed thatimpala” he shouted at

Gbenye. “It passed throughthe neck. Look at yours.Twolittle pricks in his flank. Henever even felt them beforehedied.”Gbenye’s lipcurled.“How

wouldawoman’sarrowkillayearlingimpala?”“By making a hole in his

neck, Gbenye. Your arrowswent for the tail like a dogafter his bitch. Where wasyouraim,nkento?”Gbenye raisedhis fist, and

I was sure he would killNelsonfor that insult.Butheflung his finger toward meinstead, and shook it as ifhewereriddinghimselfofbloodor slime. Commanded me toskintheimpalaandbringthemeat down to the village.Thenturnedandwalkedawayfromus.Nelson drew his knife and

knelt to help me with thetedious work of cuttingthrough the tendons and

peeling back the pelt. I feltmixed up, grateful, and sickatheart.Nelson had ridiculed

Gbenye’saimbycallinghimnkento.Awoman.

RachelIF YOU EVEN THINK

youcanpicturehowawful itwas,youarewrong.Lambstotheslaughter.Wewere,ortheanimals were, I don’t even

knowwhoIfeelsorryforthemost. It was the mostdespicable day of my life. Istood on that burnt-up fieldwith the tasteof ashes inmymouth, ashes inmy eyes, onmy hair and my dress, allstainedand tarnished. Istoodandprayed to theLord Jesusifhewaslisteningtotakemehome to Georgia, where Icould sit down in a WhiteCastleandorderahamburgerwithouthavingtoseeitseyes

roll back in its head and thebloodcomespurtingoutofitscorpse.Oh,theycheeredtoseeit.I

have not seen so muchcheeringsinceahomecominggame.Everybody jumped forjoy.Metooatfirst,forIwasthinking, Hooray, a halfwaydecent meal at last. If I eatonemore egg omelet I thinkI’ll turnover easy andcluck.But by the end of the dayeverybodywas smearedwith

blood like creepy, happyghouls,andIcouldn’tbeartobe one of them myself.Everything changed. Thevillagers transformed intobrutish creatures before myvery eyes, with their hungrymouthsgapingwide.Myownsister Leah got down on herknees and eagerly skinned apoor little antelope, startingout by slitting its belly andpeelingbacktheskinoveritsback with horrible ripping

sounds. She and Nelsonhunkered down side by side,using a knife and even theirteeth to do it. Both of themwere so covered with ashesthey looked like the pot andthe kettle, each one blackerthan the other. When theyfinishedwith the thing, it laythere limp on the ground allshiny blue and red, coveredwith a slick white film. ItlookedlikeouroldhounddogBabe, except all made of

gristle and blood. Its baredead eyes gaped out of itshead, pleading for mercy. IbentoverandthrewuponmyPF Flyers. Lord Jesus. Icouldn’t help it. I wentstraight back down theburned-up hill and marchedall the way home, withouteven telling Mother I wasleaving.Iamseventeenyearsold,afterall,notachild,andIalonewilldecidethefateofmy life. The rest of them

were all going to the stupidtown square, with the planI’msurebeing towhoopandholleraboutourgoodfortuneand divide up all the deadloot.Not me. I latched myself

uptightinourkitchenhouse,toreoffmyfilthyclothesandthrew them into the stove. Iheatedthebigkettleofwaterand poured it into thegalvanized tub and sat in itlikeascaldedpotato,alonein

this world, just crying.Mother’spictureofPresidentEisenhower looked down atme from the wall, and Icrossed my arms over mynakedchestforshame,cryingevenharder.Ifeltmyredskinwasgoingtoscaldplumboff,andthenI’dlookjustlikethatpoorantelope.Theywouldn’tbe able to tell me from anyother skinned carcass theydrughomethatday.Finewithme if I died right alongwith

the rest of the poor animals.Who would care anyway?WhilethewatercooleddownI sat there looking up at thePresident. His round whitehead was so friendly andkind, I cried like a babybecause I wanted him for afather instead of my ownparents. I wanted to liveunder the safe protection ofsomebody who wore decentclothes,boughtmeatfromthegrocery store like the Good

Lord intended, and caredaboutothers.I vowed that if I lived

through this ordeal, I wouldnot touch a single one ofthose animals they trappedand killed out there on thehillside like innocentchildren.That’sall theywere—the baboons and warthogsandantelopesscaredcrazybythe fire. And the people nodifferent from animals: Leahand all those men licking

their lips, already tastingroastedmeat in the smokeofthe fire.And poor littleRuthMay picking up burntgrubworms and putting themstraightinhermouthbecauseher own parents can’t keepherfed.Allofthemouttherein the hot sun that day werejust dumb animals cursedwiththemarkofashontheirbrow. That’s all. Poor dumbanimals running for theirlives.

LeahIT SHOULD HAVE

BEEN themost glorious dayin our village, but instead itallcamecrashingdown.Fiftyyears from now if I’m stilllivingIwilllookbackonthatone afternoon, and themorning that followed. Eventhen I swear I’ll know it forwhat itwas: themost terribledayofourlives.

After the hunt ended therewas supposed to be acelebration,butbeforetheoldmen could drag their drumsoutunderthetreeandgetthedancingstarted,ithadalreadyturned into a melee ofscreaming and fighting. Menwe had known as kindly,generous fathers suddenlybecame strangers -withclenched fists andwideeyes,shouting into each other’sfaces. Ruth May burst into

tears and hid in Mother’sskirt. I don’t think she everunderstood what happened.Notever.IknowIplayedapart.Ido

understand that.Butsomuchhad already gone wrongbefore I joined in. From thetime we first set foot inKilanga things were goingwrong, though we couldn’tsee it. Even the gloriousIndependence was not goingto be good for everyone, as

they’d promised that day onthe riverbank, whenLumumba and the Belgiansraised up their differentpromises and thewhiteKinglurked somewhere indisguise.Thereweregoingtobe winners and losers. Nowthere are wars in the south,killings in the north, rumorsthat foreigners took over thearmy and want to murderLumumba.On thedayof thehunt a war was already

roaring toward us, whitesagainst blacks. We were allswept up in a greediness wecouldn’tstop.MyargumentwithGbenye

over the impala,whichreallyI killed, became a shoutingmatchbetweenpeoplewho’dvotedformeandthosewho’dvoted against. Some changedsides, mostly turning againstme because of TataKuvudundu’s warnings. Theterrible things he promised

were already starting tohappen. Eyes watched usfrom the treesaswedraggedour burden of meat down tothe village, piled it up, andgathered around in a hungryknot.Gbenyewas the first tomove, pulling my antelopeoff the pile and holding itproudly in the air. Tata Ndutook it from him, raised hismachete, and with one hardblowslicedoffahindquarter.This he picked up and threw

toward me. It hit the groundwith a thump in front ofme,throwingbloodonmysocks.In theperfectabsenceofanyhuman sound, the locusts inthe leavesaboveus roared inmyears.IknewwhatIoughttodo:

pick it up in both hands andgive it to Mama Mwanza. Ishould turn the other cheek.Butthesinofpridetookholdof me with a fierce grip. Ipickedupthewholebleeding

leg and threw it at Gbenye,hitting him square across theback as he gloated to hisfriends.Hestaggeredforwardand one of his friendslaughed.TataNduturnedtome,his

eyesferociousunderhishugefurrowed brow. He flung hishand toward us in disgust.“Tata Price has refused hisfamily’s share of meat,” heannouncedinKikongo.“Abumpya.Who’snext?”

He glared at each silentfaceinturn.“Anatole!”he declared at

last.“Anatolebaanabansisilaau a-aana!” Anatole theorphan without descendants!—the bitterest insult thatcould be borne by aCongoleseman.“Foryouthiswill be plenty,” pronouncedTata Ndu, pointing at thesame skimpy hindquarter inthedirt.Onlyhoursagoithadbeenthestronghindlegofan

antelope boy. Now it laynaked at our feet, coveredwithfilth.Itlookedmorelikeacursethanagift.Anatole answered in his

polite schoolteacher’s voice.“Excusez-moi, Tata Ndu,maisnon.ca,c’estdecompteademidelafamillePrice.Lagrande bete la, c’est lamienne”Inhistwohands,byhimself, Anatole the orphanwithoutdescendantsbegan todrag away one of the large

bushbucks he’d shot on thehill. It wasn’t right for TataNdu to insult Anatole, whohadn’t really taken my sidebutonlyarguedforpeopletothink for themselves. Now Iwas terrified that he’d bedrivenawayfromassociatingwithourfamilyatall.Tata Boanda stepped

forward to help Anatole, Isawwithrelief.ButthenTataBoandapulledawayabruptlyand began to shout, and I

understood he was claimingAnatole’s bushbuck forhimself. The elder MamaBoanda ran forwardscreamingandstruckAnatolein the face. He let go,stumbling backward. I ran tosteady him but was rammedfrom behind by old one-armed Tata Kili, who couldnotgetpastmefastenoughinhis hurry to claim his ownstake. Behind him came thetwo Mama Kilis, determined

tooverseehisclaimandraiseit. TataNdu spoke again butwasdrownedoutbythewaveof our neighbors that rolledforward, parting and closingaroundhim.Andsoitcametopassthat

the normal, happy event ofdividing food after a huntbecame a war of insults andrage and starving bellies.Thereshouldhavebeenmorethanenoughforeveryfamily.But as we circled to receive

our share of providence, thefat flanks of the magnificentbeastswe’dstalkedonthehillshrank to parched sinew, thegristle of drought-starvedcarcasses. Abundancedisappeared before our eyes.Where there was plenty, wesuddenly saw not enough.Even little children slappedtheir friends and stolecaterpillars fromeachother’sbaskets.Sonsshoutedattheirfathers. Women declared

elections and voted againsttheir husbands. The elderlymenwhosevoiceshardlyroseabove a whisper, becausethey were so used to beinglistened to, were silencedcompletely in the ruckus.Tata Kuvudundu lookedbedraggled and angry. Hiswhite robe was utterlyblackenedwithash.Heraisedhis hands and once againswore his prophecy that theanimalsandallofnaturewere

risingupagainstus.We tried to ignore his

strange remarks, but we alldidhearhim. In somecornerof our hearts we all drewback, knowing he was right.Thedeadbeasts inourhandsseemed to be cursing andmocking us for having killedthem. In theendweall crepthome with our meat, feelinghunted ourselves. What wassurely the oldest celebrationof all, the sharing of plenty,

had fallen to ruin in ourhands.

RachelBY NIGHTFALL my

sisters and parents camehome and everything hadgonecrazy.Nothingwenttheway I expected. I had gottenout of my bath, dressed incleanclothes,towel-driedmyhair, and was sitting quietlyin thefront roomprepared to

announce tomyfamily that Iwas a vegetarian. Iunderstoodfullwellwhatthismeant: fromnowon Iwouldhave to exist onbananas andhave poor nutrition. I knewMother would have strongopinions about where I’dwindup,withcurvedlegsandweak bones like the poorCongolese children. But Ishan’t care, not even if myhair falls out.At seventeen Ihave my rights, and besides,

I’dmademyownsecretplan.As soon as Eeben Axelrootcame back I was determinedto use my feminine wilds tomyownadvantage.Nomatterwhatittook,Iwouldgethimtotakemeawayfromhereinhisairplane. “My fiance,Mr.Axelroot, and I are planningon returning to America,” Iwouldtellthem,“whereit’safree country and you can getanything to eat that youwant.”

But this is not theconversation that happened.When they came home,everybody was having aconniption about a big giantfight in the village overwhogot whose share of theirhorrid meat. They went ontalking and remarking aboutitwhileMotherbuiltafireinthe stove and put in theirantelope leg to roast, andmashedsomeplantains.Itdidsmell so good. You could

hear it all sizzlingandcrispyand juicy, and I have toconfess when dinnertimecame I did eat a few smallbites, butonlybecause Iwaspositivelyweakwith hunger.And I got to thinking aboutmy hair falling out. But iftherehadbeenagrocerystorewithin one hundred miles,believe me, I would havewalked there on my ownreconnaisance for somecuisine that didn’t still have

feetattachedtoit.Atdinnertheruckusofour

householdwasstillgoingon,with Leah still saying overand over how she shot awhole antelope herself and itwas not fair that our familydidn’tget it.Father informedher that God showed nomercy upon those whoflouted their elders, and thathe, Reverend Price, hadwashed his hands of hermoraleducation.Hesaid this

in just the plainest everydayvoice,asifdiscussingthatthedog had gotten into thegarbage again.He stated thatLeah was a shameful andinadequate vessel for God’swill, and that was “why hewould no longer even stoopto punishing her when sheneededit.Leahspokeback tohimin

a calm voice as if she toowerediscussingwhateverhadgottenintothegarbageandit

certainlywasn’ther.Shesaid,“Is that your point of view,Father? How interesting thatyou think so,” and so forth.Whichwasfineanddandyforher, I guess, if she wasn’tgoing to get punished for it!Lucky duck. Ruth May andAdahandIstayedoutofit,usstill being adequate vesselsfor a good licking, the lastwe’d heard. Even thoughsomeone could have pointedout to Father that at least

somebody finally broughthome some bacon at ourhouse. Someone could haveremarked that it isLeahwhowearsthepantsinourfamily,which is true. Mother tooksides against Father withoutsaying so, in the noisy wayshestackedtheplates.Then suddenly from one

second to the next theywerealltransposedonNelson,whocame running into the houseafraid for his life. It was

something about a snake.He’d seen the evil signoutside our chicken house.Well, that was hardly asurprise because for the lastfew days people had beenfinding snakes everyplace.Insidethehouse,forinstance,insideabeanbasketwith thelidontight.Placeswhereyouwouldn’t think itwas naturalfor a snake tobe.Everybodywas so afraid, Nelson said,youcouldseeAfraidwalking

around on its own two feet.Whenhe saw the evil sign itsent him singing like acanary, because our chickenhouseiswherehesleeps.

He was positive he wasdoomed, and there was justno reasoning with him.Mother did try, but hewouldn’t listen.He saidhe’dbeen just fixing to go to bedwhen he heard a sound andwent outside to look. When

he stepped out the door, twoshadowsintheshapeofanXfell across his path. Latelyhe’s been tying the chicken-house door shut with a ropewhenheturnsinforthenight,butnowitwasplaintoseenorope -was going to be strongenough. Nelson was notgoing tosleep inourchickenhouse for all the teeth inChina.Well, any two straight

thingscanmakeashadowof

anXiswhatMothertoldhim,which is true,especiallywitha wild imagination cominginto play. Probably someclown is just trying to scarehimandneedsagoodpokeinthepuss.ButNelsonsaidthiswas not just ordinaryshadows. He said it was thedreamingofsnakes.Father announced thiswas

the unfortunate effect ofbelievinginfalseidolsandhewashed his hands of the

affair. He was washing hishands left and right thatevening. Mother didn’tnecessarily agree with him,but I could see she didn’twantusgoinganywherenearthat chicken house toinvestigate. Father quoted aBible verse about the onlythingwehadtofearwasfearitself. He told Mother if sheletNelsonsleep inourhousethat night she’d be playingdirectly into thehandsof the

idol worshipers, and if shewanted to count herself asone of them she could takeher children and go seekshelter among them.Thenheturned to us and declared itwashightimeforustogotobed and put the light out onlaughable Congolesesuperstitions.ButNelsonslunkoutofthe

houseinsuchaterrifiedstatewe couldn’t find anything tolaugh about, that is for sure.

Even Anatole had beentelling us to be extra carefulright now, and Anatole, Imust admit, has his headfirmly attached to hisshoulders. We tried to getready for bed, but all wecould hear was Nelsonoutside whimpering to beallowed to come in, and webecame scared out of ourminds. Even Leah did. Wedid not believe in voodoospirits, and informed each

otherofthatfacttillwewereblueintheface.Butstilltherewassomedarkthingouttherewatching us from the forestandcoilingupunderpeople’sbeds at night, and whetheryou call it fear or thedreaming of snakes or falseidolatry or what—it’s stillsomething. It doesn’t carewhat prayers we say atbedtime,orwhetherweadmitwe believe in it. Does itbelieve in us, that’s the

question.We lay in our beds

listening to Nelson’s steady,high-pitchedbegging.Sticky-toed lizards ran sidewaysalong the walls. The moonmade shadows on ourmosquito netting. Nelsonpleaded, “Bdkala mputuNelson, bakala mputu” overandover like apoor starvingdog that’s been whining solong it doesn’t know how tostop. We heard Father’s

bedsprings groan suddenly,then Father at the windowyelling for him to shut up.Leah rolled over and put herpillowonherhead.Ifeltsickto my stomach. We all did.Father’s hatefulness andMother’s silent fright wereinfectingourminds.“Thisiswrong,”Leahsaid

finally. “I’m going to helphim. Who has the guts tocomewithme?”The thought of going out

theregavemethewillies.Butif the others went, I wasn’tgoingtostayinherewiththeshadowsand lizards,either. Ithink our house gaveme theworst willies of all. Thathouse was the wholeproblem, because it had ourfamily in it. I was long pastthe point of feeling safehuddling under my parents’wings.Maybe when we firstcametoCongoIdid,becausewewere all just hardlymore

than children then. But noweverything has changed;being American doesn’tmatter and nobody gives usanyspecialcredit.Nowwe’reall in this stewpot together,black or white regardless.And certainly we’re notchildren.Leahsays inCongothere’s only two ages ofpeople:babiesthathavetobecarried,andpeoplethatstandup and fend for themselves.No in-between phase. No

such thing as childhood.SometimesIthinkshe’sright.After a while she said

again,“I’mgoingouttheretohelp Nelson, and Father cangostraighttohell.”Whetherwesaidsoornot,

therestofuscertainlyagreedupon where Father could gostraightto.Surprisingly, Adah sat up

and started to pull on herjeans. That was her way ofsaying, “I’m in.” So I felt

around on the floor for mypenny loafers. Leah pulledRuthMay’sshirtonoverherheadandstuck her tennis shoes on

herfeet.Asquietasmice,wecrept outside through thewindow.Whatwedecidedtodowas

tosetatrap,likeDanielinthetemple. This was Leah’sinspiration. Nelson raked apan of cold ashes out of thestove, and together we

strewed them all around thehard-pan-dirtyardoutsidethechicken house. Inside it, too.We worked by candlelight.Nelson kept a lookout tomakesurenoonesawus.ButRuth May was careless, andthe rest of us were also, tosomeextent,andmadetracksovereachother’stracks.Thenour two chickens gotdisturbedbyour lights, sincethey’d come from a differentway of life over at Mama

Mwanza’s and weren’t usedtolivinginourchickenhouseyet, so they ran aroundmakingchickentracksontopof everything. We had tosweepitallupandstartover.The second time we weremuchmorecareful.WemadeRuthMay stand in one spot,andchasedthechickensbackinto the nest box to roost.Theylookeddownatuswiththeir stupid little eyes andmade soft noises into their

feathers to calm themselvesdown.When it was all done, we

madeNelsonpromisetohideoutthenightatAnatole’sandcorne back before daybreak.Leah ran halfway there withhim, because he was scared,andcamebackbyherself.Weall tiptoedinsidetoourbeds,leaving the ashes perfectbehind us like newly fallensnow. If anyone or anythingset foot inourchickenhouse

—if it had feet, that is—wewould catch the culprit red-handed.

AdahTHERE ARE SEVEN

WAYSforafoottotouchtheground, each with its ownparticular power. Did heknow how it would come tous in the end?Should I haveknown? For I had watched

him, long before. Watchedhim dancing, foot to ground,watchedhimthrowthebones.In the clearing behind ourhouse is where he made histrouble.With hismachete hecutofftheheadsoftwosmallliving dogs and pressed theirnoses to the ground, recitingpromises. Against him,quietly, I unlockedmy voiceandsang in theforest. I sangagainst himmymost perfectbackward-forward hymns,

because I have no otherpowersofmyown.Lived a tune, rare nut, a

devil,Livedadevil!Livedadevil!Wets dab noses on bad

stew,Evildeedlive!Evil deed live! Sun! opus!

rat!Seestarsuponus,Eye,leveleye!Eye,leveleye!Warnrotten

Ada,nettornraw.

Eyedidpeepdideye.On the morning after we

spread the ashes, we wokebefore sunrise. Wondering“what wemight have caughtinour trap,we laystilland -wide-eyed in our beds untilNelson’sfaceappearedatouropenwindow. Then, while our

parents still slept,we tiptoedoutofthehouse.Nelsonwithapoletwiceastallashimselfwaitedforus.Inthecompany

ofnothingbutour fear itself,wewenttothechickenhouse.Strange to say, if you do

not stamp yourself with thewordsexhilaratedorterrified,those two things feel exactlythesameinabody.Creepingpast our parents’ bedroomand out the door, our bodiesfelt as theydidonChristmasPast and all the Eastermornings of theworld,whenChristisrisenandourmotherhashiddena tribeof sugared

marshmallow bunnies in thestartled grass oi a parsonagelawn in Bethlehem, Georgia.RuthMaymarvel-eyedwithahandcuppedoverhermouth,I have willed myself toforget, forget, forget, andnotforget,forthoseeyeswillseethrough anything, even mydreams. Ruth May with theeyesofanEastermorning.As Nelson knew it would

be, it was there inside thechickenhouse.Hestoppedus

inthedoorway,andwefrozebehind his outstretched armuntilwe saw it too in the farcorner,inthenestbox,curledtightly around our twoprecious hens and all theireggs. Two poor, ruffle-feathered mothers without abreath between them, boundto theirstillbornfuture.Nest,eggs, and hens were all onepackage,wrapped in a vivid,slender twine of brilliantgreen. It was so pretty, so

elaborately basket-wovenamong hen and egg, we didnot at first understand whatwe saw. A tisket, a tasket, agift. Nelson raised his longpoleandshovedhard,hittingthe wall above the nest sodustraineddownonthedark,quiet hens.The green vineshiftedsuddenly,everypartatonce moving up, down, orsideways. Stopped, thenmoved forward one moreinch through the path of its

knot. A small blunt heademergedandswiveledtofaceus.Very slowly it split itselfwide,showingthebrightblueinside of itsmouth, two barefangs. A tongue, delicatelylickingtheair.Suddenly it flew at the

pole, striking twice, thenflungitselffromthenestboxandshotpastusout thedoorintothebrightmorning,gone.Without breathing we

stared at the placewhere the

snakehadbeenuntiloureyescaught up and we could allwitness ourmemory of whathad passed before us. Greenmamba, mistress ofcamouflage, agility,aggressiveness, and speed.L’ingeniositediaboliquedelanature a atteint avec ceserpent le plus haut degre deperfection, the experts claiminthelibrarybookofsnakes:In this serpent the diabolicgenius of nature has attained

the highest degree ofperfection. What had passedbefore us was a basket ofdeath,exploded.AgiftmeantforNelson.Threeofus,then,breathed. Together. Droppedour eyes to the white-ashfloor.A foot had marked that

floorinallthesevenwaysofa dance. Footprints fannedout in tightcircles.Evildeedlive. Not the paws of aleopard walking upright,

turned against men byirreverence. Not the bellyslither of angry snakescomingupfromtheshelteredgroundoftheirownaccordtopunish us. Only a man, oneman and no other, whobrought thesnakeinabasketor carried it stunned orcharmedlikeagiftinhisowntwo hands. Only one singledancer with six toes on hisleftfoot.

LeahI ONLY REMEMBER

hearingagulpanda sobanda scream all at once, thestrangest cry, like a babytaking its first breath. Wecouldn’t tell where it camefrom, but strangely enough,we all looked up at thetreetops. A nervous windstirred the branches, butnothing more. Only silencefelldown.

It’s a very odd thing torecall, thatwe all looked up.NotoneofuslookedatRuthMay. I can’t say that RuthMaywas even therewith us,in that instant. Just for themoment it was as if she’ddisappeared, and her voicewas thrown into the trees.Then she returned to us, butallthatwasleftofherwasanawful silence. The voicelessemptyskinofmybabysistersittingquietly on theground,

huggingherself.“RuthMay, honey, it’s all

right,”Isaid.“Thebadsnakeisgone.”Ikneltdownbesideher,gentlytakingholdofhershoulder. “Don’t be scared.It’sgone.”Nelson knelt too, putting

his face close to hers. Heopenedhismouthtospeak,toreassureher,Iimagine,forhelovedRuthMay.Iknowthis.I’veseenhowhesingstoherand protects her. But the

terrible silence took hold ofNelson, too, and no wordscame.Hiseyesgrewwideaswe all watched her facechange to a pale blue maskpulleddownfromherhairlineto her swollen lips.No eyes.What I mean is that no onewe recognized was lookingoutthroughhereyes.“Ruth May, what is it?

What!Whatdidyousee’?”Inmy panic I shook her hard,and I think I must have

screamed thosewords at her.I can’t change what I did: Ishook her too hard, andscreamed at her. Maybe thatwas the last she knewof hersisterLeah.Nelson shoved me away.

He’d come to life againsuddenlyandspokesofastinKikongoIcouldn’tthinkhowto understand. He tore herblouse open, just ripped it,and put his face against herchest. Then drew back in

horror. As we watched indismayIrememberthinkingIshouldpayattentiontowherethe buttons fell, so I couldhelp her sew them back onlater.Buttonsare soprecioushere. The strangest things Ithought of, so ridiculous.Because I couldn’t look atwhatwasinfrontofme.“Midiki!” he screamed at

me. Iwaited for theword topierce my dumb, thick brainandbegintomeansomething.

“Milk,” he was shouting.“Getmilk. Of a goat, a dog,any kind, to draw out thepoison. Get Mama Nguza,”hesaid,“shewillknowwhattodo,shesavedhersonfroma green mamba once.Kakakaka,go!”But I found I couldn’t

move. I felt hot andbreathless and stung, like anantelope struck with anarrow. I could only stare atRuth May’s bare left

shoulder, where two redpuncture wounds stood outlike red beads on her flesh.Two dots an inch apart, assmallandtidyaspunctuationmarksattheendofasentencenone of us could read. Thesentence would have startedsomewhere just above herheart.

AdahBECAUSE I COULD

NOTSTOPFOR.DEATH—He kindly stopped for me. Iwas not present at RuthMay’sbirthbutIhaveseenitnow,becauseIsaweachstepof it played out in reverse atthe end of her life. Theclosingparenthesis,attheendof the palindrome that wasRuthMay. Her final gulp ofairashungryasababy’sfirstbreath. That last howlingscream, exactly like the first,and then at the end a fixed,

steadfast moving backwardout of this world. After thehowl, wide-eyed silencewithout breath. Her bluishface creased with a pressureclosingin,thenearproximityof the other-than-life thatcrowds down around theedges of living. Her eyesclosed up tightly, and herswollen lips clamped shut.Her spine curved, and herlimbsdrewinmoreandmoretightly until she seemed

impossibly small. While wewatched withoutcomprehension, she movedaway to where none of uswanted to follow. Ruth Mayshrank back through thenarrow passage between thisbrieffabricoflightandalltherest of what there is for us:the long waiting. Now shewillwait therestof thetime.It will be exactly as long asthe time that passed beforeshewasborn.

Because I could not stopfor death he kindly stoppedfor me, or paused at least tostrike a glancing blow withhis sky-blue mouth as hepassed. A lightning thatcannot strike twice, ourlesson learned in the hatefulspeedof light.Abiteat lightat Ruth a truth a sky-bluepresentimentandohhowdearwe are to ourselves when itcomes, it comes, that long,longshadowinthegrass.

RachelTHERE’S A STRANGE

MOMENT IN TIME, aftersomething horrible happens,when you know it’s true butyou haven’t told anyone yet.Of all things, that is what Iremember most. It was soquiet.AndIthought:NowwehavetogoinandtellMother.That RuthMay is, oh, sweetJesus.RuthMayisgone.Wehad to tell our parents, and

theywerestillinbed,asleep.I didn’t cry at first, and

then,Idon’tknowwhy,butIfell apart when I thought ofMother in bed sleeping..Mothers dark hair would beall askew on the pillow andherface,sweetandquiet.Herwholebody justnotknowingyet.Herbodythathadcarriedand given birth toRuthMaylast of all.Mother asletep inhernightgown,stillbelievingshehadfourlivingdaughters.

Now we were going to putonefootinfrontoftheother,walk to the back door, go inthe house, stand beside ourparents’ bed, wake upMother, say toher thewordsRuth May, say the worddead.Tell her, Mother wakeup!The whole world would

change then, and nothingwouldeverbeallrightagain.Not for our family. All theother people in the whole

wideworldmightgoonabouttheir business, but for us itwouldneverbenormalagain.I couldn’t move. None of

us could.We looked at eachother because we knewsomeone should go but Itthink we all had the samestrange idea that if we stoodtherewithoutmoving foreverand ever, we could keep ourfamily the way itt was. Wewouldnotwakeup from thisnightmare to find out itwais

someone’s real life, and foroncethatsomeonewasn’tjusta poor unlucky nobody in ashackyoucouldforgetabout.It was one life, the only onewe were going to have. TheonlyRuthMay.Until that moment I’d

always believed I could stillgo home and pretend theCongo never happened. Themisery,thehunt,theants,theembarrassmentsofallwesawandendured—thosewerejust

stories I would tell somedaywithalaughandatossofmyhair, when Africa wasfaraway and make-believelike the people in historybooks. The tragedies thathappened to Africans werenotmine.Wewere different,not just because we werewhite and had ourvaccinations, but becausewewere simply a much, muchluckier kind of person. Iwould get back home to

Bethlehem, Georgia, and beexactly the same Rachel asbefore. I’d grow up to be acarefreeAmericanwife,withnice things and a sensibleway of life and three grownsisterstosharemyidealsandtalk to on the phone fromtime to time. This is what Ibelieved. I’d never plannedon being someone different.NeverimaginedIwouldbeagirl they’d duck their eyesfrom and whisper about as

tragic, for having sufferedsuchaloss.IthinkLeahandAdahalso

believedthesethings, intheirown different ways, and thatiswhynoneofusmoved.Wethoughtwecouldfreeze timeforjustonemoreminute,andone more after that. That ifnone of us confessed it, wecouldholdbackthecursethatwasgoingtobeourhistory.

LeahMOTHER DID NOT

RANT or tear her hair. Shebehaved as if someone elsehad already told her, beforewegotthere.Silently she dressed, tied

backherhair, and set herselfto a succession of chores,beginning with tearing downthemosquitonettingfromallof our beds.We were afraidto ask what she was doing.We didn’t knowwhether she

wanted us all to get malarianow,forpunishment,orifshehad simply losthermind.Sowe stoodout of herway andwatched. All of us, evenFather. For once he had nowords to instruct our mindsand improve our souls, noparable thatwould turnRuthMay’sdeathbysnakebiteintoalessonontheGloryofGod.My Father, whose stronghandsalwaysseizedwhatevercame along andmolded it to

his will, seemed unable tograspwhathadhappened.“Shewasn’t baptized yet,”

hesaid.I looked up when he said

this, startled by such apathetically inadequateobservation. Was that reallywhat mattered to him rightnow—the condition of RuthMay’s soul? Mother ignoredhim,but I studiedhis face inthe brightmorning light. Hisblueeyeswiththeirleft-sided

squint,weakenedby thewar,had a vacant look. His largereddishears repelledme.Myfather was a simple, uglyman.It’s true that she wasn’t

baptized.Ifanyoneofushadcaredaboutthat,wecouldlaythe blame on Father. He’dmaintained that Ruth Maywasstilltooyoungtotaketheresponsibility of acceptingChrist,but in truthI thinkhewas holding her back for the

sake of pageantry. He wasgoingtobaptizehisownchildalong with all of Kilanga’s,onthatgreatdaydownattheriver when his dream finallycame true. It would lend anappearanceofsinceritytotheoccasion. Now he seemednarrow-witted and withoutparticular dreams. I couldn’tstand to lookathimstandingin the doorway, his bodyhanging from its frame withnothing but its own useless

hands for company. And allhe could think to say to hiswifewas“Thiscan’tbe.”It couldn’t be, but it was,

and Mother alone among usseemedtorealizethat.Withadark scarf over her hair andthe sleeves of her stainedwhite blouse rolled up, shedid her work as deliberatelyas the sun or moon, aheavenly body tracking itscourse through our house.Her tasks moved her

continually away from us—her senseless shadows, ahusbandandlivingdaughters.With determined efficiencyshe gathered up everythingshe would need from oneroombeforeshemovedtothenext, in the way I rememberher doing when we were allmuchyoungerandneededhermore.Shewentouttothekitchen

house, fired the stove,warmed a pan ofwater, then

carried itback into thehouseand set it on the big diningtable where Nelson had laidthe body on a bedsheet.Mother bathed Ruth Maywith a washcloth as if shewereababy.Istoodwithmyback to the wall,remembering too much ofanothertime,asIwatchedherrub carefully under the chinand in the folds at the backsof the elbows and knees. Inour house in Bethlehem I

used to stand outside thebathroomdoor,whereIcouldsee the two of them in themirror. Mother singing softquestions and kissing heranswers into the tiny,outstretchedpalms.AdahandIwereninethen,toooldtobejealous of a baby, but still Ihadtowonderifshehadeverloved me that much. Withtwins, she could only havelovedeachofusbyhalf.AndAdah was the one who

requiredmoreofher.Ahoneycreepersangfrom

the bushes outside thewindow. It seemedimpossible that an ordinary,bright day should beproceedingoutsideourhouse.Mother spread a small, softhand onto hers and washedthefingersoneatatime.Shecradledandliftedtheheadtorinseit,takingcarenottogetthe soapy water in RuthMay’seyes.As shedried the

limpblondhairwitha towel,she leaned in close, inhalingthescentofmysister’sscalp.I felt invisible. By the forceof my mother’s desire toconduct this ritual in private,she had caused me todisappear. Still, I couldn’tleave the room. After shedried and wrapped her babyin a towel she hummedquietlywhilecombingoutthetanglesandplaitingthedamphair. Then she began to cut

our mosquito netting intolong sheets and stitch thelayers together. At last weunderstood. She was makingashroud.“Leah, help me move this

tableoutside,” she saidwhenshe was finished. It was thefirst time she’d spoken inmore than half a day, toanyone,andIjumpedtodoasI was told. She moved RuthMaytoherownbedwhilewemoved the big, heavy table

outintothecenterofthefrontyard.Wehadtoturnitonendto get it out the door.Whenwe set it down, the legssettled soundly into the dustsoitdidnotwobble,asithadalwaysdoneinsidethehouse.Motherwentback insideandreturned with the shroudedbody inherarms.Gently shelaid Ruth May out on thetable, spending a long timearranging her arms and legswithin the sheer cloth. The

shadeof themangostretchedall the way across the yard,and I realized it must beafternoon, a fact thatsurprised me. I looked atseveralfamiliarthings,oneatatime:astripedgreenmangolying in the grass; my ownhand; our dining table. Allthese things seemed likeobjectsIhadn’tseenbefore.Ilookedatthetableandforcedmymind toaccept thewords“This ismydeadsister.”But

RuthMaywasshroudedinsomany misty layers ofmosquito netting I couldbarely make out anysemblance of a dead childinside. She lookedmore likea billowy cloud that couldriserightupthroughthetrees,whenever Mother finally lethergo.Nelson was weaving

togetherpalmfrondstomakea funeral arch of leaves andflowers to set over the table.

It looked something like analtar. I thought perhaps Iought to help him, but Icouldn’t think how. Severalwomen from the village hadalready come. MamaMwanza arrived first, withher daughters. A few at atime, the others followed.Theyfelldownattheedgeofouryardwhentheycame,andwalked on their knees to thetable. All of them had lostchildrenbefore, itdawnedon

me through my shock. Oursufferingnowwasnogreaterthantheirshadbeen,nomorerealortragic.Nodifferent. They all knelt

around the table silently forquite a while, and I knew Ishould join them, but I feltunaccountably afraid to getclose to the table. I stayedatthebackofthegroup.Suddenly one woman

shrieked, and I felt my skullwould split open. All the

others immediately joined inwith the quivering, highbildla. I felt blood rushingthrough all the narrow partsof my body: the wrists, thethroat,thebacksofmyknees.Adahwaswhite-facedbesideme, and looked intomyeyesas if she were drowning.We’d heard this strangemourning song many timesbefore,backduringtheheavyrainswhen somany childrengot sick. It had tricked us at

first,morethanonce,sendingusrunningtothewindowstosee what beautiful, exoticbirds made such a strangecall. Now, of course, wecouldn’t think of birds. Thetrilling of our neighbors’tongues set loose knives thatcut the flesh from our bonesand made us fall down withour shame and our love andour anger. We were all cutdowntogetherbytheknifeofour own hope, for if there is

anysinglethingthateveryonehopesformostdearly,itmustbe this: that the youngestoutlivetheoldest.In our family, the lastwas

first. I would like to believeshe got what she wanted. Igroundmy knees in the dustand shook and sobbed andopenedmymouth to cry outloud.Icrossedmyarmsovermy chest and held on tomyown shoulders, thinking ofRuth May’s sharp, skinny

shoulder blades under herlittlewhite shirt.Thinkingofant lions and “Mother MayI.” Recalling her strange,transfigured shadow the lasttime I pushed her in theswing. The sounds of ourvoices rose up through thetreebranchesintothesky,butRuthMaydidnot.When the wailing finally

stopped,wewerewrapped insilence and the buzzing oflocusts.Theairwasthickand

ponderous with humidity. Itfelt like a wet wool blanketyoucouldnottakeoff.Mother had begunmoving

all of our furniture into theyard. First the chairs. Thenourbedsandmyfather’sroll-topdesk.Theseheavy thingsshe dragged by herself, eventhough Iknowfora fact thattwomonths ago she couldn’thave moved them. Icontinued to watch withoutany particular expectation as

she emerged, next, with ourclothes and books. Then ourcooking pots. She stackedthesethingsonthechairsanddesk. The women watchedclosely, as my sisters and Idid, but no one moved.Mother stood looking at usall, waiting. Finally she tookthegoodskilletwe’dbroughtfromhomeandpresseditintoMamaMwanza’s hands. Sheoffered our blouses anddresses to Mama Mwanza’s

children.Theyacceptedthemin both hands, thanked her,and left. Mama Mwanzabalanced the skillet on herhead, since she needed herhands for walking, andsolemnlyledherfamilyawayfromour funeral. Tentativelytheotherwomentouchedourthings.Theirinitialreluctancegavewaytoexcitedchatterastheybegantosortthroughthepiles of our possessions,unabashedly holding our

clothes up to their children’schests, scrutinizing suchoddities as a hairbrush andfingernail clippers, thumpingontheenamelpanswiththeirknuckles to test their worth.Eventually they took whattheyneeded,andleft.Butthechildrensooncame

back, unable to resist thesceneofsuchaspectacle.Justas they used to do when wefirst arrived here, theymaterialized one by one out

of the moist air and thebamboo thickets until they’dformed a silent, watchfulcirclearoundtheperipheryofouryard.Isupposetheywereasastonishedaswewerethatamember of our family wascapable of death. Graduallythey crept forward, closingtheir circle around the table,andtheretheyremainedforavery long time, staring atRuthMay.Mother had gone back in

the house, where we couldhear her strange, tirelessindustry moving upon theempty rooms. Our fatherseemed to be nowhere. Mysisters and I stayed outsidewith the children becausethey seemed to embrace ourpresence. Out of habit weknelt on the ground andprayed the dumb prayers ofour childhood: “Our Fatherwhich art in heaven,” and“Yea, though Iwalk through

the valley of the shadow ofdeath, I will fear no evil.” Icould not remotely believeanyShepherdwasleadingmethrough this dreadful valley,butthefamiliarwordsstuffedmymouth like cotton, and itwas some relief to know, atleast,thatonesentencewouldfollow upon another. It wasmy only way of knowingwhattodo.Whenever I stopped

praying, the buzz of the

locusts grew horrible in myears. So I didn’t stop.Sometimes Rachel prayedwith me, and sometimes theCongolese children alsoprayed in whatever wordstheyknew. I recited the23rdPsalm, the 121st Psalm, thel00th and 137th and16th and66thPsalms, the21stchapterof Revelation, Genesis one,Luke 22, First Corinthians,and finally John 3:16: “ForGod so loved theworld, that

he gave his only begottenSon,thatwhosoeverbelievethin him should not perish buthaveeverlastinglife.”ThenIstopped.Itwasvery

late in the afternoon, and Icould think of no moreprayers. I’d come to the endofallIknew.Ilistenedtotheworld around me, but allother sound had ceasedentirely. Not a single birdcalled.Ifelt terrified.Theairseemed charged and

dangerousbutIcouldn’tprayanymore, and I couldn’t getup and do anything else. Togo back inside our emptyhouse, where Mother was,especially, I couldn’t makemyself do. Not for anything.It seemed impossible. So Istayedwhere Iwas, kneelingbeside my sisters with ourheadsbowedlowbeneaththecracklingair.The sky groaned and

cracked, and suddenly the

shrill, cold needles of rainpierced our hands and thebacks of our necks. Athunderstormbrokeopen,andwith a strength as mighty asthe thirst of crops andanimals, the rain poureddownonourheads. It lashedushard,answeringmonthsofprayers. Some of the smallerchildren rushed to break offelephant-ear leaves forumbrellas, but most of ussimplystayedwherewewere,

receiving the downpour.Lightning sang and hissedaroundourshoulders,andthethunderbellowed.Ourfathercameoutof the

house and stood looking atthe sky, holding out hishands. It seemed to take hima long time to believe in therain.“The Lord spoke to the

common people gathered atthe well,” he said at last, inhis old booming voice that

allowed no corner for doubt.He had to shout to be heardabove the noise of thedownpour. “And the Lordtold them,Whosoever drinksofthisordinarywaterwillbethirsty again, but the water Iwill give unto him willquench his thirst forever. Itwill become a spring withinhim, bubbling up for eternallife.”The children weren’t

payingmuchmind right then

to my father or his bubblingspring of eternal life. Theywere so transfixed by therain.Theyhelduptheirfacesandarmstothecoldwater,asifthewholeoftheirskinwereamaniocfield thatneeded tobesoaked.“If anyone is thirsty,” my

fathershouted,“lethimcometo me and drink! If anyonebelieves in me, streams ofliving water shall flow forthfromhisheart!”

He walked to a tall boynear me, Pascal’s halfbrother. I’d spoken to himtwiceandknewhisnamewasLucien, though I’m sure myfather didn’t know it.Nevertheless,Fatherheldouthis large, white hand andspread his fingers wide overtheboy’shead.Lucienlookedmy father in the eye as if heexpected to be struck, but hedidn’tflinch.“I am a voice of one

shouting in the desert,Straighten the Lord’s way!”my father cried.”! am onlybaptizing in water, butsomeone is standing amongyou of whom you do notknow. He is God’s Lamb,whoistoremovetheworld’ssin.”Myfatherloweredhishand

and closed his fingers gentlyoverthetopofLucienshead.“InthenameoftheFather,

theSon,andtheHolyGhostI

baptize you, my son. Walkforwardintothelight.”Luciendidn’tmove.Father

took his hand away andwaited, I suppose, for themiracle of baptism to takehold. Then he turned toLucien s tiny sister Bwanga,whoheldontoLucien’shandfor dear life. Their motherhad died during the diseasetime, and their father’s otherwife—Pascal’s mother—hadtaken them both into her

house. Throughout this timeoflossandsalvation,Bwangahad remained Ruth May’smost loyal playmate. Eventhatmy fatherwouldn’thaveknown. I felt an unspeakabledespair. He knew nothingabout thechildren.Underhiscupped hand Bwanga’s littlebald head looked like anoverripe avocado he wasprepared to toss away. Shestood wide-eyed andmotionless.

“InthenameoftheFather,theSon,andtheHolyGhost,”herepeated,andreleasedher.

“Mah-dah-mey-I?”Bwangaasked.Several other children

remembered this game andechoed: “Mah-dah-mey-I?”Their eyes left Father andcame to rest on Ruth Mayinside the drenched cloud ofnettingon the table.Theyallpicked up the refrain, asking

again and again in a risingplea: Mother May I? Andthough they surely knew nopermissionwouldbegranted,theykeptuptheirsoft,steadychant for avery long time inthepouringrain.Waterclungto their eyelashes andstreamed in runnels downtheir open faces. Theirmeager clothes, imposed onthem by foreigners, clung totheir thinchestsandlegslikeasecondskinfinallyreadyto

accept the shape of theirbodies. The dust on our feetturned blood-colored and thesky grew very dark, whileFather moved around thecircle baptizing each child inturn, imploring the livingprogeny of Kilanga to walkforwardintothelight.

BookFive

EXODUS

... And ye shall carry up

mybonesawayhencewithyou.And

theytooktheirjourney...andencampedintheedge

ofthewilderness....Hetooknotawaythepillar

ofcloudbyday,nor the pillar of fire by

night.

EXODUS13:19-22

OrleannaPriceSANDERLING ISLAND,

GEORGIAAS LONG AS I KEPT

MOVING,mygriefstreamedout behind me like aswimmer’slonghairinwater.I knew the weight was therebut it didn’t touch me. Onlywhen I stoppeddid the slick,darkstuffof it come floating

aroundmy face, catchingmyarmsandthroattillIbegantodrown.SoIjustdidn’tstop.The substance of grief is

not imaginary. It’s as real asropeortheabsenceofair,andlike both those things it cankill. My body understoodthere was no safe place formetobe.A mother’s body

remembers her babies—thefolds of soft flesh, the softlyfurredscalpagainsthernose.

Each child has its ownentreaties to body and soul.It’s the last one, though, thatovertakes you. I can’t daresayIlovedtheothersless,butmyfirst threewereallbabiesat once, and motherhooddismayed me entirely. Thetwins came just as Rachelwas learning to walk. WhatcamenextIhardlyremember,whole years when I battledthrough every single day ofgrasping hands and mouths

untilIcouldfallintobedforafewshorthoursanddreamofbeing eaten alive in smallpieces. I counted to onehundred as I rocked,contriving thepatience togetonedown inorder to takeupanother.Onemouthclosedona spoon meant two cryingempty, feathers flying, so Idashed back and forth like amotherbird,floutingnature’smawwithabroodtoolarge.Icouldn’t count on survival

until all three of them couldstand alone. Together theywere my first issue. I tookonedeepbreathforeverystepthey took away from me.That’s how it is with thefirstborn,nomatterwhatkindof mother you are—rich,poor,frazzledhalftodeathorsweetly content.A first childis your own best footforward, and how you docheer those little feet as theystrikeout.Youexamineevery

turn of flesh for precocity,andcrowittotheworld.Butthelastone:thebaby

whotrailsherscentlikeaflagofsurrenderthroughyourlifewhen there will be no morecomingafter—oh, that’s loveby a different name. She isthe babe you hold in yourarms for an hour after she’sgone to sleep. If you put herdown in the crib, she mightwake up changed and flyaway.Soinsteadyourockby

the window, drinking thelightfromherskin,breathingher exhaled dreams. Yourheart bays to the doublecrescent moons of closedlashes on her cheeks. She’stheoneyoucan’tputdown.My baby, my blood, my

honesttruth:entreatmenottoleave thee,for whither thougoest I will go. Where Ilodge, we lodge together.WhereIdie,you’llbeburiedatlast.

Byinstinctratherthanwill,I stayed alive. I tried to fleefrom the grief. It wasn’t thespirit but just a body thatmovedme fromoneplace toanother.Iwatchedmyhands,heardmymouth give orders.Avoidedcornersandstillness.When I had to pause forbreathIstood in theopen, inthecenterofaroomoroutintheyard.Thetreesroaredanddancedasiftheywereonfireinthepouringrain,tellingme

to go on, go on. Once I’dmovedourtableoutside,withmy baby laid out upon it, Icould see no sense inanything but to bring out therest. Such a bewilderingexcess of things we had forone single family, and howuseless it all seemed now. Icarriedoutarmloadsoffabricand wood and metal puttogether in all their puzzlingways, and marveled that I’dever felt comfort in having

such things. I needed truthand light, to remember mybaby’s laughter. This stuffcluttered my way. Whatrelief,toplaceitinthehandsof women who could carryoff my burden. Theirindustrious need made melight-headed: my dresseswould be curtains, and mycurtains, dresses. My teatowel,ababy’sdiaper.Emptyfood tins would be poundedinto palm-oil lamps, toys,

plowshares maybe—whocould say? My householdwould pass through the greatdigestivetractofKilangaandturnintosightsunseen.Itwasamiracle towitnessmyownsimplemotion, amplified.AsI gave it all up, the treesunrolled their tongues offlameandblazedinapproval.Motion became my whole

purpose. When there wasnothing left to move butmyself,Iwalkedtotheendof

our village and kept going,with awhole raft of childrenstrung out behind me.Nothing to do but take myleave, Salambote! Iwent onfootbecauseIstillhadfeettocarryme.Plain and simple, thatwas

the source of our exodus: Ihad to keepmoving. I didn’tset out to leavemy husband.Anyone can see I shouldhave,longbefore,butIneverdid know how. For women

likeme,itseems,it’snotoursto take charge of beginningsandendings.Notthemarriageproposal, the summitconquered,thefirstshotfired,nor the last one either—thetreaty at Appomattox, theknife in the heart. Let menwrite those stories. I can’t. Ionlyknowthemiddlegroundwhere we live our lives.WewhistlewhileRomeburns,orwe scrub the floor,depending. Don’t dare

presumethere’sshame in thelot of a woman who carrieson. On the day a committeeofmendecidedtomurderthefledglingCongo,whatdoyousupposeMamaMwanza wasdoing? Was it different, thedayafter?Ofcoursenot.Wasshe a fool, then, or thebackboneofahistory?Whenagovernmentcomescrashingdown, it crushes those whowere living under its roof.People like Mama Mwanza

never knew the house wasthereatall.Independenceisacomplex word in a foreigntongue. To resist occupation,whether you’re a nation ormerely a woman, you mustunderstand the language ofyour enemy. Conquest andliberationanddemocracyanddivorce are words that meansquat, basically, when youhave hungry children andclothes to get out on the lineanditlookslikerain.

Maybe you still can’tunderstand why I stayed solong. I’ve nearly finishedwithmysideofthestory,andstill I feel your small roundeyes looking down on me. Iwonderwhatyou’llnamemysin: Complicity? Loyalty?Stupefaction? How can youtell the difference? Ismy sina failure of virtue, or ofcompetence? I knew Romewas burning, but I had justenough water to scrub the

floor, so I did what I could.My talentsaredifferent fromthose of the women whocleave and part fromhusbandsnowadays—andmyvirtues probablyunrecognizable. But look atoldwomenandbear inmindwe are another country. Wemarried with simple hopes:enough to eat and childrenwhomightoutliveus.Mylifewas a business of growingwhere planted and making

good on the debts lifegathered onto me.Companionshipandjoycameunexpectedly, mostly insmall, exploding momentswhen I was apart from myhusband and children.Akissofflesh-coloredsunrisewhileIhungoutthewash,asighofindigobirdsexhaledfromthegrass.Anokapi at thewater.Itdidn’toccurtometoleaveNathan on account ofunhappiness, any more than

TataMwanzawouldhavelefthis disfiguredwife, though amoreablewomanmighthavegrownmoremaniocandkeptmore of his children alive.Nathan was something thathappened to us, asdevastating in its way as theburning roof that fell on thefamilyMwanza;withourfatescarredbyhellandbrimstonewe still had to track ourcourse. And it happenedfinally by the grace of hell

and brimstone that I had tokeep moving. I moved, andhestoodstill.But his kind will always

lose in the end. I know this,and now I know why.“Whether it’s wife or nationthey occupy, theirmistake isthesame:theystandstill,andtheir stakemoves underneaththem. The Pharaoh died,saysExodus, and the children ofIsrael sighed by reason oftheir bondage. Chains rattle,

riversroll,animalsstartleandbolt, forests inspire andexpand, babies stretch open-mouthedfromthewomb,newseedlingsarchtheirnecksandcreep forward into the light.Even a languagewon’t standstill. A territory is onlypossessed for a moment intime. They stake everythingon that moment, posing forphotographs while plantingtheflag,castingthemselvesinbronze. Washington crossing

theDelaware.ThecaptureofOkinawa. They’re desperatetohangon.Buttheycan’t.Evenbefore

the flagpole begins to peeland splinter, the groundunderneath arches and slidesforward into its own newdestiny. It may bear themarks of boots on its back,but those marks become thepossessionsoftheland.Whatdoes Okinawa remember ofits fall? Forbidden to make

engines of war, Japan madeautomobilesinstead,andwonthe world. It all moves on.The great Delaware rolls on,while Mr. Washingtonhimself is no longer evenwhat you’d call goodcompost. The Congo River,being of a differenttemperament, drowned mostof its conquerors outright. InCongo a slashed junglequickly becomes a field offlowers,andscarsbecomethe

ornaments of a particularface. Call it oppression,complicity, stupefaction, callit what you like, it doesn’tmatter.Africa swallowed theconqueror’smusicandsanganew songof her own. If youare the eyes in the trees,watchingusaswewalkawayfrom Kilanga, how will youmake your judgment? LordknowsafterthirtyyearsIstillcrave your forgiveness, butwhoareyou’?Asmallburial

mound in the middle ofNathan’sgarden,wherevinesand flowers have long sinceunrolled to feed insects andchildren. Is that what youare? Are you still my ownfleshandblood,mylast-born,or are you now the flesh ofAfrica? How can I tell thedifference when the tworivers have run together so?Try to imagine what neverhappened:ourfamilywithoutAfrica, or the Africa that

would have beenwithout us.Look at your sisters now.Lock, stock, and barrel,they’ve got their own threewaystolivewithourhistory.Somecanfindit.Manymorenever do. But which oneamong us is without sin? Icanhardlythinkwheretocastmy stones, so I just go onkeening for my own losses,trying to wear the marks ofthe boot on my back asgracefully as the Congo

wearshers.My little beast, my eyes,

my favorite stolen egg.Listen. To live is to bemarked.Toliveis tochange,to acquire the words of astory, and that is the onlycelebrationwemortals reallyknow. In perfect stillness,frankly, I’ve only foundsorrow.

WhatWeCarriedOut

LeakPriceBULUNGU, LATE

RAINYSEASON1961WE ONLY TOOK what

wecouldcarryonourbacks.Mother never once turnedaround to look over hershoulder. I don’t know whatwouldhavebecomeofusifithadn’t been for MamaMwanza’s daughters, whocame running after us,bringing oranges and ademijohn of water. They

knew we’d get thirsty, eventhough the rain hammeredour shirts to our backs andchilled us right through theskin, and being thirsty everagain seemed out of thequestion. Either we’d neverknown such rain, or we’dforgotten. In just the fewhours since the storm broke,theparched road throughourvillagehadbecomeagushingstream of mud, blood-red,throbbing like an artery. We

couldn’twalkin itatall,andcouldbarelykeepourfootingonthegrassybanksbesideit.A day ago we’d have givenup our teeth for a good rain,andnowwegnashedtheminfrustrationoverthedeluge.Ifonly we’d had a boat, itseemed possible we couldride the waves straight toLeopoldville. That’s theCongo for you: famine orflood.Ithasbeenrainingeversince.

Late that afternoon as wetrudged along we spotted abright bouquet of color upahead,glowingdimlythroughthe rain. Eventually Irecognized the huge pinkstarburst across the rump ofMama Boanda. She, MamaLo, and several othershuddled together beside theroad under elephant-earleaves, waiting out aparticularlyfiercespellofthedownpour.Theymotionedus

into their shelter and wejoined them, stupefiedby therain. It’s hard to believe anywater on earth could be sounequivocal. I put out myhand and watched itdisappear at the end of myarm. The noise on our headswasawhiteroarthatdrewustogether in our small shelterof leaves. I letmyminddriftinto a pleasant nowhere as Ibreathed themanias’ peanut-and-manioc scent. The

upright sprigs of MamaBoanda’s hair dripped fromtheir ends, like a tiny gardenofleakinghoses.Whenitslowedbackdown

tomerecloudburst,wesetofftogether. The women carriedleaf-wrapped packets ofmanioc and other things ontheir heads, food they weretaking to their husbands inBulungu, they said. A largepolitical meeting was goingon there.Mama Lo also had

palm oil to sell in Bulungu.She balanced the immenserectangular can of oil on herhead while she chatted withme, and looked socomfortable at it that I triedplacing my plastic demijohnonmyownhead.Tomygreatsurprise I found Icouldkeepit there as long as I had onehandon it. In all our time intheCongoI’dbeenawestruckbywhattheladiescouldcarrythisway, but had never once

tried it myself. What arevelation, that I could carrymy own parcel like anywoman here! After the firstseveralmiles I ceased to feeltheweightonmyheadatall.With no men around,

everyone was surprisinglylighthearted. It wascontagious somehow. Welaughed at the unladylikeways we all sank into themud. Every so often thewomen also sang together in

little shouted bursts of calland response.Whenever Irecognized the tune, I joinedin.Father’smissionhadbeena success in at least oneregard: the Congolese lovedour music. They could workmiracleswith“SoldiersoftheCross”intheirownlanguage.Even that most doleful ofChristian laments—”NobodyKnows the Trouble I’veSeen”—sounded snappy andupbeat through these

women’s windpipes as theysauntered along: “Nani ozempasizazolNaniozempasi!”We had seen trouble beyondcompare, but in thatmomentas we marched along withrainstreamingofftheendsofour hair, it felt like wewereout on a grand adventuretogether. Our own particularPrice family sadness seemedtobelongtoanothertimethatwedidn’tneedtothinkaboutanymore. Only once I

realizedIwaslookingaroundfor Ruth May, wonderingwhether she was warmenough or needed my extrashirt. Then I thought withastonishment, Why, RuthMay is no longerwith us! Itseemedverysimple.Wewerewalking along this road, andshewasn’twithus.Mymindwanderedaround

a great deal, until it foundAnatole. I had peculiarthoughtsweighingonmethat

I badly needed to tell him.That the inside of a greenmamba’s mouth is pure sky-blue, for example. And thatwe’d strewn ashes on thefloor like Daniel, capturingthesix-toedfootprints,whichI had not mentioned toanybody. Anatole might notbe safe inKilanga, anymorethan we were. But perhapsnobody was safe, with somany things getting turnedupside-down. What was the

purpose of the politicalmeeting in Bulungu? Whowas the secretive man AdahhadseeninAxelroot’sshack,laughing about orders fromPresident Eisenhower? Didthey truly mean to killLumumba? As we passedthrough the forest we heardgunfire in the distance, butnone of thewomen spoke ofit,sowedidn’teither.The road followed the

KwiluRiverupstream.Ispent

our year in Kilanga thinkingof civilization as lyingdownstream from us, sincethat was the way the boatswent to Banningville. ButwhenMothersetoutfromthevillage on foot she’d askedsomeofourneighborswhichway led to Leopoldville andthey’d all agreed, upstreamwasthebest.Theysaidintwodays we would get toBulungu.There the pathjoined up with a larger road

goingwest, overland, towardthe capital. There would betrucks, the neighbor womensaid. Probablywe could finda ride.Mother had asked thewomen, Did they ever taketheroadtoLeopoldville?Andthey looked at each other,surprisedatthisoddquestion.No. The answer was no,they’d had no reason to gothat way. But they werecertain we would have apleasanttrip.

Infactourshoesfilledwithmudandourclothesturnedtoslime, and itwas the farthestthing from pleasant.Mosquitoes that had laindormant through the longdroughtnowhatchedandrosefromtheforestfloorincloudsso thick they filled ourmouthsandnostrils.Ilearnedto draw back my lips andbreathe slowly through myteeth,soIwouldn’tchokeonmosquitoes.When they’d

covered our hands and faceswith red welts they flew upour sleeves and needled ourarmpits. We scratchedourselves raw. There werealways more mosquitoesrising up from the road likegreat columns of smoke,always moving ahead of us,andwedreadedthem.Butbyputtingone footaheadof theother we traveled farther inone day than we ever hadthoughttogobefore.

Some time after dark wearrivedinthesmallvillageofKiala. Mama Boanda invitedus to come to the housewhere her mother and fatherlived with two unmarriedsisters, who appeared to betwenty years older thanMama Boanda. We couldn’treally get straight whetherthey were actually sisters,aunts,orwhat.But,oh,werewe happy to come in out ofthe rain! Cows rescued from

the slaughter could not havebeen happier. We squattedaround the family’s largekettle and ate fufu and nsakigreens with our fingers.Mama Boanda’s ancientparentslookedjustalike,bothof them tiny, bald, andperfectly toothless. The tatastared out the doorway withindifference, but the mamapaid attention and noddedearnestly while MamaBoanda chattered on and on

withaverylongstory.Itwasabout us, we realized, sincewe heard the word nyoka—snake—manytimes,andalsothe word Jesus. When thestory ended, the old womanstudiedmymotherfora longtime while she wrapped andrewrapped her faded bluepagne over her flat chest.After a time she sighed andwent out into the rain,returningshortlywithahard-boiled egg. She presented it

to my mother and motionedforustoeatit.Motherpeeledthe egg and we divided it,crumbling it carefully fromhand to mouth while theotherswatchedus closely, asif expecting immediateresults. I have no ideawhether this treasured eggwas meant as a special curefor sorrow, or if theymerelythought we needed theproteintosustainourdreadfuljourney.

We all shook fromexhaustion.The rain andmudhadmadeeverymileintoten.Adah’s weak side wasovertaken by convulsivetrembling, and Rachelseemedtobeinatrance.Theold woman worried aloud toher daughter that the guestsmight die in her house; thiskind of thing was felt to bebad luck. But she didn’tthrow us out, and we weregrateful. With slow,

deliberate movements of herbone-thin arms, she pluckedupsticksfromapilenearthedoor and started a fire towarmus,rightinsidethehut.The smoke made it hard tobreathebutdidgiveus relieffrom the mosquitoes. Wewrapped ourselves in theextra pagnes offered to us asblankets,andsettleddownonthe floor to sleep amongstrangers.Thenightwaspitch-dark.I

listened to the pounding rainon the thatch and the quietdripsthatleakedthrough,andonly then did I think ofFather. “They say youthatched your roof and nowyoumustnot runoutofyourhouse if it rains. “Fatherwasnolongerwithus.FatherandRuthMay both, as simple asthat. My mind ached like abrokenboneasIstruggledtostandinthenewplaceIfoundmyself. I wouldn’t see my

babysisteragain,thisIknew.But I hadn’t yet consideredthe loss of my father. I’dwalked in his footsteps mywhole life, and now withoutwarning my body had fallenin line behindmymother.Awomanwhose flank and jawglintedhardas saltwhenshekneltaroundafirewithotherwomen; whose pale eyeswere fixed on a distancewhere he couldn’t follow.Father wouldn’t leave his

post to come after us, thatmuchwas certain.Hewasn’tcapable of any action thatmight be seen as cowardiceby his God. And noGod, inany heart on this earth, wasevermoreon the lookout forhumanfailing.Out of the thunderous rain

thewordscametomyearsinAnatole’s serene, particularvoice: Youmust not run outof your house if it rains.Anatoletranslatedtherageof

a village into one quietsentence that could pin astrong-willed man to theground. It is surprising howmy mother and fatherhardenedsodifferently,whentheyturnedtostone.I imagined him still

standing in our yard, frozenunderthedeluge,baptizinganendless circle of children,who would slip away andreturn with new facesrequiring his blessing. I’d

never understood the size ofmyfather’staskintheworld.The size, or the terribleextravagance.Ifellinandoutof sleep under a strangedreamof awfulweight that Ihadtomovetofreemyself.Amountainofhard-boiledeggsthatturnedintochildrenwhenmy hands touched them,dark-eyed children whosefacesbeggedmeforahandfulof powdered milk, myclothes, whatever I had. But

I’ve brought nothing to giveyou, I told them, and myheart took me down like alead weight, for no matterwhether these words weretrue or false, they wereterribleandwrong.EachtimeI drifted off I sank downagain through the feverishdamp scent and dark bluehopelessness of this awfuldream.Finally I shuddered itoffandlaysleepless,huggingaround my shoulders a thin

cotton cloth that smelled ofsweat and smoke. Withexhaustion for company, Ilistened to thepoundingrain.I would walk in no one’sfootsteps now. How could Ifollowmymotheroutofherenow, and run away from -what we’d done? But afterwhatwe’ddone,howcouldIstay?We didn’t reach Bulungu

onthesecondday,andonthethird we came down with a

fever. Our bodies finallysurrendered to theoverpowering assault ofmosquitoes. For all thesemonths I’d imaginedmalariaas a stealthy, secret enemy,butnowthatitwasfullyuponmeitwasasrealasanything.I could feel the poisonmovethroughmy bloodstream likethick, tainted honey. Ipictureditasyellowincolor.At first I was terrified,shakingwiththecoldandthe

panicky flight of my heart,whichseemedtobedrowningas the poison rose up in mychest. But even if I couldhave attached words to myterror, there was no one tohear them. The rain on ourheadsdashedallothersound.On and on we walked,straight through fatigue andfar, far beyond it. In time Iarrived at a strange, sluggishcalm. I imagined honey-colored parasites celebrating

inmygolden-tintedorgansasIalternatelyfrozeandburned.When I discovered my facewas hot as a stove, I happilyused it to warmmy freezinghands.The rain turned to iceas it lashed my arms. Thetrees began to burn with apinkish aura that soothedmyeyes. I lost one of my shoesinthemud,andfailedtocare.ThenIlosttheother.Mylegsbegantofoldstrangelyunderme.AtsomepointIlaydown

inanirresistiblehollowatthebase of a tree and urgedMother and the others to goonwithoutme.

I have no recollection ofarriving inBulungu. I’m toldI was carried on a pallet bysome men who met uscomingoutofthejunglefroma camp where they madecharcoal during the dryseason. I owe them my life,andregretthatIcan’trecalla

face or voice or even therhythm of their step as theycarried me. I worry that Imight have been indecent tothem, yelling insults as RuthMaysometimesdidwhenshewas delirious with malariafever. I suppose I’ll neverknow.Bulungu was a whirl of

excitement, which I took ingradually,thinkingitmustbedue to our arrival. That wewere an unlikely cause for

celebration didn’t occur tome, since I was surroundedby so many other entirelyimprobable things: menbeating drums and dancingwiththecrownsofpalmtreessprouting out of their heads,for example. Women withiridescent feathers on theirheadsand trailingdowntheirspines. Eeben Axelroot’sairplane with coronas offlame dancing around thewings as it toucheddownon

a field ofwaving pink grass.Later on, in the dark shelterofsomeone’shousewherewewere staying, I watched theman Axelroot bizarrelytransformed.TheUnderwooddevil’shornsglowed throughhis slicked-down hair, as hesat in front of the windowfacing my mother. A livingtail crept like a secretivevelvet snake through therungsofthechairbehindhim.I couldn’t take my eyes off

that sinister restlessness. Heheld the tail in his left hand,trying to quiet it down as hetalked. Discussing Rachel.Mother’s profile in thewindowturnedtosaltcrystal,reflectingalllight.Other people came and

went through the darknesswhere I lay under thatch,sheltered in my cave ofdreamsandrain.SometimesIrecognized GrandfatherWhartonbymybed,patiently

waiting for me to take myturn. With a guilty shock Isaw we were playingcheckersandIwasn’tholdingup my end. Grandfather toldme in the most offhandmannerthatwe’dbothdied.Myfathercameonlyonce,

withblueflamescurlingfromhis eyebrows and tongue:Many are the afflictions ofthe righteous: but the Lorddelivereth him out of themall. The thin blue line of

words rose straight up fromhis lips through the air. Iwatched, entranced. At thepointwhere they touched thethatchedceiling,theybecamea line of ants. Morning anddusk and morning again Iwatchedthemtrailinguptoahole in the peak of the roof,carrying their tiny burdensoutintothelight.Nothingherehas surprised

me.Leastofall,thepresenceof Anatole Ngemba. One

morning he was here, andeverydayafterthat,holdingaburningtincupofbitterteatomy mouth and repeating myname: “Beene-beene.” Thetruest truth. For my wholesixteen years I’ve rarelythought I was worth muchmore than a distractedgrumble fromGod. But nowin my shelter of all thingsimpossible, I drift in awarmbath of forgiveness, and itseems pointless to resist. I

havenoenergyforimprovingmyself. If Anatole can wrapall my rattlebone sins in ablanketandcallmegoodnessitself, why then I’ll justbelievehim.That is all I can offer by

way of explaining oursurprising courtship. As Iwake up out of my months-long sleep, I find the courseofmylifehasnarrowedrightdown, and I feel myselfrushing along it like a flood

of rich, red mud. I believeI’mveryhappy.I can’t say how many

weeks we were here beforeMother left, or how manyhave passed since. I’ve hadthe good fortune of shelter;thishutbelongs toapupilofAnatole’s,whosefather livedhere but is now deceased.Anatole left Kilanga soonafterwedid,andnowspendsa lot of time in neighboringvillages,talkingtopeopleand

organizing something large.He seems to have countlessfriends and resources inBulungu, and I can stay hereas long as I need to. ButMother couldn’t. Mothercouldhardlysitstill.Thedaysheleftstandsout

in my mind as a drenched,sunnymorning.Therainwasletting up, and AnatolethoughtIwaswellenoughtoleavemymosquito tent for afew hours. We would go as

far as the Kwenge to saygood-bye.Rachelhadalreadyflown away with her devilsaviour, and I was naileddown in Bulungu, since mybodywasstillsunksodeepinpoison it couldn’t bear up tomany more mosquito bites.But Mother and Adah wereleaving. A commerfant hadarrived by truck fromLeopoldville,andintherainyseasonthatwasamiraclenottobesnubbed.Heintendedto

returntothecitywithacargoof bananas, and shook hisstick fiercely at theCongolese women who triedtoclamberontohismassivelyloaded truck for a ride. Butperhaps, the commerfantdecided, looking Mother upanddown, avoidingher rigidblue gaze, perhaps he hadroomforthewhitewoman.Inthe great green mountain ofbananas he fixed a nest justbig enough for Mother and

oneofherchildren.IthoughtAdah’s lameness andMother’s desperation hadpurchased his sympathy. Ididn’t know until later therewererumorsofhugerewardsfor white women deliveredsafely to the embassy inLeopoldville.Thetruckwasorange.Ido

rememberthat.AnatoleandIrodealongas far as the riverto see them off. I vaguelyheard Anatole making

promises to Mother on mybehalf:hewouldgetmewell,he’d send me when I feltready to go home. It seemedhewas speaking of someoneelse, as surely as the manwith horns had flown awaywith someone other thanRachel. As we all bobbedprecariously on themountainof bananas, I just stared atMother and Adah, trying tomemorize what remained ofmyfamily.

As soon as we arrived atthe mucky bank of theKwenge, we spotted aproblem. The old flatbedferryboathadbeenfunctionaljust the day before, thecommerfantclaimed,butnowit bobbed listlessly on theopposite shore in spiteofhispiercing-whistlesandwavingarms. Two fishermen turnedup in a dugout canoe andinformed us the ferry wasstrandedwithnopower.This

was normal, it seemed. Notinsurmountable at any rate.Up came our truck’s hoodand out came the battery,which the fishermen wouldcarry across the Kwenge tothe ferry—for a price, ofcourse.Thecommerfantpaidit, muttering curses thatseemed too strong for theearly hour, since this wassurely only the first irritationof a very long trip. (Or thethird, if you counted my

mother andAdah as the firsttwo.) It was explained to usthat the ferryman wouldjerry-rig the battery to starthis ferry’s engine and comeback across to us. Then wecouldpushthetruckontotheferry and reunite it with itsbattery again on the otherside.Right away, though,

another problem. Theimmensetruckbatterywasof

anancienttypetoolargetobewedgeddown in the belly ofthe tiny canoe. After greatdiscussion the fishermenfound an answer: a pair ofbroad planks were set acrossthe boat in a peculiarconfiguration that requiredthe battery to ride on oneside,withacounterweightonthe other. There being nolarge rocks at hand, thefishermeneyedAdahandme.Theydecidedeitheroneofus

would work for ballast, butfeared Adah’s handicapwouldpreventherholdingon,andifshefellintherivertheprecious battery would alsobe lost. Mother, lookingstraight ahead, agreed I wasthe stronger one. No onementioned I was dizzy withmalariafever,nordiditoccurto me to raise this as anexcuse. Anatole held histongue, in deference to myfamily. We’d lost so much

already,whowashetotellushowtoriskwhatwasleft?I went in that canoe. I

could tell the river wasreceding from its rainy-season flood by its peculiarrank smell and all thedriftwood stranded along itsbanks. I marveled that I’dlearned so much aboutCongoleserivers.Ithoughtofmymother’slifelongwarningto us children whenever weenteredaboat:ifitoverturns,

grab hold for dear life! YetCongolesepiroguesaremadeof such dense wood if theycapsize theysink likea rock.All these thoughts passedthrough me while thefishermen paddled urgentlyacross the swift, boilingKwenge.Iclungtotheroughplank,poisedfaroutoverthewater,givingallmymighttotheserviceofbalance.Idon’tremember letting out mybreath until we were safely

across.Possibly I’ve imagined

this;thewholeepisodeseemsimpossibly strange. Imentioned it later andAnatole laughed at what hecalled my reconstructedhistory. He claims I rodeinside the canoe, at my ownrequest,becausetheweightofthe oddly shaped batterytipped the boat dangerously.Yettheeventkeepsreturningto me in my dreams exactly

as I’ve described it, with allthe same sights and smellsoccurring in sequence as Istretchedmyweightover thewater. It’s hard for me todoubtthisishowithappened.I can’t deny my brain wasstillmuddled, though. I haveonly the haziest recollectionof waving atmymother andsister in a rising cloud ofdiesel exhaust andmosquitoes as they begantheirslow,permanentexodus

from the Congo. I wish Icould remember their faces,Adah’s especially. Did shefeel I’d helped to save her?Or was it just more of thesame parceling out offortunes that had brought usthis far, to this place whereourpathwouldfinallydivideintotwo?I’ve compensated by

remembering everythingaboutAnatoleinthedaysthatfollowed. The exact green

taste of the concoctions heboiled to cure me; thetemperature of his hand onmy cheek. The stitchedpatterns of light throughthatchwhenmorning enteredthedarknesswhereweslept,Iagainst one wall, he againstthe other. We shared thefellowshipoforphans.Ifeltitacutely, like a deep hungerforprotein,anddespairedforthe flat-dirt expanse betweenAnatole and me. I begged

him closer, inch by inch,clingingtohishandswhenhebrought the cup. Now thebitterness of quinine andsweetness of kissing are twotastes perfectly linked onmysoftpalate.Ihadnever lovedamanbefore,physically,andI’vereadenoughofbothJaneEyre and Brenda Starr toknow every first love ispotent. But when I fell intomine,Iwasdruggedwiththeexoticdeliriumofmalaria,so

mineisomnipotent.HowcanI ever love anyone now butAnatole? Who else couldmakethecolorsoftheauroraborealis rise off my skinwhere he strokes myforearm? Or send needles ofice tinkling blue through mybrain when he looks in myeyes?Whatelse but this fevercouldcommutemyfather’s ghost crying,“Jezebel!” intoacurlofbluesmoke drifting out through a

small, bright hole in thethatch? Anatole banished thehoney-colored ache ofmalaria and guilt from myblood. By Anatole I wasshattered and assembled, byway of Anatole I amdelivered not out of my lifebutthroughit.Lovechangeseverything.I

never suspected it would beso. Requited love, I shouldsay, for I’ve lovedmy fatherfiercelymywholelife,andit

changednothing.Butnow,allaround me, the flame treeshave roused from their long,drysleepintowallsofscarletblossom. Anatole movesthrough the dappled shade atthe edges of my vision,wearing the silky pelt of apanther. I crave to feel thatpelt againstmyneck. I craveit with a predator’simpatience, ignoring time,keening to the silence ofowls. When he’s gone away

foranightortwo,mythirstisinconsolable.Whenhecomesback,Idrinkeverykissdownto itsendandstillmymouthacheslikeadrycave.Anatole didn’t take me: I

chose him. Once, long ago,heforbademetosayoutloudthat I loved him. So I’llinvent my own ways to tellhimwhatIlongfor,andwhatI can give. I grip his handsand don’t let go. And hestays, cultivating me like a

small inheritance of landwherehisfutureresides.Now we sleep together

underthesamemosquitonet,chastely. Idon’tmindsayingI want more, but Anatolelaughs and rubs his knucklesinto my hair, pushes meplayfullyoutofthebed.Tellsme to go get my bow andhuntabushbuck, if Iwant tokill something. The wordbandika, for “kill with anarrow,” has two meanings,

yousee.Hesaiditwasn’tthetime for me to become hiswife,inthesenseusedbytheCongolese. I was stillmourning, he said, still sick,still living partly in anotherplace. Anatole is a patientfarmer. He reminds me thatour arrangement is not at allunusual; he’s known manymen to take even ten-year-oldsasbrides.AtsixteenIamworldly by some people’sstandards, and by anyone’s

I’mdevoted.Thefeverinmybones has subsided and theair no longer dances withflames, but Anatole stillcomes to me at night in thepeltofapanther.I’m well enough to travel

now. It’s been true for awhile, really, but itwas easyfor me stay on here withAnatole’sfriendsinBulungu,and hard for us to speak ofwhatcomesnext.Finally,thisevening, he had to ask. He

took my hand as we walkedto the river, which surprisedme, as he’s normally reticentto showaffection inpublic. Isupposeitwasn’tverypublic—the only people we couldsee were the fishermenmending their nets on theopposite shore. We stoodwatching them while thesunset painted the river withbroad streaks of pink andorange. Islands of waterhyacinths floated past in the

drowsy current. I wasthinking I’d never felt morecontentorknownsuchbeautyinallmy life.Andright thenhe said, “Beene, you’rewell.Youcango,youknow.Ipromised your mother Iwould see that yougethomesafely.”My heart stopped.”Where

doesshethinkhomeis?”“Whereyouarehappiest.”“Wheredoyouwantmeto

go?”,

“Where you will behappy,”hesaidagain,andsoItoldhimwherethatplaceis.Nothingcouldbeeasier. I’vethoughtaboutitlongandhardand decided that if he willtolerate me as I am, I’lldecline to return to allfamiliar comforts in order tostayhere.Itwasanunusualproposal,

by the standards of anyculture.Westoodonthebankof the Kwenge listing the

thingswe’ll have to abandonor relinquish. It’s importantinformation.ForallImaybeforsaking, he’s giving up agood deal more: thepossibility of having morewives than one, for instance.And that’s only thebeginning.Evennow,I thinkAnatole’s friends doubt hissanity. My whiteness couldbar him outright from manypossibilities, maybe evensurvival, in the Congo. But

Anatolehadnochoice.Itookhim and held on. There’senough of my father in methat I had to stand myground.

RachelPriceAxelrootJOHANNESBURG,

SOUTHAFRICA1962VAANT so LIEF HET

GODdiewerddgehad,datHysy eniggebore Seun 1 ‘ ‘SeSee het, sodat elkeen wat

in Homglo, nie verloremaggaannie,maardieewigelewekanhe.Howdoyoulikethat?Ha!

That is John 3:16 inAfrikaans. For the last entireyear I have worn my littlewhite gloves and pillbox hattotheFirstEpiscopalChurchinJohannesburgandreciteditright along with the best ofthem. And now one of myveryclosefriendshappens tobe from Paris, France, and

has taken me under herwings,soIcanalsogototheCatholicservicewithherandrecite:CarDieuatantaimelemondequ’iladonnesonFilsunique ... In French, anotherwords. I am fluent in threelanguages. I have notremained especially closewithmysisters,butIdaresaythat for all their being giftedandwhatnot, theycan’tdoawhole lot better than John3:16inthreeentirelanguages.

Maybe that won’tnecessarily guarantee me afront-row seat in heaven, butconsidering what all I havehad to put up with fromEeben Axelroot for the lastyear, just for starters, thatoughttoatleastgetmeinthedoor. His gawking at otherwomen when I am still soyoung and attractive myself,and with my nerves shotalready, I might add, since Ihave been through so much.

Not to mention his leavingmealonewhilehegoesonallhis trips, getting rich on onecrackpotschemeafteranotherthat never did pan out. I putupwithhimoutofgratitude,mainly. I guess trading awayyour prime of life is a fairprice for somebody flyingyou out of that hellhole. Hedid save my life. I promisedhim I would testify to thosevery words: Rescued fromimminent prospect of death.

And I did, too, in a wholeslew of forms, so we couldcollect the money from theU.S. Embassy. They hademergency money availableto help their citizens inreaching safety after theCommunist crisis withLumumba and all of thathubbub. Axelroot even gothimself a little medal ofhonor for heroic service,whichhe is veryvainof andkeeps in a special box in the

bedroom. For that reasonwecouldn’t actually get legallymarried right away.Thewayhe explained it was itwouldn’tlookrightforhimtocollect money on saving hisownwife.Thatkindof thingyou would just naturally beexpected to do on your own,without getting paid for it orwinninganymedalsofhonor.Well,dumbme, Ibelieved

him.ButitturnsoutAxelrootcouldcollectmedalsgalorein

the department of avoidingholy matrimony. He has ahundred and one reasons notto marry the cow so he canbuythemilkforfree.But I didn’t think about

that at the time, of course.Just imagine how it musthave been for animpressionable young girl.There I was shivering in therain, surrounded on everysidebymudhuts,mudroads,mud everything. People

squatting in the mud, tryingto cook over a fire in thepouring rain. Dogs goingcrazy, running through themud. We walked practicallyhalfway across the Congo.That was my chosen path tosuffering,asourdearolddadwould have put it, not that Ihadanychoice.Igotbaptizedby mud. I laid me down atnight on filthy floors andprayed the Lord I wouldn’twake up dead from a

snakebite as I had just seenhappen tragically tomy ownsister, knowing full well itcould just as soonhave beenme. Words cannot describemymental framework.Whenwe finally got to that villageandtherewasMr.Axelrootinhissunglassesleaningagainsthisairplane, all smirkingandSanforized in his broad-shouldered khaki uniform, Ionly had one thing to say:“Enoughalready.Getmeout

of here!” I didn’t care whatkindofformsIhadtosign.Iwould have signed a dealwith the Devil himself. IswearIwouldhave.So that’s how it was for

me,onedaystandingthereuptomysplit ends inmud, andthe next day strolling downthe wide, sunny streets ofJohannesburg, South Africa,among houses with nicegreen lawns and swimmingpools and gobs of pretty

flowers growing behind theirlovely high walls withelectric gates. Cars, even!Telephones! White peoplejusteverywhereyoulooked.At that time Axelroot was

just in the process of gettingset up in Johannesburg. Hehas a brand-new position inthe security division of thegold-mining industry, nearthe northern suburbs, wheresupposedlywearesoontobelivinginhighstyle.Although

after an entire year all hispromisesarestartingtoshowthe telltale signs of age. Notto mention our furniture,whicheverystickofithasallbeenpreviouslyowned.When I first got to

Johannesburg I stayed for abrief time with a very niceAmerican couple, theTempletons. Mrs. Templetonhad separate African maidsforhercooking,cleaning,andlaundry. Imust havewashed

my hair fifty times in tendays, and used a clean toweleach and every time! Oh, Ithought I’d died and gone toheaven. Just to be backwithpeople who spoke the goodold American language andunderstood the principle of aflushtoilet.Eeben’s and my house is

not nearly so grand, ofcourse, but we certainly getby,andIsupplythewoman’stouch. Axelroot did pretty

well for himself as a pilot inthe Congo, transportingperishable goods from thebush into the cities for retailsale,andhewasalsoactiveinthe diamond trade. Heworked for the government,too, with his secretassignments and all, but hehas never talked about it allthat much since we startedliving together.Now thatwehave relations any old timewe feel like it, which by the

wayIdon’tthinkistheworstsin there is when there’speople getting hurt, cheated,orkilled leftandright in thisworld, well, now Mr.Axelroot doesn’t have toshowoffhisbigsecretstothePrincess to get a kiss out ofher. So now his number-onesecretis:Ineedanotherbeer!Whichjustgoestoshowyou.ButIwasdeterminedright

offthebattomakethebestofmy situation here inmynew

homeofJohannesburg,SouthAfrica.Ijuststartedgoingbythe name Rachel Axelroot,and no one had to be thewiser, really. I’ve alwaysmade sure I go to churchwith the very best people,and we get invited to theirparties.Iinsistonthat.Ihaveevenlearnedtoplaybridge!Itis my girlfriends here inJoburg that have taught mehow to give parties, keep acloseeyeonthehelp,andjust

overall make the gracefultransition to wifehood andadulteration. My girlfriends,plus my subscription to theLadies’ Home Journal. Ourmagazines always arrive solate that we are one or twomonths out of style. Weprobably started painting ournails Immoral Coral aftereverybody sensible hadalready gone on to pink, butheck, at least we are allbehind the times together.

AndthegirlsIassociatewithareverysophisticatedinwaysthat you simply can’t learnfrom a magazine. EspeciallyRobine, who is Catholic andfrom Paris, France, and willpositivelynoteatdessertwiththe same fork she used atdinner. Her husband is theAttache to the Ambassador,so talk about good manners!Whenever we are invited tothebetterhomesfordinner,Ijust keepmy eye onRobine,

because then you can’t gowrong.Wegirlssticktogetherlike

birds of a feather, and thankgoodnessforthat,becausethemen are always off on onekind of business or another.InAxelroot’s case, as I havementioned,itfrequentlyturnsout to be monkey business.For all I know, he’s offsomewheresavingsomeotherdamsel in distress with thepromiseofmarriagesomeday

afterhe’scollectedhisrewardmoney! That would beAxelroot all over, to turn upwith an extra wife or twoclaimingthat’showtheydoithere. Maybe he’s been inAfrica so long he hasforgotten that we Christianshave our own system ofmarriage, and it is calledMonotony.Well, I put up with him

anyway. When I get out ofbed every morning, at least

I’m still alive and not deadlike Ruth May. So I musthave done something right.Sometimes you just have tosaveyourneckandworkoutthe details later. Like thatlittle book said: Stick outyour elbows, pick up yourfeet, and float alongwith thecrowd! The last thing youwant todo isget trampled todeath.

Asfaras theactualdayhe

flewme out of theCongo inhis plane, it’s hard for meeven to remember what Ithoughtwasgoing to happennext. I was so excited to begettingoutofthathorridmudhole Icouldn’t thinkstraight.I’m sure I said good-bye toMother and Adah and Leah,though I really don’tremember giving a secondthoughttowhenIwouldeverseethemagain,ifever.Imusthave been in an absolute

daze.It’s funny but I do recall

just this one thing. Eeben’splanewashundredsoffeetupin the air already, way overthe clouds, when I suddenlyremembered my hope chest!All those pretty things I’dmade—monogrammedtowels, a tablecloth andmatching napkins—it justdidn’tseemrighttobegettingmarried without them. Asbefuddled as I was, I made

him promise he’d go backsomedayandgetthosethingsfrom our house in Kilanga.Ofcoursehehasn’t. I realizenow it was just plain foolishofmetothinkheeverwould.I guess youmight say my

hopes never got off theground.

AdahPriceEMORY UNIVERSITY,

ATLANTA1962I TELL ALL THE

TRUTHbuttellitslant,saysmy friend Emily Dickinson.And really what choice do Ihave? I am a crooked littleperson, obsessed withbalance.Ihavedecidedtospeak,so

there is the possibility oftelling. Speaking became amatter of self-defense, sinceMother seems to have gonemute, and with no one to

testify to my place in theworld I found myself at thesame precipice I teeteredupon when entering the firstgrade: gifted, or specialeducationwiththeear-pullingCrawleys? Not that I wouldhaveminded thecompanyofsimpleminds,butIneededtoflee from Bethlehem, wherethe walls are made of eyesstacked in rows like bricks,and every breath of air hasthe sour taste of someone’s

recent gossip. We arrivedhome to a very specialheroes’ welcome: the townhadbeenstarvingoutrightforgood scuttlebutt. So hip hiphooray, welcome home thepitiful Prices! Theastonishing, the bereft,bizarre,andhomeless(forwecould no longer live in aparsonage without a parson),taintedbydarkestAfricaandprobably heathen, Orleannaand Adah, who have slunk

back to town without theirman, like a pair of rabiddalmations staggering homewithouttheirfireengine.Wewerepresumed insane.

Mother took the diagnosiswell. She moved our thingsoutofstorageintoaplywoodcabin on the piney outskirtsof town,whichsherentedonthe strength of a tiny legacyfrom Grandfather Wharton.She did not hook up thetelephone.She tookupahoe

instead, and began to putevery square inch of hersandy two-acre rented lotunder cultivation: peanuts,sweet potatoes, and fourdozen kinds of flowers. Sheseemed determined to growtragedy out of herself like abadhaircut.Aneighbordownthe road had a mean gooseand hogs, whose manureMother totedhomedaily likea good African in twobalanced bushel pails. It

would not have surprisedmeto see her put a third bucketon her head. By midsummerwe could not see out thewindowsforthefoxgloveandthe bachelor’s buttons.Mother said she aimed to setupaplankshackby the roadand sell bouquets for three-fiftyapiece.IwonderedwhatBethlehem would say aboutthat.Theminister’swifegonebarefoot to roadsidecommerce.

AsearnestlyasMotherhadtakenupseedcatalogs,Itookup the catalog of EmoryUniversity and studied mypossibilities. Then I rode theGreyhound to Atlanta andlimped into the admissionsoffice. Iwasallowed tohavean interview with agentlemannamedDr.HoldenRemile, whose job I thinkwas to discourage peoplesuch as myself from askingfor interviews with people

suchashimself.Hisdeskwasimmense.I opened my mouth and

waited for the sentence Ihoped would arrive. “I needtogotoyourcollegehere,sir.AndwhenIamdonewithit,Iwill need to go to yourmedicalschool.”Dr. Remile was quite

shocked, whether by mydeformity or my audacity Ican’t say, but probably lessshocked than I was by the

sound of my own voice. Heasked whether I had funds,whether I had high schooltranscripts, whether I had atleast taken high schoolchemistry or advancedalgebra. The only answer Ihadwas “No, sir.” But I didmention I had read quite afewbooks.“Do you know what

calculus is, young lady?” heasked, in the manner of aperson who is hiding

something frightening in oneof his hands. Having grownup around the hands ofReverend Price, I am fairlyimmunetosuchfright.“Yes,sir,”Isaid.“Itisthe

mathematicsofchange.”Histelephonerang.WhileI

waited for him to have hisconversation,Iworkedoutinmyheadboththesumandtheproductofthenumbersonthelargenumberedsetoffilesonhisbookshelf,whichwereall

outoforder,andmadeupanequation for righting them,which I wrote down for himonpaper.Ihadtousealgebra,though, not calculus. I alsoobserved that his name,backward, was the Frenchverb for wearing one’sclothes threadbare, so I toldhim that as well, with nooffense intended as hisclotheswerefine.Dr. Remile suddenly

ascertained that I was due

some government benefits,being the child of a veteran.He set me up for taking theentrance examinations, forwhich I returned to Atlantaonemonthlater.Ididn’tmissany of the questions inmathematics. On the verbalportion I missed fourquestions, all having to dowith choosing a word in aseries that doesn’t belong. Ihavealwayshadtroublewiththat line of questioning.

Given my owncircumstances, I find thatanything can turn out tobelongnearlyanywhere.I had told the truth: I

neededtogotohiscollege.Ineeded to get out ofBethlehem, out of my skin,myskull,andtheghostofmyfamily.ItisnotbecauseIwasashamed of Mother—howcould I, the village idiot, beashamed of her? I somewhatenjoyed the company of her

madness, and certainly Iunderstood it. But Motherwanted to consume me likefood.Ineededmyownroom.I needed books, and for thefirst time inmy life Ineededschoolmasterswhowouldtellme each day what to thinkabout.In organic chemistry,

invertebrate zoology, and theinspired symmetry ofMendelian genetics, I havefoundareligionthatserves.I

recite the Periodic Table ofElementslikeaprayer;Itakemy examinations as HolyCommunion, and the pass ofthe first semester was asacrament. My mind iscrowded with a forest offacts. Between the trees liewide-openplainsofdespair.Iskirt around them. I stick tothewoods.SinceIcan’tcallher,Itake

the bus back on weekends.We drink tea and she shows

me her flowers. The oddthing is when Father wasaroundshenevergardenedatall.Thatwashisdomain,andhe directed us all in theplantingofusefulfoods,alltothe Glory of God and soforth. We never had oneflower in our yard thewholeof my childhood. Not somuch as a dandelion. NowMother’s shack is the merepeakofa roofsurroundedbya blaze of pinks, blues,

oranges. You have to bendunder a wild arch of cosmoswhenyoucomeup thewalk,anduseyourwholerightarmto push the hollyhocks asideto get in the front door. Itturns out Mother has anextraordinary talent forflowers. She was an entirebotanical garden waiting tohappen.When I visit herwe never

talk much, and are bothrelieved by the silence, I

think.Thereareonlythetwoofusnow,andIowehermyvery life. She owes menothing at all.Yet I have lefther, and now she is sad. I’mnotusedtothis.Ihavealwaysbeen the one who sacrificedlifeandlimbandhalfabrainto save the other half. Myhabit is to drag myselfimperiously through a worldthat owes me unpayabledebts. I have long relied onthecomfortsofmartyrdom.

NowIoweadebtIcannotrepay. She took hold of mewith a fierce grip and pulledme through. Mother wasgoing to drag me out ofAfricaifitwasherlastlivingact, and it very nearly was.This is how it happened: thecommerfant whose truckshowed up like a rusted-outangelinBulungupromisedusaridetoLeopoldvillewithhisbananas,buthesoonchangedhis mind and dumped us for

more bananas. After aconference with somesoldiers along the road, hebecame convinced that fruitwas now bringing a higherprice than white women inthecity.Sooutwewent.We walked for two days

without food. At night wecrouched at the edge of thewoodsandcoveredourselveswith palm leaves so thesoldiers wouldn’t spot us.Late on the second evening

an army truck pulled upbesideus,andamanthrewussuddenlyintotheback,wherewelandedacrosslapshelmetsrifles. No doubt the soldiersplannedtodousharm;Iwasnumb with that expectation.ButMother’smilk-glasseyesfrightened them. Plainly shewaspossessedofsomefierceevil that would enter thesemen if they touched her, orme. Especially me. So theykept their distance fromboth

of us. We bumped alongsilently in the back of thetruck,passingthroughdozensof military roadblocks, andwere turned over to theBelgianEmbassy, which tookusinuntilsomeonecouldsortout what ought to be donewith us.We spent nineteendays in the infirmary,swallowing a variety ofspecializedpoisons, sincewehad intestinal parasites,fungus growing on our feet

and forearms, andmore thantheusualdegreeofmalaria.Then, on a hospital plane

full of UN workers and sickwhite people, we weretransported through a longthrumming darkness, inwhich we slept the sleep ofthe dead. When the droningstopped we all sat up andblinked like disturbedcorpses. There was light attheroundwindows.Thebellyoftheplanegroanedopenand

we were delivered abruptlyinto the benign spring air ofFortBenning,Georgia.It is impossibletodescribe

the shock of return. I recallthat I stood for the longesttime staring at a neatlypainted yellow line on aneatly formed cement curb.Yellow yellow line line. Iponderedthehumanindustry,the paint, the cement truckand concrete forms, all theresources that had gone into

that one curb. For what? Icould not quite think of theanswer.Sothatnocarwouldparkthere?Aretheresomanycars that America must bedivided into places with andplaces without them?Was italways so, or did theymultiply vastly, along withtelephonesandnewshoesandtransistor radios andcellophane-wrappedtomatoes,inourabsence?ThenIstaredforawhileat

a traffic light, which wassuspended elaborately onwiresabovetheintersection.Icouldn’t look at the carsthemselves. My brain wasroaringfromallthecolorandorchestratedmetalmovement.From the open buildingbehind me came a blast ofneutral-smelling air and ahigh hum of fluorescentlights. Even though I wasoutdoors, I felt a peculiarconfinement. One discarded

magazine lay on the edge ofthe street, impossibly cleanand unblemished. A breezegently turned the pages forme,oneatatime:herewasaneatly coiffed white motherbeside a huge white clothesdryer and a fat white childand a great mound of brightclean clothes that would besufficient,itseemedtome,toclothe a whole village; herewere a man and womanholding between them a

Confederate flag on a vastlawn so flat and neatlytrimmed their shadowsstretchedbehindthemforthelength of a fallen tree; herewas a blonde woman in ablack dress and pearls andlong red fingernails leaningoverablankwhite tableclothtoward a glass of wine; herewasachild inmanykindsofnewclotheshuggingadollsoclean and unrumpled itseemed not to belong to her;

here was a woman in a coatand hat, hugging a bundle ofargyle socks. The worldseemed crowded and emptyat the same time, devoid ofsmells, and extremely bright.I continued to stare at thetraffic light, which glowedred. Suddenly a green arrowpoppedon, pointing left, andthe rowof cars like obedientanimals all went left. Ilaughedoutloud.Mother, meanwhile, had

moved on. She was walkingin a trance toward a paytelephone. I hurried andcaught up with her, a littletimidly, because she had cutstraight to thefrontofa longlineofsoldierboyswaitingtocallhome.Shedemandedthatsomeone give us the correctchange to call Mississippi,whichtwoboysdidinsuchahurry you would thinkMother was theircommanding officer. The

unfamiliar American coinsfelt light in my hands. Ipassed them to Mother andshe dialed some secondcousins who promised tocome collect us almostimmediately, even thoughMother had not spoken withthem innearly adecade.Shestill knew the telephonenumberbyheart.Tell all the truthbut tell it

slant. What secret is left inourfamilytotell?Imayhave

to stop talking again, until IcanbesureofwhatIknow.Ithought I had it settled longago, you see. My hymn toGod:Evol’sdog,dogho!Myhymnforlove:Eros,eyesore!Oh, I knew it all, backwardand forward. I learned thebalanceofpowerinonelongCongolese night, when thedriverantscame:thebangonthe door, the dark hustle andburning feet, and last of allAdahdraggingthepermanent

singsong of her body lejt...behind. Out into themoonlight where the groundboiledandtherestoodMotherlike a tree rooted motionlessin the middle of a storm.Motherstaringatme,holdingRuth May in her arms,weighing the two of usagainst one another. Thesweetintactchildwithgoldenringlets and perfectly pairedstrong legs, or the darkmuteadolescent dragging a

stubborn, disjunct half-body.Which?After hesitating onlya second, she chose to saveperfection and leave thedamaged. Everyone mustchoose.LivewasIereIsawevil I

wrote in my journal. Aliveone moment, dead the next,because that is how mydivided brain divined theworld. There was room inAdah for nought but purelove and pure hate. Such a

life is satisfying and deeplyuncomplicated. Since then,my life has become muchmore difficult. Because lateron, she choseme. In the endshecouldonlycarryonechildaliveoutofAfricaand Iwasthat child. Would she ratherhave had Ruth May? Was Ithe booby prize? Does shelook at me and despise herloss?AmIaliveonlybecauseRuthMayisdead?WhattruthcanIpossiblytell?

Recently I rifled throughthehistoryofOurFather.Anold trunk full of his things. Ineeded to find his militarydischarge papers, whichwould provide for me somebenefits in the domain ofcollege tuition. I foundmorethan I was looking for. Hismedal is not, as we werealways told, for heroicservice. It is simply forhaving been wounded andhavingsurvived.Forescaping

fromajunglewhereallothersmarched to their deaths. Nomore than that. Theconditions of his dischargewere technically honorable,but unofficially they were:Cowardice, Guilt, andDisgrace. The Reverend thesolesurvivorinacompanyofdeadmenwhohavemarchedalong beside him all his lifesince then. No wonder hecouldnot flee from the samejungle twice.Mother toldme

a part of the story, and Irealized I already knew therest. Fate sentenced OurFather to pay for those liveswiththeremainderofhis,andhe has spent it posturingdesperately beneath the eyesofaGodwhowillnotforgiveadebt.ThisGodworriesme.LatelyHehasbeenlookinginonme.MysleepisvisitedbyRuthMayandthemanyotherchildrenwho are buried nearher. They cry out, “Mother

May I?” and the motherscrawl forward on hands andknees, trying to eat the dirtfrom their babies’ freshgraves. The owls still croonandcroon,andtheairisthickwith spirits. This is what Icarried out of the Congo onmycrookedlittleback.InourseventeenmonthsinKilanga,thirty-one children died,includingRuthMay.WhynotAdah? I can think of noanswer that exonerates

me.Mother’s reasons for

saving me were ascomplicated as fate itself, Isuppose.Amongotherthings,her alternativeswere limited.Once she betrayed me, onceshe saved me. Fate did thesame to Ruth May, in theopposite order. Everybetrayal contains a perfectmoment, a coin stampedheads or tails with salvation

on the other side.Betrayal isa friendIhaveknowna longtime, a two-faced goddesslooking forward and backwithaclear,earnestsuspicionof good fortune. I havealways felt I would make aclear-eyed scientist, onaccountof it.As it turnsout,though, betrayal can alsobreed penitents, shrewdminorpoliticians,andghosts.Our family seems to haveproducedoneofeach.

Carry us, marry us, ferryus,buryus:thoseareourfourways to exodus, for now.Though,totellthetruth,noneofushasyetsafelymadethecrossing. Except for RuthMay,ofcourse.Wemustwaittohearwordfromher.I rode on the ferry. Until

that morning when we allwent to the riverbank, I stillbelieved Mother would takeLeah, not me. Leah who,even in her malarial stupor,

rushed forward to crouchwith the battery in the canoeandcounteritsoddtilt.Iwasoutshone as usual by herheroism. But as we watchedthatpiroguedriftawayacrossthe Kwenge, Mother grippedmy hand so tightly Iunderstood I had beenchosen. She would drag meoutofAfricaifitwasherlastlivingactasamother.Ithinkprobablyitwas.

LeahPriceMISSIONNOTREDAME

DEDOULEUR1964LA DRAGUEUSE, the

nuns callmehere.TheMineSweeper. And not becausemy habit drags the ground,either. I wear trousersunderneathandtuckituphalfthetimejusttomovefasterorclimbupa treewithmybowto shoot a little meat, whichI’dsaythey’rehappytohave.

But I can see in their eyesthey think I have too muchpiss and vinegar for thepresent circumstances. EvenSoeur Therese, who’s theclosest thing I have to afriend here in the GrandSilence,hasmarkedmeastheblack sheep in this snowyflock by insisting I wear allbrown below the shoulders.She’s in charge of thehospital laundry and claimsI’m a hopeless case where

whiteisconcerned.“Liselin!” she scolds,

holding up my scapularstained with the blood ofsomethingor other, some catIhaveskinned.“The monthly visit?” I’ll

offer, and she doubles over,pink-faced, declaring me detrop.Yet I look around meand wonder how, in thepresent circumstances, anyamount of piss and vinegarcouldpossiblybeenough.

Liselin is me: SoeurLiselin, a mercy casesmuggled in under cover ofdarkness,givenrefugefortheindefinitetermofmyfiance’simprisonment, tucked for themeantimeintotoomuchclothand married to the Lord toconceal my maiden name. Ihope He understands when Ipray that ourmarriagewon’tlast forever.The sisters seemtoforgetI’mnotoneofthem,eventhoughtheyknowhowI

camehere.Theresemakesmerepeat the details while hergray eyes grow wide. Hereshe is, merely twenty yearsold and thousands of milesfrom the pastures of France,washing out the dressings oflepers and awfulmiscarriages, yet she’selectrified by my narrowescape. Or maybe that IshareditwithAnatole.Whenwe’realone in the swelteringlaundry room, she asks me

howIknowI’minlove.“I must be. What else

would make you stupidenough to put hundreds ofpeopleindanger?”It’s true, I did that.When I

finally woke up from mydrugged stupor in Bulungu Icould see what a burden I’dbeen,notjustforthefufuandfishsauce I’deatendayafterday,butforbeingaforeignerin the eye of a storm.Mobutu’sarmywasknownto

beruthlessandunpredictable.Bulungucouldbeaccusedofanything for harboring me.Bulungucouldalsobeburnedtothegroundfornoreasonatall.Everyonelearnedfast,thebest strategy was to beinvisible. Yet my presencewas known throughout theregion: I was a gaudy flagwaving overhead during allthosemonthsofsicknessandoblivion, just a girl in love,the center of my own

universe. Finally, I sat up tosee the sun still rose in theeast, but everything else hadchanged.IbeggedAnatoletogetmeouttoanyplacewhereI wouldn’t be a danger toothers, but he wouldn’t sendme alone. He insisted I hadnothingtobeashamedof.Hewas risking his own pro-Lumumbistneck to staynearme, but many people werenow taking risks for whattheyloved,hesaid,orsimply

for what they knew. Soonwe’dgo,hepromised,andgotogether.Plans were laid for us by

friends, including some menfrom Kilanga I’d neverdreamed would take suchchances for Anatole. TataBoanda, for one. Bright redtrousers and all, he arrivedlateonenightonfoot,totingasuitcase on his head.He hadmoneyforusthatheclaimedwas owed to my father,

though this is doubtful. Thesuitcasewasours.InitwereadressandacoloringnotebookofRuthMay’s, piecesof ourhope chests, my bow andarrows. Someone in Kilangasaved these precious thingsfor us. I suppose it’s alsopossible the women whowent through our housedidn’twanttheseitems, though the bow at

least would have beenvaluable. A third possibility,

then:dismayedby thefailureof our Jesus to protect us,theyoptedtosteerclear.ThenewsofFatherwasn’t

good. Hewas living alone. Ihadn’t thought of this—whowould cook for him? I’dnever envisioned Fatherwithout women’s keeping.Now he was reported to bebearded, wild-haired, andstruggling badly withmalnutrition and parasites.Our house had burned, with

the blame going either toMother’s spirit or themischief of village children,though Tata Boanda alloweditwasprobablyFather tryingtotoastmeatoverakeroseneflame.Fatherranoff toahutin the woods he was callingthe New Church of EternalLife, Jesus Is Bangala. Aspromising as that sounds, hewasn’tgettingalotoftakers.People were waiting to seehowwellJesusprotectedTata

Price,now thathehad togetby the same as everyonewithoutoutsidehelpfromtheairplane or even women. Sofar, Father seemed to bereaping no specialadvantages. Additionally, hischurch was too close to thecemetery.Tata Boanda told me with

sincere kindness that RuthMay was mourned inKilanga.Tata Ndu threatenedto exile Tata Kuvudundu for

planting the snake in ourchickenhouse,whichhewasknown to have done, sinceNelson pointed out thefootprints tomanywitnesses.Kilangahadfallenontroubleof every kind. The pro-Lumumbists amongAnatole’s schoolboys werehavingarmedskirmisheswithwhatwas leftof theNationalArmy, now Mobutu’s army,farther south along the river.We were warned that travel

anywherewouldbedifficult.It was harder than that.

Even though the rain hadstopped, we could barelywalk as far as the Kwenge.From there we planned totravelby ferry all theway toStanleyville,whereLumumbastill has enormous popularsupport. There was work tobedone, andAnatole feltwecould be safe there. Themoney Tata Boanda broughtuswasoursalvation.Itwasa

small amount, but in hardBelgian francs. Congolesecurrency had become uselessovernight. With a millionpink Congolese bills wecouldn’thaveboughtourwayontotheferry.Everything was like that:

the ground shifted while weslept, and we woke up eachday to terrible new surprises.In Stanleyville we quicklysaw I was a liability, evenmorethaninBulungu.People

wereoutragedbythesightofwhite skin, for reasons I hadthe sense to understand.They’d lost their hero to abargain between theforeigners and Mobutu.Anatole wrapped me up inwax-print pagnes, hoping todisguise me as a Congolesematron while trying to keepme from staggering dazed infrontofautomobiles.InearlyswoonedinthemillandflowofStanleyville—people,cars,

animals in the street, theaustere gaze of windows inthe tall concrete buildings. Ihadn’t stepped out of thejungle since my trip withFathertoLeopoldville,ayearago or a hundred, I couldn’tsay.Anatole lost no time

arrangingtogetusoutof thecity.Inthebackofafriend’struck, covered with maniocleaves, we left Stanleyvillelateatnightandcrossedover

into the Central AfricanRepublic near Bangassou. Iwasdelivered to thismissiondeep in the jungle, where,amidst the careful neutralityof the sisters, a rumplednovice named Soeur Liselinmight pass a few monthsunnoticed. Without asking asingle question, the MotherSuperior invited Anatole andme to spend our last nighttogether in my little blankroom. My gratitude for her

kindness has carried me alongwayonadifficultroad.Therese leans close and

looksupatme,hereyebrowstilting like the accents aboveher name. “Liselin, of whatdo you accuse yourself? Hashe touched youeverywhere?”We expected to be parted

fornomore thansixoreightweeks,whileAnatoleworkedwith the Lumumbists toreassemble their fallen

leader’s plan for peace andprosperity. We were thatnaive. Anatole was detainedbyMobutu’spolicebeforeheeven made it back toStanleyville.Mybelovedwasinterrogated to the tune of abroken rib, taken toLeopoldville, and imprisonedin the rat-infested courtyardofwhatwasoncealuxuriousembassy. Our extendedseparation has so farimproved my devotion to

Anatole,myFrenchgrammar,and my ability to live withuncertainty. Finally, I’veconfided to Therese, Iunderstand the subjunctivetense.I shudder to think what

Fatherwouldsaytomehere,skulking among a tribe ofpapist females. I pass thedaysasproductivelyasIcan:trying to stay clean, sharpenmy aim, and keep my lipbuttoned from Vespers till

breakfast.Trying to learn thetrick of what passes forpatience. Every few weeks IgetaletterfromLeopoldville,whichholdsmeontrack.Myheart races when I see thelong blue envelope in asister’shand,deliveredtomeunder her sleeve as if amanhimselfwereinside.And,oh,he is! Still sweet and bitterandwiseand,bestofall,stillalive.Isqueal,Ican’thelpit,and run outside to the

courtyard to taste him inprivatelikeacatwithastolenpullet. I leanmy faceagainstthecoolwall andkiss itsoldstones in praise of captivity,because it’s only my beinghere and his being in prisonthatsavesusbothforanotherchance at each other. I knowhe despises being useless,sitting still while warovertakes us. But if Anatolewerefreetodoashepleasedright now, I know he’d be

killed in the process. Ifcaptivity is damaging hisspirit,Ijusthopeforanintactbody andwill dowhat I canfortherest,lateron.The nuns spied me out

there and told me I’m goingto wear away theirfoundation. They are used togunfire and leprosy but nottruelove.Clearly I’m here to stay

awhile, so Mother Marie-Pierre has putme towork in

theclinic. If I can’tquitegetthe hang of poverty-chastity-and-obedience, I can learninstead about vermifuges,breech deliveries, arrowwounds, gangrene, andelephantiasis. Nearly all thepatientsareyoungerthanme.Preventatives for old age arerampant here. Our suppliescome from the FrenchCatholic Relief, andsometimes just thinair.Oncea messenger on a bicycle

came teetering up the junglepath bringing us twelve vialsof antivenin, individuallywrapped in tissue inside awoman’s jewelry box—anastounding treasure whosehistory we couldn’t guess.The boy said it came from adoctor in Stanleyville whowas being evacuated. IthoughtoftheBelgiandoctorwho’d set Ruth May’s arm,andIdecidedtobelieveRuthMay herself was somehow

involved in this gift. Thesisters merely praised theLordandproceededtosaveadozenpeople fromsnakebite;morethanwe’velost.

From talking with thepatients I’ve gotten passablyfluent in Lingala, which isspoken throughout northernCongo, in Leopoldville, andalong most of the navigablerivers. IfAnatoleevercomesback forme, I’ll be ready to

gomostanywhere.ButthenamonthwillpasswithnoletterandI’msurehe’sslippedintodeath or recovered his clearideals and the sense to steerclear of a badly misplacedwhitegirl,he’sgone forever.Aslosttomeasmysister,oh,sweet Jesus, RuthMay. AndAdah, Rachel, Mother, andFather, all gone as well.What’s the meaning of mystillbeingherewithoutnameor passport, parroting “how-

do-you-do” in Lingala? I amtrying to get some kind ofexplanation from God, butnone is forthcoming. Atnights in the refectorywe sitwith our hands in our lapsand stare at the radio, oursmall,harshmaster.Wehearoneawfulpieceofnewsafteranother,withnopowertoact.ThefreeCongothatsonearlycame to pass is now goingdown. What can I do butthrow my rosary against the

wall of my cell and swearviolence? The nuns are sopatient. They’ve spentdecades here prolonging thebrief lives of theundernourished, accustomedcompletely to the tragedyplaying out around us. Buttheir unblinking eyes framedby their white starchedwimples make me want toscream, “This is not God’swill be done!” How couldanyone,evenaGoddistracted

by many other concerns,allowthistohappen?“Cen’estpasanous,”says

Therese,notourstoquestion.AsconvincingasMethuselahshouting,SisterGod isgreat!Shutthedoor!“I’ve heard that before,” I

tell her. “I’m sure theCongoleseheard iteverydayfor a hundred years whilethey had to forbear theBelgians. Now they finallyget a fighting chance, and

we’resittingherewatchingitgetborndead.Likethatbabyborn blue out of thatwomanwithtetanusthismorning.”“That is an awful

comparison.”“Butit’strue!”Shesighsandrepeatswhat

she’s told me already. Thesisters take no position inwar, but must try to holdcharityintheirheartsevenfortheenemy.“But who is the enemy?

Just tell me that much,Therese.Which side are youtryingnot tohate,whitemenorAfrica?”

She snaps a sheet openwide in her hands and takesthe center with her teeth tofolditinhalf.Also,Ithink,tostopuphermouth.“I’d fight alongside the

Simbas if they’d let me,” Iconfessedtoheronce.Therese has a way of

lookingatmesideways,andIwonder if she wasn’t toohasty in taking her vows.She’s attracted to minesweeping. “You have a goodaim and good nerves,” sheallowed behind the sheet shewasfolding.“Gojointhem.”“YouthinkI’mjoking.”She stopped to look atme

seriously. “Non, ce n’est pasme blague. But it’s not yourplace to fight with theSimbas, even if you were a

man. You’re white. This istheir war and whateverhappenswillhappen.”“It’s no more their war

thanit isGod’swillbedone.It’s the doing of the damnedBelgiansandAmericans.”“The Reverend Mother

wouldwashyourmouthwithdisinfectant.”“TheReverendMotherhas

more pressing needs for herdisinfectant.” And nowherenearenough,either,Ithought.

In the privacy of my littleroomI’vedamnedmanymento hell, President Eisen-hower,KingLeopold,andmyown father included. I damnthem for throwingme into awar in which white skincomes down on the wrongside,pureandsimple.“If God is really taking a

hand in things”, informedTherese, “he is bitterlymocking the hope ofbrotherly love.He ismaking

sure that color will matterforever.”Withnomoretosaybetween a devout farm girland a mine sweeper, wefolded our sheets and ourdifferent-coloredhabits.The Simbas would shoot

meonsight,it’strue.They’rean army of pure desperationand hate.Young Stanleyvilleboys and old village men,anyonewhocanfindagunora machete, all bandedtogether. They tie nkisis of

leavesaroundtheirwristsanddeclare themselvesimpermeable to bullets,immunetodeath.Andsotheyare, Anatole says, “For howcan you kill what is alreadydead?” We’ve heard howtheysharpenedtheirteethandstormed the invaders innortheastern Congo, feedingonnothingbutrage.

Thirty whites killed inStanley, two Americans

among them—we heard thatover the shortwave radioandknew what it meant. Bynightfall the United Nationswouldlaunchtheiranswer,anair and land attack. TheCombined Forces, they’recalling this invading army:the U.S.,Belgium, and hiredsoldiers left over from theBay of Pigs. Over the nextweeks we heard a hundredmore times about the whiteskilled by Simbas in

Stanleyville. In threelanguages: Radio France, theBBC, and Mobutu’s Lingalanewscasts fromLeopoldville,the news was all one. Thosethirtywhite people, rest theirsouls, have purchased an all-out invasion against the pro-Independents. How manyCongolesewerekilledby theBelgians and labor andstarvation, by the specialpolice, and now by the UNsoldiers,wewillneverknow.

They’ll go uncounted. Orcount for nothing, if that ispossible.The night the helicopters

came in, the vibrationspummeledusoutofourbeds.I thought the old stoneconvent was falling down.Weranoutsidewiththewindfromthebladestearingdownon us from just above thetrees, whipping our plainwhitenightgownsintoafroth.The sisters registered their

dismay, crossed themselves,and hurried back to bed. Icouldn’t. I saton theground,hugging my knees, andstarted to cry, for the firsttime since time began, itseems.Cryingwithmymouthopen, howling for RuthMayand the useless waste of ourmistakes and all that’s goingto happen now, everyonealready dead and not yetdead, known or unknown tome, every Congolese child

with no hope. I felt myselffalling apart— that bymorningImightbejustbonesmeltingintothemoldysoilofthe sisters’ vegetable garden.A pile of eggless,unmothering bones, nothingmore: the future I onceforetold.To hold myself together I

tried to cry for somethingmoremanageable.IsettledonAnatole.KneelingbeforeourlittlestatueoftheVirginwith

an eroded face I endeavoredto pray for my futurehusband. For a chance. Forhappiness and love and, ifyou can’t pray for sexoutright, the possibility ofchildren. I found I couldhardly remember Anatole sface, and couldn’t pictureGod at all. He just ended uplookinglikemyfather.Itriedto imagineJesus, then, in thebody of Brother Fowles.TataBidibidi,withhiskind,pretty

wifeandtheirprecariousboatdispensing milk powder andquinine and love to childrenalong the river. Attend toCreation, was his advice.Well, the palm trees in ourcourtyard were ripped andflattenedfromthewindofthehelicopters, and looked fartoodefeatedbywartoacceptmy prayers. So I focused onthe sturdy walls of thecompound and prayedstraight to theblack stones. I

implored them, “Please letthere be sturdy walls likethese around Anatole. Pleaselet them hold up a roof thatwillkeepthisawfulskyfromfalling on him.” I prayed toold black African stonesunearthed from the old darkground thathasbeenhereallalong. One solid thing tobelievein.

RachelAxelroot

JOHANNESBURG1964IF I’D KNOWN WHAT

MARRIAGEwasgoingtobelike, well, heck, I probablywould have tied all thosehope-chest linens togetherinto a rope and hung myselffromatree!Itisn’tlivinghereinSouth

Africa that I mind. It hardlyeven seems like a foreigncountry here. You can getabsolutelyanythingyouneedin the stores: Breck Special

Formulated Shampoo,Phillips’ milk of magnesia,Campbell’s tomato soup,honestly you name it! Andthe scenery is beautiful,especially taking the traindown to the beach. MygirlfriendsandI love topackup a picnic basket withchampagne and Toblerbiscuits (which actually arecookies, not biscuits—imagine my surprise when Ibought some aiming to serve

them with gravy!), and thenwe just head out to thecountryside foraviewof thegreen rolling hills.Of courseyou have to look the otherway when the train goes bythe townships, because thosepeople don’t have anyperspective of what goodscenery is, that’s for sure.They will make their housesoutofapieceofrustedtinorthesideofacrate—andleavethewritingpartontheoutside

for all to see! But you justhave to try and understand,they don’t have the sameethics as us.That is one partof living here. Beingunderstanding of thedifferences.Otherwise this country is

much like you’d findanywhere. Even the weatherisverytypical.Ihavealwaysfelt that people in othercountries just don’t have anyidea thatAfricacouldbe this

normal.Theonlybadthingisthat with the equator beingabove us the change ofseasons conies backwards,whichdoestakesomegettingused to. But do I complain?Heck, no, I just slap up ourChristmas tree in the middleof summer and sing “DecktheHalls”andhaveamartinionthepatioanddon’tgiveitanother thought anymore. Iam a very adaptable kind ofperson. I don’t even mind

speaking Afrikaans to themaid,whichispracticallythesame thing as English onceyou get the hang of it. Aslong as you’re just givingorders, anyway, which aremore or less about the samein any language. And if youhear theword“Nuus”on theradio, for example,why, anyfoolcanfigureoutthatmeans“News.” So you just get upand switch over to theEnglishstation!

Ihaveagoodlife,asfarasthe overall surroundings. Ihave put the past behind meanddon’teventhinkaboutit.Do I have a family? Isometimes have to stop andask myself. Do I have amother, father, and sisters?Did I even come fromanywhere?Becauseitdoesn’tseemlikeit.ItseemslikeI’mjust right here and alwayswas. I have a little tinypicture ofmy sisters andme

cut out in a heart shape,which I happened to bewearinginagoldlocketwhenI left our unfortunatecircumstances in the Congo.Sometimes I get it out andstare at those teeny little sadwhite faces, trying to makeoutwhereIaminthatpicture.That’s the only time I everthink about Ruth May beingdead.WhichI’vesaidwasallbecause of Leah, but really,mainly,it’sprobablyFather’s

fault because the rest of usjust had to go along withwhateverhesaid.Ifitwasupto me, I would never havestepped foot in that snake-infected place. I would havesathomeandletotherpeoplego be missionaries if theywanted to, bully for them!But the picture is so small Ihave to hold it practically atthe end of my nose to makeout who is who. It hurts myeyestofocusonit,somostly

itstaysinthedrawer.Like I said, I am content

with my presentcircumstances for the mostpart.Mymisery comes froma different concern: mymarriage. There is just noword bad enough for EebenAxelroot.Whohasstillnotmadeanhonestwoman

out of me, I might add! Hejust treats me like his slave-girlfriend-housemaid, havingarollinthehaywhenhefeels

like it and then running offdoing God knows what formonthsata time, leavingmealoneinmyprimeoflife.Butif I threaten to leave him, hecalls me the poor little richgirl (which, if we actuallywere rich,would be awholedifferent story) and says Ican’t leave him because noman we know around herecouldaffordtheupkeep!Thatis completely unfair.Everyone we know has a

nicer house than us. Hereceived a large sum for hisserviceintheCongo,adecentnest egg you might say, buthave I seen it? No, sir, andbelieve you me I lookedunder the mattress, becausethat is the kind of person heis. Actually, there’s a gununder there. He says heinvested the money. Heclaims he’s gotten backinvolved with the diamondbusinessintheCongoandhas

many foreign partners, butyou still have to remind himto take a bath on any givenday. So if he has foreignpartners, I don’t think theyareofaveryhighclass.Itoldhim so, too. Well, he raisedup his head from his beerbottle just long enough tohave a good laugh at myexpense. He said, “Baby,your intellectual capacity isout of this world!” Meaningthe vacuum of outer space,

ha, ha. His favorite joke. Hesaid my brain was such ablank slate he could tell meevery state secret he knowsand then march me straightdown to the DamnistryInternational and not have athingtoworryabout.Hesaidthe government should hiremetoworkfortheotherside.This is not lovey-doveyquarreling,mindyou.Hesaysthesethingsandlaughsinmyface! Oh, I have cried till I

threatened to ruin my owncomplexion,letmetellyou.But not anymore. I have

abidedmy time and keptmyeyes open, while in themeantime telling him offgood in the bathroommirrorwhenever I’m all alone andhe’snotthere,justlikeIusedto do to Father. “You justwait,” I tell him. “I’ll showyou whose mind is a blankslate!”And now Rachel Price is

abouttohaveherday.Ihavea trickupmy sleevewhich Ihaven’t told a soul about,even though it’s the God’shonest truth and I know it: Ihave a good shot at theAmbassador.ActuallyDanielistheFirst

Attache, but the French areallsomuchofahigherclass,regardless of their position.LikeIsaid,wemeet thebestpeople through theTempletons,whohavedivine

shindigs. “Come over fordrinks and a braai,”meaninga barbecue, is what wealways say in Johannesburg.Those parties have a veryinternational flair, what withthescotchwhiskey,AmericanLPs,andtheembassygossip.AfterthatonetimethePrimeMinistergotshotinthehead,there was a big oldcrackdown on the blacks,which was absolutelynecessary, but resulted in

misunderstandingsatmanyofthe foreign embassies. Thenation of France, especially,has gotten all high-and-mighty about threatening toremove their associationsfromSouthAfrica.We’veallbeen hearing for weeks nowthat Daniel is going to bereposted to Brazzaville. Hislittle Frenchy wife Robinewill never hack it, I can seethat as plain as day. She’swell known for just as soon

firinghermaidsaslookingatthem, and as far as she isconcerned, everything thatlies outside the civilizedboundaries of Johannesburgis Darkest Africa. She andDaniel were already on theverge of a breakup, even iftheydidn’tknowit.SoIsawmy opportunity, you mightsay. “She doesn’t know howlucky she is,” Iwhispered inhis ear. “I’ll tell you a littlesecret. If it was me, I’d go

with you in two shakes of alamb’s tail.” This was twoSaturdays ago, over at theTempletons’ when we wereslow-dancingaroundthepoolto “Big Girls Don’t Cry” bytheFourSeasons.Ihappentoremember thatwas the song.Because just that verymorning I’d found out aboutanother one of Axelroot’slittle piccadillies, but I’m abig girl so I just putmyhairup, marched downtown, and

boughtmeabrand-newsiren-red bathing suit with a baremidriff. Keeping up theinsuranceishowIthinkofit.Like they say in themagazines, Justwear a smileand a Janzen! And that isexactlywhatIwasdoingtwoSaturdays ago at theTempletons’party.“After what all I lived

through in the Congo,” IcooedtoDaniel,“IcouldtakeBrazzavilleandkeeprighton

smiling.”Andguesswhat:thatisjust

whatI’mgoingtodo!Imightas well get started packingmy bags and gettingmeasuredforaDiorgown.

After what I know aboutthat man, I can wrap himaround my little finger. Andwhat he did to me, boy! Aman only does that kind ofthing when he has certainfeelings. I can tell you with

absolute pos-itivity that I amsoongoingtobeMrs.DanielAttache-to-the-AmbassadorDuPree. EebenAxelrootwillbe high and drywith no onebut the maid to pick up hissocks. And Daniel, bless hisheart, will never even knowwhathithim.

LeahPriceNgembaBIKOKI STATION

JANUARY17,1965

IT CAN FEEL COLDHERE, in the early-morninghaze of the dry season. Ormaybe it’s just me. Maybemy blood’s gotten thin, aweakness Father used toaccuse us of when wecomplained of the chillwinters in north Georgia.Certainly there’s no winterhere: the equator just aboutruns smack-dab throughcurbed.Anatole tellsme I’mpassing from the northern to

the southern hemispherewheneverIgoouttopokeupthe fire in the kitchen house,so I should consider myselfworldly, even though it’snearly impossible these daystoleavethestation.Theplainbittertruthisthat

thisdaychillsmetothebone.I try not to pay attention tothe month and date, but theblossomingpoinsettiasroaratme that it’s coming anyway,and on January 17 I’ll wake

up tooearly,withanache inmy chest.Why did I have tocrow, “Who’s brave enoughto go out there with me?”Knowing her as I did, thatshe’dneverstandtobecalleda coward by anyone, least ofallhersister.It’s a bleak anniversary in

our household. I killed asnake this morning, justwhacked it into pieces withmy machete and flung allthreeof themup in the trees.

Itwasthebigblackonethat’sbeenhangingaroundthebackdoor since the end of therains. Anatole came out andclucked his tongue at myhandiwork.

“Thatsnakewasnotdoingusanyharm,Beene.”“I’m sorry, but I woke up

this morning craving an eyeforaneye.”“Whatdoesthismean?” “It means that snake

crossedmypathonthewrongday.”“Hewaseatingalotofrats. Now they will be intoyourmanioc.”“Black rats orwhite ones?

I’m not sure I can tell thedifference.”He looked atmea long time, trying to workme out. Finally he asked,“Why do you think yoursadness is so special?Children died every day inKilanga.They are dying hereandnow”

“Oh, how could I forget,Anatole. Shewas just one ofamillionpeoplewho left theworldthatday,alongwiththegreat Prime Minister PatriceLumumba. I’m sure in thelong run Ruth May hardlymatteredatall.”He came to me and

touched my hair, which hasgotten rather shaggy.When Ican remember to be a goodCongolesewife, I tie itup inaheadcloth.Anatolecarefully

wiped my eyes with the tailof his shirt. “Do you think Ican’t rememberLittle Sister?She had the heart of amongoose. Brave and clever.She was the chief of allchildreninKilanga,includingherbigsisters.”“Don’t talk about her. Just

gotowork.Wendambote!’Itook his hand away andglaredathim.Don’tmentionherandIwon’tspeakofyourLumumba shattered with

macheteslikethispoorsnakeand thrown in pieces into anabandoned house inElisabethville, with theblessings of my hatefulhomeland. I stomped off tothe kitchen house, where Icouldhear the ratsalreadyatthe manioc, rewarding myspite.ThisisadayAnatoleandI

simply have to get through.I’ve heard people say griefbrings you closer, but the

griefs he and I carry are sodifferent.Mine arewhite, nodoubt, and American. I holdontoRuthMaywhileheandthe rest of Congo secretlyhold a national day ofmourning for lostIndependence. I can recall,years ago, watching Rachelcryrealtearsoveraburnholeinhergreendresswhile, justoutside our door, completelynakedchildrenwitheredfromthe holes burning in their

empty stomachs, and Iseriously wondered ifRachel’s heart were the sizeofa thimble.Isupposethat’show he sees me today. Anyother day I might pray, likemy old friends theBenedictine sisters, to losemyself-will in the serviceofgreaterglory.ButJanuary17,in my selfish heart, is RuthMay’sonly.Through a crack between

theboardsIwatchedhimpick

uphisbookbagandheadoffin his earnest, square-shouldered Anatole waydown the road toward theschool. Anatole, my firstprayer to Creation answered.Both of us were spared, inbody at least, by the stonewalls of our differentimprisonments,andalteredinspirit, in ways we’restrugglingtounderstand.I’velost all the words to mychildhood prayers, so my

headringswithitsownGrandSilence. And Anatole hasfoundnewwordsforshapingbelief.His circumstances were as

bizarre as mine, and verylucky—we agree on that.Most dissidents now areexecuted, or held underconditions that make themwish for execution. ButMobutu was just gettingorganized in ‘61, and stillgiven to peculiar omissions.

Anatolegottospendhisdaysplaying bottle-cap checkerswith a pair of lackadaisicalguards,wholethimreadandwrite anything as long as hedidn’t escape. They likedAnatole, and apologized thatthey had to support theirfamilies on the handful ofcoins or rice they got whenMobutu’s deputies came byto count the prisoners eachmorning. After that he couldorganize lessons under the

courtyard’s scabby mango,teachingliteracytoanyguardor fellow prisoner who feltlike improving himself on agivenday.Theguardshelpedget books for Anatole, andwenttoalotoftroubletogethis letters posted to variouscountries. Right underMobutu’snose,hediscoveredthe writings of the greatAfrican nationalist KwameNkrumah,andthepoetryofayoung doctor in Angola,

Agostinho Neto, with whomhe started up acorrespondence. Neto is about Anatole’s

age, also educated bymissionaries. He’d alreadygone abroad to studymedicine and returned hometo open a clinic, where hisown people could get decentcare,butitdidn’tworkout.Agang of white policemendraggedhimoutofhisclinicone day, beat him half to

death, and carted him off toprison. The crowds thatturned up to demand hisrelease got cut down liketrees by machine-gun fire.Not only that, but thePortuguese army went outburning villages to theground, to put a damper onNeto’s popularity.Yet, theminute he got out of prison,hestartedattractingdrovesofpeople toanoppositionpartyin Angola. Anatole is

encouraged by his exampleand talks about Neto a gooddeal,hopingtomeetwithhimsomehow,somewhere.Ican’tfeature it, when it’s toodangerousnowforthemeventocontinuewritingletters.Of course, Anatole’s most

faithful prisoncorrespondence was with anuninBangassou,whichwasa matter of great hilarity tohis fellow prisoners. Saplanche de salut! they teased

—his longplank to salvation—aslangexpressionmeaningyour last hope. Anatole stillsometimes calls me hisplanche de salut. But by thetime we were reunited lastfall, I was unsure enough ofGod and too mad ateverybody else to offer anykind of salvation. For sure,though, I’d had enough ofpoverty-chastity-obedience totradeitinonbeingAnatole’swife. A medical evacuation

Jeep got me throughdisguised as a corpse all theway toBikoki, anold rubberplantation settlement outsideof Coquilhatville. Mysweetheart, released afterthree years without formalcharges, was waiting here toraisethedead.WechoseBikokiexpecting

to find people Anatole knewhere, former friends andemployersintherubbertrade,but most are dead now or

have left the country. Asurprise, though, was AuntElisabet, his mother’syoungest sister. She camelookingforhimhereadecadeago. Anatole was alreadygonelongbefore,butElisabettook work at the missionstation,hadachild,andneverleft. It’s a great change forAnatole tohaverelativesanda wife, after his lifelongstatusasanorphan.The mission is a ghost

town now, and theagricultural station alsonearly deserted. The Simbashave cleared the place ofEuropeans without eversetting foot here. Theplantationismostlyrubble.(Iimagine it dismantled by thewhacked-off ghost hands ofallthoserubberworkers.)Theone building left standingcontains the very librarywhere Anatole, as a younghousehold servant, taught

himself to read and writeEnglish. At my request weweremarriedinthatroombythe village chief, in iceremony that was neitherquite Christian nor Bantu. Iasked forGod’sblessingandcarried red bougainvilleaflowers formymother.AuntElisabet draped around ourshoulders the traditionalmarriageclothcalledmole, abeautiful double-sized pagnethat symbolizes the

togetherness of marriage. Italsoworksasabedspread.Since its heyday as a

planter’s mansion, parts ofthehousehadbeenusedasanarmy bunker, a birthinghospital, and a goat barn.Nowtheplanwastouseitfora school. The departmentchief in CoquilhatvilleadmiresAnatole, so turned ablindeyetohisprisonrecordand hired him as headmasterfor the regional hole

secondaire.We’realso tryingto keep open the agriculturalextension program, trainingformer rubber workers tosubsistence farming. And Ivolunteerat theclinic,whereaGuineandoctorcomesonceaweekfromCoquilhatvilletoimmunize and diagnosebabies. In spite of all we’dbeen through, Anatole and Istood together last fall anddeclared the wordIndependence out loud. We

said it with our eyes on thesky, as if it were somefabulous bird we could calldownoutoftheair.It’s taken a lot to dampen

ourhopes.Buteverythinghasturned around so fast, like amagician’s trick: foreignhands moved behind thecurtain and one white Kingwas replaced with another.Only the face that shows isblack. Mobutu’s U.S.advisors even tried to hold

elections here, but then gotfurious when the wrongperson won— AntoineGizenga, Lumumba’slieutenant. So they marchedthe army into parliament andreorganized it once again inMobutu’sfavor.“If theAmericansmean to

teachusaboutdemocracy,thelesson is quite remarkable,”Anatoleobserved.“Breathtaking,”Iagreed.He says I have different

personalities: thatmyLingakis sweet andmaternal, but inEnglish I’m sarcastic. I toldhim, “That’s nothing—inFrench I’m a mine sweeper.Which personality annoysyouthemost?”He kissed my forehead.

“Themost,IlovemyBeene.”His absolute truth. Is thatwhat I am? When theneighborsor studentsaskmemy nationality, I tell them Icame from a country that no

longer exists. They canbelieveit.In the last months our

government paychecks havedwindled from almostnothing to nothing. We tellour coworkers that a merelack of funds mustn’tdiscourage our hopes. Weknow that to criticizeMobutu,eveninprivate,istoriskhavingyourheadcrackedopen like a nut, whichnaturally would discourage

one’shopesentirely.Weliveon what we can find, andwhen we’re offered news offriends,wetakeadeepbreathfirst. My old friend Pascalandtwootherformerstudentsof Anatole’s were murderedbythearmyontheroadsouthof here. Pascal had a kilo ofsugar cane and a defunctWorldWar IIhandgun inhisbackpack.We heard about iton Christmas Day, when wehad a visit from Fyntan and

Celine Fowles.They’re nowstaying at Kikongo, thehospital mission on theWamba they told us about. Irejoiced to see them,but anyreunion brings awful news,and I cried myself to sleepwhen they left. I’d nearlyforgottenPascal,hiswide-seteyes and insolent smile, andnow he comes creepingaround my dreams, throwingopen windows faster than Ican shut them. What little

scrap of audacity caught theattention of an army officerontheroad?WhatifImarkedhimwith someEnglishwordI taught him, as stupidly aswedoomedourparrot?This is the kind of crazy

dread we live with. Ourneighborsareequallyterrifiedof Mobutu’s soldiers andtheir opposition, the Simbas,whose reputation is stalkingnorthern Congo like a lionitself. The Simbas’ anger

against all foreigners isunderstandable, butincreasingly their actionsaren’t. We hear of atrocitieson the shortwave, then hearthem exaggerated onMobutu’s official newscasts,and it’s hard to knowwhat’sreal. I think about food,mostly, andoccupymymindbywatchingchildren. Idon’treally fear the Simbas, eventhough I’mwhite.Anatole isvery well respected; my

alliance with him will saveme,oritwon’t.Justicemovesinmysteriousways.Father is still carrying on

with his tormented Jesus IsBangala church.This was theFowleses’ other awful news:Father had walked orhitchhikedallthewayovertothe Kikongo mission in anagitated state, bellowing thathis guts were on fire withvenom. He claimed he’dswallowed a live snake. The

mission doctor gave himquinine and vermifuges,which would give pinwormsa run for their money, butlikely not a green mamba.Poor Father. Now he’s leftKilanga altogether, vanishedinto the forest, it seems, ormelted under the rain.Sometimes at night I thinkabout how hemight be deadandIhaven’theardyet.It’sahard thing to livewith in thedark,andIlieawakecooking

up plans to go hunt for him.But in daylight a wall ofangerpushesmeinadifferentdirection, roaring that Imustleave Father behind me. Icouldn’t strike out on myown, and evenwith help it’snot worth the risk. Iunderstand that he’sdangeroustomenow.Dangeroustomanypeople,

and always was, I guess.FyntanandCelinemusthavebeen alarmed by our

misguidedoutpostinKilanga,wherewe slept in their samehouse, antagonized theirformer friends, even turnedtheir parrot out to nature’smaw.Andthatmissiondoctorat Kikongo must have foundFather a sight to behold: awild-haired preacher with asnake in his belly. Thatdoctorhasstayedonwithhisfamily, in spiteof thedanger—they’re from someplace inthe South, Fyntan thought,

GeorgiaorKentucky.IwishIcould go visit them and talkin my own language, theEnglishIknewbeforeIgrewthornsonmytongue.It’s the only time I get

homesick, when Americalands on my doorstep in amissionary guise.There areothers who didn’t go back,like me. But they seem sosureofbeingrightherewheretheyare,sorootedbyfaith—Fyntan Fowles, for one, and

the strangers who turn upeverysooften toask if Icanhelpgetamessagethroughorkeepaboxofmedicinessafetill a boat is found to take itup river. I’llhappily inventameal and make up a bed onthe floor, just to hear thekindness in their stories.They’resounlikeFather.AsIbear the emptiness of a lifewithout his God, it’s acomfort to know these soft-spoken men who organize

hospitals under thatchedroofs, or stoop alongsidevillage mamas to plantsoybeans, or rig up electricalgenerators for aschool.They’ve riskedMobutuandeveryimaginableparasite in the backwaterplaces where children werelefttodieorendurewhentheUnderdownsandtheirilkfledthe country. As BrotherFowles told us a long timeago: thereareChristians,and

thereareChristians.

But visitors of any stripeare rare, and most days areexactly like the ones before.Funnytospeakofboredom,Iguess. If I’d tried inchildhood to imagine mypresent life in the jungle, I’dhave been struck numbwith,the adventure of it. Butinstead I’m numb with thetedium of a hard life. Wecollapse into bed at night. I

spend all day walkingbetween the soybean fields,thekitchenhouse,themarket,the clinic, and the nutritionclassIteachattheagricultureschool, wondering on anygiven day if I’ve given outmore information than I’vetaken in. For sure that’s thedirection the calorie count isgoing. We have manioc andyams to fill our bellies, butprotein is scarcer thandiamonds. Ibargainhighand

low for an egg or beans, aprecious chicken, some freshriver fish, or I’ll catch a rideintotheCoquilhatvillemarketto gaze at such treasures astinned ham, for a king’sransom. Sometimes I evenmanagetopayit!ButAnatolehas lost weight this winterandI’velostevenmore,eightkilos, so fast I’m a littlescared. Probably I havewhipworm again. I’m prettysure I was pregnant at

Christmastime, but now I’msure I’m not, so there musthavebeenalossinthere,butit’seasiernottomentionittoAnatole. Easier not to countit,ifthat’spossible.I’m losing my family,

piecebypiece.Fatheris lost,wherever he is. Rachel Icould only despise more if Iknew for sure which way todirect my ire, presumablySouth Africa, where I guessshe’s finally hit paydirt with

her exceeding whiteness andmercenary husband. I can’treliablygetalettertoMotheror Adah. Mobutu’s chiefpostal minister, a relative ofMobutu’s wife, stoppedpaying all the postalworkersfor the last year so he coulduse the money to buildhimself a mansion inThysville. Now it takes ahuge bribe or a personalcontact togetmailoutof thecountry, and the letters

incoming I can only supposeare piling up somewhere inLeopoldville, being sniffedformoneyorvaluables.If people are shocked by

theseunexplainedlosses—thepost, their salary, a friendwalking home on the road—they don’t mention it. Whatdo people here know butforbearance? They take onelook at the expensive,foreign-made uniforms ofMobutu’spoliceandknowto

keep their thoughts tothemselves.They know whostands behind Mobutu, andthatinsomeplaceasfarawayas heaven, where the largestrules are made, white andblacklivesaredifferentkindsof currencies. When thirtyforeigners were killed inStanleyville, each one wastied somehow to a solidexchange, a gold standardlike the hard Belgian franc.But a Congolese life is like

the useless Congolese bill,which you can pile by thefistfulor thebucketful into amerchant’shand,andstillnotpurchaseasinglebanana.It’sdawning on me that I liveamong men and womenwho’ve simply alwaysunderstood their wholeexistenceisworthless thanabanana tomostwhitepeople.I see it in their eyes whentheyglanceupatme.January is a hard, dry

monthandI’mlonely,Ithink.Lonelyforothersofmykind,whoever that might be.SometimesIimagineleaving,going home to see Motherand Adah, at least, but thelogisticsofmoneyand traveland a passport are toolaborious even to imagine.My daydream gets as far asthe front gate and ends rightthere, looking back atAnatole, who’s saying, Notyou,Beene.

Tonight he’ll come homeworried and exhausted.There’s hardly any way tokeep the ecole secondaireopen another term withoutfunds, and parents areanxiousthateducationisonlyputting their children atgreater risk. The awful truthis they’reright.Buthewon’ttalkaboutthat.He’llsneakupbehind me in the kitchenhouse and throw an armacross my chest, making me

screamandlaughatthesametime. He’ll rub his knucklesintomy hair and cry, “Wife,your face is as long as acrocodile’s!”I’ll tell him it’s just as

ugly, too, and my skin isabout that scaly. I say thesethingssohe’llarguewithme.I’m difficult in January. Iknowthis.IneedhimtoinsistthatI’musefulandgood,thathewasn’t out of hismind tomarryme,thatmywhiteskin

isnotthestandardofoffense.That I wasn’t part of everymistake that’s led us to rightnow, January 17, with all itssinsandgriefstobear.He remindedme once that

the first green mamba wasmeant for him. He arousedTata Kuvudundu’s anger byencouragingdiscussion aboutus, and white people ingeneral. He blames hismisjudgment of villagepolitics. We all have that

snakeinourbelly,Isuppose,but Anatole can’t take mine.IfIcan’tyetmournamillionpeoplewho left thisworld ina single day, I’ll start withone, and move from there. Idon’t have much left of mychildhood beliefs I can loveortrust,butIstillknowwhatjustice is. As long as I’mcarryingRuthMaypiggybackthrough my days, “with hervoice in my ear, I still haveherwithme.

AdahPriceEMORY HOSPITAL,

ATLANTA CHRISTMAS,1968IAM LOSING MY

SLANT. Inmedical school Ihave been befriended by anupstart neurologist, whobelieves I am acting out agreat lifelong falsehood.Adah’s False Hood. In hisopinion,aninjurytothebrain

occurring is early as mineshouldhavenolastingeffectson physical mobility. Heinsiststhereshouldhavebeencompletecompensationintheundamaged part of mycerebral cortex, and that mydragging right side ismerelyholding on to a habit itlearned in infancy. I scoffedat him, of course. I wasunprepared toaccept thatmywhole sense of Adah wasfounded on a

misunderstanding betweenmybodyandmybrain.But the neurologist was

persuasive, intimidatinglyhandsome, and the recipientof a fabulously covetedresearch grant. Mostly toprovehimwrong,Isubmittedmy body to an experimentalprogramofhisdesign.Forsixmonths he had me stopwalking entirely, in order toclearmynervouspathwaysofso-called bad habits. Instead,

I crawled. With the help offriendsIrearrangedmysmallapartment to accommodate agrown-up baby, and warilycrept each morning from amattress to my coffee makerand hotplate on the kitchenfloor. I used only the lowerhalf of the refrigerator. TopreservemydignityIwenttowork in a wheelchair. I wasstarting a rotation inpediatrics at the time—goodluck, since children don’t

tend to hold the crippledresponsible for theirinfirmities, as grown-ups do.Adultslistentoyouwithhalfan ear, -while the Biblicalprescription “Physician, healthyself!” rings in the other.But children, I found, wereuniversally delighted by adoctorwithwheels.Athome,whileIsetabout

memorizing the flaws in mycarpet, my body learned tocross-coordinate. One day I

felt the snap like a rubberband that drew my right legup under me as my left armmovedforward.AweeklaterIfoundIcouldeasilybalanceon my hands and toes, pushmy rear end up into the airand fall over into a sit.Nobody was there to watch,praise be, as I spontaneouslyclapped my hands at thewonder of myaccomplishment. Within afew weeks I had strength

enough in both arms to pullmyself up on the furniture,andfromthereIcouldreleasemyself to a stand. Now,tentatively, I toddle in astraight line. I have takeneachstepinitsturn.Iwasnotlearning it all over again butfor the first time, apparently,since Mother claims I didnone of these things as ababy.SheinsistsI layonmyback for three years cryingfor Leah to stay close and

play with me, until finallyone day without prelude Irolled off the couch andlimpedafterher.MothersaysIneverpracticedanythingbutalwayswatchedLeah, lettingher make the mistakes forboth of us, until I was readyto do it myself withacceptable precision. Motheris kind to me, probablybecause I’ve stayed nearer athand than her other children.ButIdisagree.Imadeplenty

of my own mistakes. I justmadethemontheinside.‘Ithastakenmesolongto

believeIamsaved.Notfromcrookedness; I am still tosome extent crooked andalways too slow. But savedfrom the abandonment Ideserved. It has taken untiltonight,infact.LeahisinAtlantanow,and

that is part of the problem ifnotthewholeofit.LeahwithAnatole and their little son

Pascalandanotherchildwellinprogress.LeahmajoringinAgronomics and all of themmaking a noble attempt toplant themselves onAmerican soil. I can see itwillnot last.WhenIgowiththem to thegrocery, they areboggled and frightened andsecretly scornful, I think. Ofcourse they are. I rememberhow it was at first: dazzlingwarehouses buzzing withlight, where entire shelves

boast nothing but hair spray,tooth-whitening cream, andfoot powders. It is as if ourRachelhadbeenleftsuddenlyinchargeofeverything.“What is that,AuntAdah?

And that?” their Pascal asksin his wide-eyed way,pointing through theaisles: apink jar of cream forremoving hair, a can offragrance to spray on thecarpet, stacks of liddedcontainers the same size as

the jarswe throw away eachday.“They’re things a person

doesn’treallyneed.”“But,AuntAdah,howcan

there be so many kinds ofthingsapersondoesn’treallyneed?”Icanthinkofnohonorable

answer.Whymustsomeofusdeliberate between brands oftoothpaste, while othersdeliberate between damp dirtandbonedusttoquietthefire

of an empty stomach lining?There is nothing about theUnited States I can reallyexplain to this child ofanotherworld.We leave thatto Anatole, for he sees it allclearly in an instant. Helaughs aloud at the nearlynaked women on giantbillboards, and befriends thebums who inhibit the streetcorners of Atlanta, askingthem, detailed questionsabout where they sleep and

how theykill their food.Theanswers are interesting. Youmight be surprised to knowhow many pigeons roostingin the eaves of Atlanta’sPublicLibraryhaveendeduproasting over fires in GrantPark.I find an extraordinary

kindredspirit inAnatole.Weare both marked, I suppose.Freaksatfirstsight,whohavelearned to take the world atface value. He was marked

early on by his orphanedstate, his displacement, hiszealous skeptical mind, hisaloneness.Ihavenoticedthathe, too, reads thingsbackward:whatthebillboardsare really selling, forexample.Alsowherepovertycomes from, and where itgoes. I shall not covet mysister’s husband, but I shallknowhim,inmyway,better.Anatole and I inhabit thesame atmosphere of solitude.

The difference between us ishe would give up his rightarm and leg for Leah,whereasIalreadydid.Will I losemyself entirely

ifIlosemylimp?How can I reasonably

survive beyond the death ofRuth May and all thosechildren? Will salvation bethedeathofme?

Here in thehospital Ihavetoo much time for questions

like these. It occurs to me Ihave access to an infinitevariety of narcotic drugs.Sleep is an absolutepossibility.Godcan’tseeyouwhen you’re asleep, RuthMayusedtoinsist.Evilpeelsnoeyeonsleep.Live!Die.They see a great deal of

Mother. Mother last yeargave up her floral hermitagein Bethlehem and moved toan apartment in Atlanta,

havingfoundanewchurchofsorts. She marches for civilrights. They pay her toworkin an office, but I know shelives for themarches. She isvery good at it, andimpervious to danger. Shecame over to my apartmentone night, having walkednearly a mile through teargas,sothatIcouldcheckhereyes for damage to thecornea. Her eyes were noteven red. I think bullets

wouldpassrightthroughher. It crossesmymind that I

may need a religion.Although Mother has onenow, and she still suffers. IbelieveshetalkstoRuthMaymore or less constantly,begging forgivenesswhennooneisaround.Leah has one: her religion

isthesuffering.Rachel doesn’t, and she is

plainly thehappiestofusall.Though it could be argued

that she is, herself, her ownbrandofgoddess.I am sorry to say I do not

see Leah and Anatole asmuch as I might. Being amedical student, of course, Ihave an inhuman schedule,and everyone makesallowancesforthat.AlsoIamin a different region of theuniversity altogether frommarried student housing.Theyaremakingbabiesoverthere, while over here we

merelysavethem.It has been a difficult

month: a rotation in neonatalintensive care. We lost twobabies in the last week. Andin this past day, ChristmasEve, while the clock madetwo complete rotations of itsown, I watched over threetiny creatures whose lungsstruggledliketheflat,uselesswings of butterfliesprematurely emerged.Triplets. I considered

Nelson’s view ofwhat oughttobedonewithtwins,andthedreadful consequences ofignoring that tradition. Whatwe had here was worse: atriple calamity fallen on thehouseofthesepoorparents.Ispoke with the father, a boyofsixteenorso,whogavetheclear impression, through theuse of the conditional tensewhenspeakingoftheparentalcare required for thesedamaged children, that he

might not stick around. So aplague on the mother alone.While themachines hummedsoftly in our hospital andwhite-soled shoes whisperedup and down the halls, acatastrophewasroaringdownupon this child of a mother.This is her Christmas gift.She will be indenturedforever.Never againwill herlife be free of travail anddisappointment in her threeblind mice. She may cut off

their tails with a carvingknife, this husbandless wife,whoseschool friendsarestillpromenading through theirgirlhoods.Who is to say she should

nothaveruntotheforestwithher hair and umbilical cordsflying, and knelt to depositeachofthesethreeatthebaseof its own pine tree? Whowill argue that my drips andincubatorsarereallythewiserplan?

Who could blame Motherifshehadchosentoleavemeso?AftermidnightIfellasleep

on my cot in the interns’lounge, but was battered bydreams. Entubed, damagedchildren of all colors dancedon my head and arms andhands. Live or die, live ordie? they chorused. MotherMayWe?Africahasslippedthefloor

out from undermy righteous

house,myAdahmoral code.How sure I always feltbefore, how smug, movingthrough a world that desiredtocastmeintothedenofear-pulling Crawleys. Adah thebridled entitled, Adahauthorizedtodespiseoneandall.Nowshemustconcedetothose who think perhaps Ishould have been abandonedin the jungle at birth: well,they have a point. What Icarried out of Congo on my

crooked little back is aferocious uncertainty abouttheworthofalife.AndnowIam becoming a doctor. Howverysensibleofme.I struggledhalf awakeand

half asleep, and thensuddenly,inthemiddleofmyfevered, stolen nap, utterlyawake. In dread, trembling.Lying on my side with myeyes open. I felt my coldhands. I was afraid. This isthenewawful thing I cannot

bear to feel. Afraid. This ismy letter to the World Thatnever wrote to Me—Thesimple news thatNature told—With tender Majesty. Hermessage is committed tohandsIcannotsee—Forloveof her, sweet countrymen,judgetenderlyofMe!

In spite of myself I haveloved the world a little, andmayloseit.I sat up on my cot, ran a

hand through my damp,tangled hair, felt bruises allovermyarmsintheshapeofsmall footprints.The secondhandon thewall clockmadeitssteady,ludicrousprogress:stuff,sluff,sluff...Afraidofwhat, exactly?

Suicidal idyll fratricidal.

Afraid. That. Mother wouldchooseLeah.Perfect Leah with her

adorable babe and husband.

In a few hours it will bemorning, they will dancearound the tree with theirlittle gifts from Mother, andtheywillstay,theywill,afterall.Andthelureofgrandsonswill be too strong to resist,and Mother will be theirs.AndthenIwillhavetogotosleep. Sleep oh sleep thoucertainknotofpeace.FormanytedioussecondsI

sat on the edge of my cot,swallowing indecision and

tears.ThenIgotup,wipedmyface on the sleeve of myhospital coat, walked to thephysicians’ lounge, anddialed thenumber I knewbyheart. I calledher. Itwas thedead-flatmiddleof thenight.The night before Christmasand all through the house Iam Adah who expects nogifts, Adah who does notneedorcarewhatotherssay.YetIwokeupmymotherandfinally asked her why she

chose me, that day at theKwengeRiver.Mother hesitated,

understandingthatthereweremany wrong answers. I didnot want to hear that theothers could take care ofthemselves, nor that she feltshehadnootherchoice.Finally she said, “After

Ruth May you were myyoungest, Adah. When pushcomes to shove, a mothertakes care of her children

fromthebottomup.”That is the bedtime story

mymothermadeupforme.Itwasnotaquestionofmyownworth at all. There is noworth. It was a question ofposition,andamother’sneed.After Ruth May, she needsmemost.I find this remarkably

comforting.Ihavedecidedtolivewithit.

LeahPriceNgembaKINSHASAYou CAN’T GO TO

LEOPOLDVILLE NOW, orto Stanleyville,Coquilhatville, orElisabethville.The names ofall those conquerors (andtheirladies)havebeenerasedfromourmap.Forthatmatteryou can’t even go to theCongo; it’s Zaire.We repeatthesewordsisifwe’retryingtomemorizeafalseidentity:I

live in Kinshasa, Zaire. Theplaces we’ve always used toposition ourselves aresuddenlyunfamiliar—cities,villages, even rivers.Elisabetworriesgenuinely, inspiteofourreassurances,thatsheandAnatole might have beenassigned new first names,sincetheirsareEuropeanand“colonialist.” It wouldn’tsurprise me, actually.Mobutu’s edicts are that far-reaching.Theoldcouplenext

doorseemtoshareherdread:they always forget and say“Leopoldville,” then covertheirmouthswiththeirhandsasifthey’veletslipatreason.In the evenings we quiz

each other, searching outmore and more obscureplacesonthemaptotripeachother up: Charlesville?Banningville? Djokupunda!Bandundu! The boys getthem rightmore often than Ido, mainly because they like

to show off. Anatole nevermissesone,becausehismindisthatquick,andalsoIthinkthe indigenous names meanmore tohim.They’re foreignto me, of course. After theboys are asleep I sit at thetable in the flickeringkerosene light, working myway slowly over the newmap, feeling as if Father hadfoundmeoutheretogivemeThe Verse. We’re retrainingour tongues to Mobutu’s

great campaign ofauthenticite.Butwhatisauthenticabout

it, I keep asking Anatole.Kinshasa’s main street isBoulevard the 30th of June,in memory of that greatIndependence Day carefullypurchased by thousands ofpebbles thrown into bowlsand carried upriver. Howauthenticis that?Whatreallybecameofthatvoteisanothermatter, not memorialized in

any public place I can see.There is no Boulevard 17JanvierMortdeLumumba.He points to the dirt path

that runs between ours andour neighbors’ houses, downthrough a ditch where weclutchupourskirtsandtiptoeoverthesewageonoildrumstoreachthemainroad.“Thisboulevard needs a name,Beene.Putasignhere.”Wiseguy. He can’t wait to see ifI’lldoit.

Ourhouseissturdy,withaconcrete floor and a tin roof.We live in what would becalled, in America, a slum,though here it’s an island ofrelativeluxuryintheoutskirtsof lacite,where themajorityhave a good deal less in theway of roofing, to say theleast. Under our roof, we’resix:Anatoleandme,ourboysPascal,Patrice,and thebaby,Martin-Lothaire, and AuntElisabet, plus her daughter

Christianeoccasionally.Afterwe came back from Atlantawe brought Elisabet downhere from Bikoki, wherethings had gotten fairlydesperate. I can’t say they’reany less desperate here, butshe’s good company. Ithought I’d learnedresourcefulness, but Elisabethas given me a highereducationinmakingsoupoutof stones. Mondek, she callsme, I’m her white

daughter.Yet she’s hardlyolder thanAnatole and looksjustlikehim,minusthebroadshoulders and narrow waist.(Her shape is somewhat thereverse.)Withhissamesweetpatience, she works nonstopin our one-room house,singing in Lingala, her lefthand always holding herouter pagne closed formodestywhileher rightdoesmorealone than Icouldwiththree. She’s told me

everything she can recall ofher older sister, Anatole’smother,andlikeakidImakeher repeat the stories. I’mhungry for any family I canget. I’m lucky if I hear fromMother and Adah twice ayear. It’s not their fault. Iknow they’ve sent countlesspackages that are piled upsomewhere in the great,crumbling postal edificedowntown. I expect theMinister of Post could build

himself a second or thirdhome out of undeliveredboxes.By some miracle, we did

get a package atEaster time.The boys hooted and ran thelengthofour17 Janvier lanebrandishing their preciousMars bars. (Which, I heardPascal boast to his friends,aremanufacturedonMars.) Iwastemptedtodothesame-withmyownloot:fivebooksin English! Also clothing,

aspirin, antibiotics, handlotion, thick cotton diapers,batteries for our radio, andlong letters. Iburiedmy faceintheclothesforthescentofmymother,butofcoursetheycame from some Americanchild who’s no kin to us.Mother does volunteer workin African relief. We’re herpetproject,youcouldsay.In every package there’s

oneoddballthingfromAdah,a sort of secret message is

howIthinkofit.ThistimeitwasanoldSaturdayEveningPost she’d found in thebottom of Mother’s closet. Ileafed through it, wondering,Did Adah want me to readabouthowJimmyStewartgothis start, or to know thatwhenaPhilcomovesin,yourTV troublesmove out?ThenI found it, an article called“Will Africa GoCommunist?”Adah retainshereagleeyeforirony.Itwas

all abouthow theU.S.oughtto take better charge of themaverick Congo; the twophotographs stopped myheart.Inone,ayoungJosephMobutulooksoutimploringlyaboveacaptiondeclaringhisposition in jeopardy.Next tohim is a smiling, rathercrafty-looking PatriceLumumba, with a captionwarning: “Hemay be on hisway back!” The magazine isdated February 18, 1961.

Lumumba was already amonth dead, his body buriedunder a chicken coop inShaba. AndMobutu, alreadywell assured of his throne. Ican picture the Georgiahousewivesshudderingat theCommunist challenge,quickly turning the page onthat black devil Lumumbawith the pointed chin. But Iwas hardly any less in thedark, and I was in Bulungu,the very village where

Lumumbahadbeencaptured.Mysistermarriedamanwhomay have assisted in hisdeath-sentence transport toShaba, though even Rachelwillneverknowthatforsure.We have in this story theignorant, but no realinnocents.

Adah wrote at the bottomof the page, “Remember‘Devil One’ and ‘W I.Rogue?’Our secret secrets?”

She says there’s talk now ofan investigation, that theCongress may look into pastwrongdoing in the Congo or“any possible link betweenthe CIA, Lumumba’s death,and the army coup thatbrought Mobutu to power.”Are they joking? Adah saysno one is giving it anycredence; here, no one hasever doubted it. It’s as ifhistorycanbenomorethanamirrortippeduptoshoweach

ofusexactlywhatwealreadyknew. Now everyone’spretending to set the recordstraight: they’ll have theirhearings, while MobutumakesashowofchangingallEuropean-sounding placenames to indigenousones, toridusofthesoundofforeigndomination. And what willchange? He’ll go on fallingover his feet to make dealswiththeAmericans,whostillcontrol all our cobalt and

diamond mines. In return,every grant of foreign aidgoes straight to Mobutuhimself. We read he’sbuilding himself an actualcastlewith spiresandamoatnear Brussels, to provide arespite, I guess, from hisvillas in Paris and Spain andItaly. When I open my doorandlookout,Iseeathousandlittle plank-and-cardboardhouses floating at everyconceivabletiltonanendless

ocean of dust. We hardlyhave a functional hospital inour borders, or a passableroad outside Kinshasa. Howcan this be, a castle withspires and a moat? Whydoesn’ttheworldjustopenitsjaws like a whale andswallow this brazenness inone gulp? is the question I’dpose to Father these days.“Whogavehimchargeofthewhole world? If you haveinsight, hear this: Can one

who hates right govern?”Job34:13,thankyouverymuch.The latest news from

Mobutu is that he’s bringingtwo great American boxers,Muhammad Ali and GeorgeForeman, to the stadium inKinshasa. The announcementcame on the radio thisafternoon.Ionlylistenedwithone ear because of a largerdrama unfolding in ourkitchen. I’d just put Martindown for a nap on his mat

and was boiling the diaperswhile Elisabet crumbled apaperyonionandhotpili-piliinto a bowl. She fries thiswithmashed tomatoes into athinredsauceforthemanioc.That’s the principal trick ofCongolese cooking: rubbingtwo leaves together to givecolor and taste to anotherday’s translucent,nutritionally blank ball ofmanioc.

The pot for boiling themanioc was waiting in linefor the stove, after thediapers, and after that wouldcome the big laundry kettlewith the boys’ shirts and ourhousehold’s three sheets andtwotowels.HereinKinshasawe have a “city kitchen,”withthestoverightinsidethehouse, but it’s only a littlebottle-gas burner,maddeningly sluggish aftermy years of cooking over

roaring wood fires. A lot ofpeopleinlacitedocookwithwood, which they have tonibble secretively from eachother’s houses at night, liketermites.Thiswas supposed tobe a

paydayforAnatole,andittheschoolthere’sbeentalkaboutthe supplementaire, meaningthe possibility of thegovernment’s starting backpayments on the wagesthey’vebeenstealingfromall

public schools for over ayear. This “supplement” issupposedtobeasignofgoodfaith,toforestallanationwidestrike of university students,butsomestudentswalkedoutanyway, and the signs ofMobutu’s faith so far havebeen expressed withnightsticks. I worryconstantly about Anatole.AlthoughIknowhiscapacityfor self-restraint in adangerous moment is

uncanny.Elisabet and I knew there

would be no supplement butwere still greatly enjoyingspending it at tomorrow’smarket. “A kilo of fresh eelsand two dozen eggs!” Iproposed, and she laughed atme. My craving for proteindrives me to asinglemindedness she callsmymomfele-hungries.“Better, ten kilos of rice

and two bars of soap,” she

said,whichwedoneedbadly,but I despaired for animaginary windfall thatwouldbringnothingbutmorewhitestarchintothishouse.“Nothing white,” I

declared.“Brown soap, then,” she

offered. “Oh!Andsomenicepink papier hygienique!” sheadded fervently, andwebothlaughed at that pipe dream.The last roll of toilet paperwe’dseen,inanycolor,came

fromAtlanta.“At least some beans,

Elisabet,” I whined. “Freshgreen ones. Mangwami, likewe used to have in thecountry.”Pascal’s best friend, a

heartygirlnamedElevee,hadwandered in and sat down atthe table opposite Elisabet,but was uncharacteristicallyquiet

“What do you think?”

Elisabetproddedherwiththeblunt end of her knife. “TellMadameNgembasheneedsanew pagne with some colorleft in it. Tell her she isdisgracing her sons with thewashing ragshewears to themarket.”Elevee picked at the short

sleeveofherschooluniform,evidently not desiring to talkaboutfashion.Herveryblackskinlookedashy,andshehadthe tired slump to her

shoulders I recognize in myboys when they’re gettinghookworm. I carried theboiled diapers outside,washed my hands carefullywith our sliver of soap, andinterrupted the afternoon’sprocession of cookpots tomakeEleveeacupoftea.Suddenlyshereportedwith

a blank face that she wasleavingschool.“Oh, Elevee, you can’t,” I

said.She’s a smart little girl,

though this guaranteesnothing,ofcourse.Elisabet simply asked her,

“Why?”“To work at night with

Mother,” she said flatly.Meaning, to work as aprostitute.“How old are you?” I

demanded angrily. “Eleven?Ten?This isacrime,Elevee,you’reachild!Therearelawstoprotectyou from thatkindof work. It’s horrible, you

don’tknow.You’llbescaredand hurt and could getterriblysick.”Elisabet lookedatmewith

dismay. “Mondele, don’tfrighten her. They have tohavethemoney.”Of course that’s true. And

ofcoursetherearenolawstoprotect children fromprostitution. Elisabet’sdaughter, Christiane, I’dguess to be seventeen, and Isuspect she sometimes does

night work in town, thoughwe can’t talk aboutit.Whenever we hit rockbottom, Elisabet somehowdiscovers a little cash in herpurse. Iwish shewouldn’t. Ijust stared at Elevee, myson’s little friend withskinned knees and her twobraids sticking out likehandlebars: a prostitute. Itdawned on me that herchildishness would increaseher value, for a while

anyway.Thatmademewantto scream. I shoved themanioc pot onto the stove,slopping water all overeverywhere.I survive here on outrage.

Naturally Iwould. I grewupwith my teeth clamped on afaithinthebig-whitemaninpower—God, thePresident, Idon’t care who he is, he’dservejustice!Whereasnooneherehaseverhadthefaintestcause for such delusions.

SometimesIfeelliketheonlyperson formiles aroundwhohasn’t given up. Other thanAnatole, who expresses hisoutrage in more productiveways.We sat without speaking

awhile, after Elevee’sannouncement.The radioinformed us the twoAmerican boxers would bepaid five million Americandollars each, from ourtreasury, for coming here.

And it will cost that muchagaintoprovidehighsecurityand a festival air for thematch. “All the world willrespect the name of Zaire,”Mobutu declared in a brieftaped interview at the end ofthebroadcast.“Respect!” I practically

spat on the floor, whichwouldhavehorrifiedElisabetmore than the ill-considereduseoftwentymilliondollars.“Do you know what’s

under the floor of thatstadium?”Iasked.“No,”Elisabet said firmly,

though I’m sure she doesknow. Hundreds of politicalprisoners, shackled. It’s oneof Mobutu’s most notoriousdungeons, and we’re allaware Anatole could end upthere, any day. For what heteaches, for his belief ingenuineindependence,forhisloyalty to the secret PartiLumumbist Unifie, he could

bebroughtdownbyonewell-bribedinformant.“Theprisonersmightmake

a lot of noise during theboxing match,” Eleveesuggested.“Notimprovingthegeneral

respectability of Zaire,” Isaid.“Likambo te” Elisabet

shrugged.“PascalandPatricewill be very excited.Mondele, just think,MuhammadAli.Heisahero!

Little boys in the streetswillcheerforhim.”“Nodoubt,”Isaid.“People

from the world over willcomewatch this great event,twoblackmenknockingeachother senseless for fivemillion dollars apiece. Andthey’ll go away neverknowing that in all ofgoddamned Zaire not onepublic employee outside thegoddamned army has beenpaidintwoyears.”

For a woman to curse inLingala is fairly abominable.Elisabet puts up with a lotfrom me. “Stanleyville,” shecommanded, to change thesubject.“Kisangani,” I responded

without enthusiasm. Eleveeran off to play “with Pascal,rather than be trapped intothisdrearexercise.“PareNationalAlbert?”“ParedelaMaiko.”Neither of us knew or

caredifIwasright.I’mlearningthatElisabet’s

sudden conversational turnsare always for agood reason—usually someone’s safety,probablymine.Iwatchherinthe marketplace, too, wellawarethatnoschoolroomhasever taught me as much.TheCongolese have an extrasense.Asocialsense,Iwouldcall it. It’sawayofknowingpeopleataglance,addingupthepossibilitiesforexchange,

and it’s as necessary asbreathing. Survival is acontinuous negotiation, asyou have to barter covertlyfor every service thegovernment pretends toprovide, but actually doesn’t.How can I begin to describethe complexities of life hereinacountrywhoseleadershipsets the standard forabsolutecorruption? You can’t evenhave a post office box inKinshasa; the day after you

rent it, the postmaster maysell your box to a higherbidder, who’ll throw yourmail in thestreetashewalksout the door. The postmasterwouldargue,reasonably,he’sgot no other way to supporthis family—hispayenvelopearrives empty each week,with an official printedstatement about emergencyeconomic measures. Thesame argument is made bytelephone operators, who’ll

place a call outside thecountryforyouonlyafteryouspecify the location inKinshasa where you’ll leaveI’envdoppe containing yourbribe.Samegoesforthemenwho handle visas andpassports. To an outsider itlooks like chaos. It isn’t. It’snegotiation,infinitelyorderedandendless.As a white woman in

Kinshasa I presentpossibilities,butevenablack

woman with my same purseand leather shoes would beapproachedon the street. It’stakingmeforevertogetusedto this. Last week a youngmanwalkedupandaskedmeoutright for three thousandzaires,andonceagainmyjawdropped.“Mondele, he wasn’t

asking for three thousandzaires,” Elisabet said quietlywhen we’d moved on tocoveting the pineapples. He

was opening the door for atransaction,sheexplained.Hehas something to offer,maybe inside information onblack-market goods or thenameofa telephoneoperatorwith unauthorized (thereforecheap) access to longdistance.She’sexplainedthisto me a dozen times, but itonlysinksinasIcometoseeformyselfwhatitis,thislife.Anybodywhoneedsanythingin Kinshasa—a kidney-stone

operation or a postage stamp—has to bargain for it,shrewdly.TheCongolese areusedtoitandhavedevelopeda thousand shortcuts. Theysumupprospectsbystudyingeach other’s clothing anddisposition, and thebargaining process is wellunder way before they opentheir mouths to speak. Ifyou’re deaf to this subtleconversation, it comes as ashock when the opening bid

seems to be, “Madame, Irequest from you threethousand zaires.” I’ve heardforeignvisitorscomplain thatthe Congolese are greedy,naive, and inefficient. Theyhaveno idea.TheCongoleseare skilled at survival andperceptive beyond belief, orelse dead at an earlyage.Thosearethechoices.I got some inkling of this

from Anatole long ago, Isuppose, when he explained

why he translated Father’ssermons. It wasn’tevangelism.just fulldisclosure. Opening up thebargaining table to a would-be congregation. Imultipliedmy perception of Anatole’sintelligence by ten that day,andnowlookingbackIhaveto do the same for everyonewe knew. The children whohounded us daily for moneyand food weren’t dim-wittedbeggars; they were

accustomedtothedistributionof excess, and couldn’tfathom why we heldourselves apart. The chiefwho proposed to marry mysister surely didn’t dreamFather would actually handover his whining termite! Ithink Tata Ndu was gentlysuggesting we’d become aburdentohisvillageinatimeof near famine; that peoplehere accommodate suchburdens by rearranging

families;andthatifwefoundsuch an idea impossible wewere perhaps better offsomewhere else. Tata Nducertainlyhadhisarroganceinthe ways of command, evencallingdownavoteinchurchtohumiliatemyfather,butinmatters of life and death, Ican see now, he was almostincomprehensiblypolite.It’s a grief to see the best

of Zairean genius anddiplomacy spent on bare

survival, while fortunes indiamonds and cobalt areslipped daily out from underour feet. “This is not a poornation,”Iremindmysonstilltheyhear it in theirsleep.“Itisonlyanationofpoor.”

No paycheck tonight, ofcourse, let alone thesupplementaire. But Anatolecamehomeexcitedabout thegeneralstrikeandspokeof itquietly through dinner,

carefulasalwaystousecodewords and false names. Anysuch knowledge couldendanger the boys. Though Ibelieve Pearl Harbor itselfwould have passed by themtonight, intent as they wereondevouring themanioc.Tomake it last longer I pinchedup little bites with my lefthand while I nursed Martinontheright.Witheverygulphedrew,Ifeltmoreravenous.“One of these days,” I

announced, “I am going totake my bow and sneakthrough the bars of theResidence” Mobutu’sKinshasa mansion issurrounded by a park, wheresome zebras and one pitifulelephantpawatthegrass.Pascal was all for it. “Oh,

Mama!AbattonsI’elephant!”Patricesoberlyinformedus

he didn’t think an arrowcould pierce an elephant’shide.

Pascal was unconcerned.“Have you seen that thing?Mama’s arrow will knock itover,plaf!Kufwa!”Elisabet asked

thoughtfully, “Mondele, howwould you cook anelephant?”What we eat is manioc,

manioc,manioc.Whetherit’stintedpinkwithatomatoskinorgreenwith a leafof cress,it’sstillmanioc.Riceandsoymeal help when we can get

them, to balance our aminoacids and keep our muscletissuefromdigesting itself inthe process knownpicturesquelyaskwashiorkor.When we first moved toKilanga,Irememberthinkingthe children must get plentytoeatbecausetheirbelliesallbulgedout.NowIknowtheirabdominal muscles were tooweak to hold their livers andintestinesinplace.IseesignsofitinPatrice.Anyfoodthat

reachesusinKinshasahastocome over impossible roadsindilapidatedtrucksfromtheinterior, so it costs toomucheven if you can find it.Sometimes Anatole remindsme of our long-agoconversation when I tried toexplain how we grew foodbackhome,inhugefieldsfarfrom the people who eat it.NowIunderstandhisdismay.It’s a bad idea, at least forAfrica. This city is a

foreigner’s premise ofefficiencyplantedonthissoil,and it’s a very bad idea.Living in it, no one couldthink otherwise. It’s a vastcongregation of hunger,infectious disease, anddesperation,masquerading asopportunity.We can’t even grow any

foodofourown. I did try it,rightatthemetalflankofourback door, under theclothesline. Pascal and

Patrice helpedme scratch upa little plot that eventuallyproduced a few bleak, dustybouquets of spinach andbeans, which were gobbledup one night by ourneighbor’sgoat.Thechildrenof that household looked sostarved (as did the goat), Icouldn’tregretthisdonation.We, at least, have the

optionofleaving.Inthebackofmymind I think this—wecould try again in Atlanta.

And while we stay here forAnatole’s teaching andorganizing, and live on thenext-to-noth-ing that workearns,westillhaveameasureofprivilegeincomprehensibleto our neighbors. I’ve takenmy sons to the States forvaccinations that aren’tavailable anywhere in Zaire.I’veseenthemallbornalive,and not one lost to smallpoxortuberculosis.We’reluckierthan most. That’s what’s

hardest to bear: the view outthewindow.Laciteisagrim,dust-coloredhomeland, and Isuffernostalgiaforourlifeinthe interior. In Bikoki andKilangawecouldalwayspicksomethingoffa tree,at least.We never passed a daywithout seeing flowers.Epidemics sometimesdevastated the village, butthey always ended, not farfromwheretheybegan.Icanhaveagood laughat

myformerself, rememberinghow my sisters and Inervously made our list ofprospects: oranges, flour,even eggs! At our low pointasmissionaries,wewerestillfabulously wealthy by thestandards of Kilanga. Nowonder any household itemwe carelessly left on ourporch quietly found a newhomeinthenight.Nowondertheneighborwomenfrownedin our doorway when we

pulled out the linings of ourpockets as evidence of ourpoverty. Not another soul intownevenhadpockets.TheymusthavefeltexactlyasIdonowglaringatMobutuonthedoorstep of his fairy-talepalaces, shrugging, with histwohandsthrustdeepintotheglitteringlootofhismines.“I thought you said the

Congolese don’t believe inkeeping riches tothemselves,” I told Anatole

once, inclined toward anargument.Buthejustlaughed.“Who,

Mobutu? He is not evenAfricannow.”“Well,whatishe,then?” “He is the one wife

belonging to many whitemen.” Anatole explained itthisway:Likeaprincessinastory, Congo was born toorich for her own good, andattracted attention far and“wide frommen“whodesire

to rob her blind. The UnitedStates has now become thehusband ofZaire’s economy,and not a very nice one.Exploitive andcondescending, in the nameof steering her clear of themoral decline inevitable tohernature.“Oh,Iunderstandthatkind

ofmarriage all right,” I said.“I grew up witnessing onejustlikeit.”

But it dawnsonmenowthat, in the end, Mothercarried every last one of ourpossessions outside as afarewell gift to Kilanga.There are wives, and thenthere are wives. My paganmother alone among usunderstoodredemption.The restofusaregrowing

into it, I suppose.Godgrantsus long enough lives topunish ourselves. Janvier 17,Mort de Lumumba and Ruth

May,that’sstillthebleakdayat our house. Anatole and Igrowwordless and stare intothe distance at our ownregrets, “which aren’t so farapart anymore. On Januarynights I’m visited bydesperate dreams ofstretchingmyselfoutoverthewater, reaching for balance.When I look back at theshore, a rowof eggs becomefacesofhungrychildren,andthen comes the fall into blue

despair,whereIhavetomovea mountain that crumbles inmy hands. It’s a relief towake up drenched in sweatandfindAnatole’sbodynexttome.But evenhisdevotioncan’tkeepthisweightoffmyshoulders.“Havemercyuponme, O God, according untothe multitude of thy tendermercies,” I catch myselfpraying, before I’ve fullyawakened toaworldwhereIhavenofather,andcancount

on no tender mercies.Anatole says recurringdreams are common to thosewho’ve suffered seriouslyfrom malaria. When I’mnervousorsadIalsofallpreytotheawfulitchfromfilaires,tiny parasites that crawl intoyourporesandcausea flare-upeverysooften.Africahasathousandwaystogetunderyourskin.

Our life here in Kinshasa

contains more mercies thanmost can hope for. I haven’tyethadtobumpoffMobutu’selephant. I even got to bringhomeanicefatpaycheck,fora time. I signed on to anAmerican payroll,rationalizing that I’d scatterdollars over the vendors innay little corner of la cite, atleast,asit’scertainnoforeignrelief will reach them anyotherway.Mrs. Ngemba, English

teacher,wasmynewidentity.It chafedme asmuch as theBenedictine habit, as it turnsout. I taught at a specialschool in the compound forAmericanswhocametoworkon the Inga-Shaba powerline.Thiswasthegreatnuptialgift from the U.S. to theCongo—financing theconstruction of the Inga-Shaba. It’s an enormouspower line stretching acrosseleven hundred miles of

jungle, connectinghydroelectric dams belowLeopoldville to the distantsouthern mining region ofShaba.TheprojectbroughtinPurdue engineers, crews ofTexas roughnecks, and theirfamilies, who lived outsideLeopoldvilleinastrangecitycalled Little America. I rodethe bus out there everymorning to teach grammarand literature to the oddlyunpoetic children of this

endeavor.Theywerepaleanddisplaced and complained ofmissing their dire-soundingTV shows, things with ViceandCopandJeopardyintheirtitles. They’d probably leavethe Congo never knowingthey’d been utterlysurroundedbyvice,cops,andthe pure snake-infestedjeopardy of a jungle. Thecompoundwas like a prison,all pavement and block,enclosed by razor wire. And

like anyprisoners, thesekidsfought with anything sharptheycouldfind.Theymockedmy style of dress and calledme “Mrs. Gumbo.” I pitiedthem, despised them, andsilently willed them backhome on the first boat. I got“warningstimeandagain,for“attitude” as thesuperintendent put it, but hetolerated me for want of areplacement.Iquitattheendofthesecondterm.

Theplace spookedme. I’dstep up onto the bus at mystreetcornerat theendof17Janvier, doze bumpilythrough half an hour ofpredawn, then openmy eyesin another world. Thecompoundhad rowafter rowof shining metal houses anddozens of liquor barsglitteringatdaybreakwithanaura of fresh vomit andbrokenglass.

The bus would hiss to astop just inside thegate forabizarre shift change: weteachers and maids wouldstepdown,andthebuswouldtakeontheweary,disheveledwhores.Congolesegirls,withbleached orange hair and acrude phrase or two ofEnglish, and the straps ofexpensive American brassliding down their shouldersfromunderskimpyblouses.Icould just imagine them

getting home, folding thisuniform, and wrappingthemselves in pagnes beforegoingtothemarket.Asweallstood blinking at each other,getting our bearings, thecompound trucks would roarpast us into the jungle,carrying crews of men whoapparently (judging from thewhores)neverslept.In the course of a year I

watched these rough-and-ready foreigners go out to

build thousands of miles oftemporary roads for cartingcable, machine tools, andsheet metal, past villagerswho’ll live out their dayswithout electricity, machinetools, or sheet metal.TheShaba Province, incidentally,roars with waterfalls, morethan enough to generate itsown electricity. But with allthe power coming from thecapital,theminescouldbelitup by Mobutu’s own hand,

andshutdownatthefirstsignofpopular rebellion.Katangahadoncetriedtosecede,afterall.AtthetimeIwasworkingthere, we believed that wasthe justification for thisstrangeproject.SinceIquit,we’velearned

more,enoughformetocursemy small contribution to theInga-Shaba.Itwasnotmerelya misguided project; it wassinister. The power line wasnevermeanttosucceedatall.

With no way to service autility stretching across theheart of darkness, theengineers watched themonster’stailcrumbleasfastas the frontwas erected.Thewhole of it was eventuallypicked clean in the way aforest tree gets gleaned byleaf-cutter ants: nuts, bolts,andanythingthatmightserveforroofingmaterialtrailedoffintothejungle.Anyonecouldhave predicted that exact

failure. But by loaning theCongo more than a billiondollarsforthepowerline,theworld Export-Import Bankassuredapermanentdebtthatwe’ll repay in cobalt anddiamonds from now till theend of time. Or at least theendofMobutu.It’sapopulargame, wondering which willcome first. With a foreigndebt now in the billions, anyhope that was left for ourIndependence is handcuffed

in debtor’s prison. Now theblack market is so muchhealthier than the legitimateeconomyI’veseenpeopleusezaires for repairing cracks intheir walls. Foreignbootleggingofminerals is sothorough that our neighborthe French Congo, without asingle diamond mine in itsborders, is the world’s fifth-largestexporterofdiamonds.And whatever hasn’t left

the country is in the King’s

pantry. If my sister RachelandMr.WilliamShakespeareput their heads together toinvent an extravagantdespot,they couldn’t outdo Mobutu.Now he’s building a palacemodeledontheonehisfriendtheShah has got in Iran. It’sin his native village ofGbadolite. They say he’s gotfat peacocks strutting aroundin a courtyard, protected byhigh walls, pecking up grainfrom silver plates inscribed

with Moorish designs.Thegasoline generator that lightsup the palace makes such ahorrid bellowing, day andnight, that all the monkeyshave fled the vicinity. Theair-conditioninghastorunallthe time so the jungle heatwon’t damage the gold leafonhischandeliers.Icanjust imagine.Outside

the palace walls, the womenof Gbadolite are squatting intheiryards,boilingmaniocin

salvagedhubcaps, and if youasked them the meaning ofIndependence they’d scowland shake a stick at you.What a nuisance, they’d say.The towns all have newnames, and if that weren’tenough to remember, nowwe’re supposed to call oneanotherdtoyen.In downtown Kinshasa,

where a lot of the bars havetelevisionsets,Mobutuinhisleopard-skin hat blinks on

every evening at seveno’clock for the purpose ofunifying our nation. “Howmanyfathers?”heasksagainand again in this recordedpageant, and his recordedaudienceresponds,“One!”“How many tribes? How

many parties?” he continues.“Howmanymasters?”Each time his loyal

congregationscreams,”Mookoo!One!”The imageflickersand the

citoyensdrinktheirbeerorgoon about their business.Mobutu is speaking in hisown tribal language. Mostpeople out there can’t evenunderstand.

Rachel Axelroot DuPreeFairleyTHE EQUATORIAL

JANUARY1978LISTEN, don’t believe in

fairy tales! After that happy-

ever-after wedding, theynever tell you the rest of thestory. Even if you get tomarry the prince, you stillwakeup in themorningwithyourmouth tasting likedraincleaner and your hair all flatononeside.That was poor little me,

suddenly a diplomat’s wifeon the edge of the forestprime evil, wearingmyDiorgown and long black glovesto embassy parties in

Brazzaville, FrenchCongo.Thatwasthefairy-talepart, and sure, it was funwhile it lasted. I felt like atrue-life Cinderella. My hairdid just wonderfully in thehumidity, and I hadmy ownpersonal French hairdresser(orsohesaid,butIsuspectedhimofbeingBelgian),who’dcome to our home everyTuesday and Saturday. Lifecould not have been better.Never would anyone have

believed that merely a fewshortyearsbefore Ihadbeenlivingwithmyfamilyoveronthe other side of the river—me, the very self-sameRachel, slogging through thefilth! Ready to sell my soulforadrymohair sweateranda can of FinalNet hairspray.Hoo,boy!Ireceivedquiteaneducationaboutpolitics,asanembassy wife. The FrenchCongo and the newlyindependent Republic of

Congo are separated by onemere river and about amillion miles ofcontemporaneous modernthinking. It’s because theytried to go and do it all forthemselves over there, anddon’t have the temperament.They’restillstrugglingtogetdecent telephone service.Whereas in my duration ofdiplomatic service inBrazzaville, French Congo,theworstIeverhadtodowas

fuss at the servants to cutbackthescragglyhibiscusonthe lawn, andclean themoldoffthecrystal.Well. That is all water

under the bridge now.Diplomatic service or not, amanwho leaves his wife forhismistressisnocatch,Iwassorry to find out. Well, liveand learn. Like they alwayssay, the rear-view mirror istwenty-twenty.Remy, my third husband,

wasverydevoted.Hewasanolder man.My life has been101 calamities with at leasthalf of them in the marriagedepartment, but finally I gotlucky in love, with RemyFairley. He at least had thedecency to die and leavemetheEquatorial.With Remy resting in

peace I was free to expressmy talents, and I have builtthis place up from what itwas, let me tell you. The

Equatorial is now the nicesthotel for businessmen alongthewholenorthernroutefromBra2zaville to Owando. Weare about a hundred milesnorth of the city, which isconsiderably farther inkilometers, but still we getthe tourist trade. There arealways French and Germansand what not stopping in ontheirwayupnorthtooverseeoneprojectoranother,orjustescaping from the city to see

a little of true-life Africabefore they finish up theirforeign assignment inBrazzaville and go backhome to their wives.Theyusually tend tobeoilmenorinterpreners.We’re on the premises of

what was formerly aplantation, so the house issurrounded by lovely grovesof orange trees and coconutpalms.Themansionitselfhasbeen converted to twelve

comfortableroomsofvarioussizes,allquiteluxurious,withtwo full baths on each floor.The restaurant is in a largeopen portico on the groundfloor shaded bybougainvilleas. There isnearly always a breeze. Werecentlyputinasecondsmallcovered patio with a bar sothat while my guests areenjoying a meal, theirchauffeurs “will have apleasant place to bide their

time. The restaurant is forpayingguestsonly,which is,needless tosay,whites,sincethe Africans around herewouldn’t earn enough in amonthtobuyoneofmyprix-jixe dinners. But I certainlyam not one to leave anyonesitting out in the rain! So Ibuilt them that shelter, sothey wouldn’t be tempted tocome in and hang about idlyin the main bar. I’m famousfor my love of animals, too,

andhavecreatedquitealittlemenagerie in the compoundbetween the garden and therestaurant for everyone’samusement.Any timeof dayyou can hear the parrotschattering in their cages. Itaught themtosay“Drinkupnow! Closing time!” inEnglish, French, andAfrikaans, though I have toadmit they’ve picked up afew depictable phrases frommy guests, over the years.

TheclienteleattheEquatorialis always the highest caliberbut, nevertheless, they aremen.My proudest achievement

is the swimming pool, patio,and gardens, which I put inentirely by myself. The pooltook the most spectaculareffort.Igotitdugbypayingawholetroopof localboysforeach and every basket ofearth they moved. And ofcourse,watching likeahawk

tobesuretheydidn’tstuffthebottom of the basket withleaves. It is hard workrunning a place like this,don’tyoubelieveit.MyhelpwouldrobmeblindifIdidn’tkeep every single thinglocked down, and punish theculprits with a firm hand.Mostwomenwouldnotlastaweek in my position. Mysecretis:Ilikeit!Ireallydo.Inspiteofeverything,Istrollthrough the restaurant in my

bikini with my platinum-blonde hair piled high,jingling my big bunch ofkeys, cheerfully encouragingmy guests to drink theirmartinis and forget abouttheir workaday cares backhome. And I think: Finally,Rachel,thisisyourownlittleworld.Youcanrunitexactlyhowever you please. WhoneedsahusbandwhenIhavemore handsome gentlemenaround than you can shake a

stick at? And yet, if ever Idon’t like the way someonebehaves, out he goes! If Iwant chicken curry fordinner, I simply say to thecooks: Chicken curry! If Iwantmoreflowers,Isnapmyfingers and have themplanted. Just like that. Oh, Iwork myself to the bone,keeping this business openseven days a week and theweekends.Myratesmightbea little higher than average,

butmy guests do not have asinglecomplaint.Whyshouldthey go and get swindled atsome other establishmentwhentheycancomehere!

I will probably grow veryrich and very old at theEquatorial before anymember of my family evervisitsmehere.It’strue!Theyneverhave.Leahisrightoverthere in Kinshasa, which isjust a hop, skip, and jump

away. When they had thatfight down there withMuhammad Ali and GeorgeForeman we had tons oftouristsfromthat.Theycameover to Africa for the fightandthencrossedtheriverandtoured around in FrenchCongo, since the roads andeverythingare somuchnicerin general over here. I knewwe’dgetaslewofpeople,theminute they announced theywere having that fight. I’ve

always had a sixth sense forspottingatrendcoming,andIwas right on the ball. Ifinished up the second-floorbathroom I’d been havingtroublewith, and redecoratedthebarwithaboxingtheme.Ieven went through hell andhigh water trying to get anauthentic advertising posterfromthefight,butsometimesyoujusthavetomakedowithwhat you have. I got one ofthe boys to fashion little

miniature boxing gloves outofdriedplantain leavessewntogether, -which turned outvery realistic, and had themdangling down from all thelightsandfans.IhatetobragbutifIdosaysomyselftheywerecuteasabutton.Ikeptthinking,everyoneis

in such a festive mood, andLeahisjustnotthatfaraway,in miles. Mother and Adahkeepsayingtheymightcomeovertovisit,andiftheycould

cross an entire ocean, youwouldthinkLeahcouldstoopto taking a bus. Plus,supposedlyFatherisstilloverthere wandering about in thejungle, and honestly, whatelse does he have to do?Hecouldgetcleanedupandpayavisitonhiseldestdaughter.Oh,Idreamedofa trueclassreunion of our family. Justimaginealltheirfaces,iftheysaw this place. Which, Imight add, none of them

came. I suppose I should just

giveup,butinthebackofmymind I still think about it. Ipicture myself taking Leahand Adah on the grand tour,sweeping my hand over theelegantmahoganypanelinginthe bar, Ta-dah! Or grandlyopening the door to theupstairs bathrooms, whichhave mirrors edged in fauxgold (I could afford real, butitwouldpeel rightoff in this

humidity!) and give theoverall effect of appearingvery continental, -with toiletand bidet. How astonishedmy sisters would be to seewhatallIhaveaccomplished,starting with practicallynothing. I don’t care ifthey’regiftedandknoweveryword in the dictionary, theystill have to give credit forhardwork. “Why, Rachel,” Leah

would say, “you run this

place with such genialnessand vivacity! I never knewyou had such an exemplarytalent for the hospitalitybusiness! “Adah would, of course,

say something more droll,such as “Why, Rachel, yourinterest in personal hygienehas truly become a highercalling.”If you ask me, that’s

exactlywhy theydon’t come—they’re afraid they would

have to start respecting mefinally.I’msurethey’drathergo on thinking they are thebrainsofthefamilyandIamthe dumb blonde. They havealwaysbeenveryhighupontheir horses, which is fine,although if you ask me theyhave shot their own careerladders in the foot. Adahevidently got famous forbeing a brain in college andgoing to medical school(Mother sent me newspaper

clippings for Adah winningsome prize practically everytimeshetookacrap),andshecouldhavedoneverywellforherself as a lady doctor. Butwhat I gather from whatMotherwritesmenowisthatshe works night and daywearingahorridwhitecoatinsomedrearybig-dealplaceinAtlanta where they studydiseaseorganisms.Well,fine!I guess somebody has to doit!

Now, Leah, though. Thatone I will never understand.After all this time I cancertainly work with theAfricans as well as anybodycan, mainly by not leadingthem into temptation. But tomarry one? And havechildren? It doesn’t seemnatural.Ican’tseehowthoseboysareanykintome.I wouldn’t say so to her

face, of course. I swear Ihaven’t said a word in all

theseyears.Notthatit’shard,since we don’t write all thatoften. She only sendsChristmas cards, whichgenerally get here just in thenick of time for Easter. Ithink the mailmen over inZaire must be lazy or drunkhalf thetime.AndwhenIdogetaletter,it’salwaysagreatdisappointment.Just:Ohhoware you, I had another babynamedwhatsitorwhosis.Shecould at least give them

names in plain English, youwould think. She never asksaboutthehotelatall.We’re all keeping our

hopesupforfamilyrelations,I guess, but our true familyfell apart after Ruth May’stragicdeath.Youcouldspendyour whole life feeling badabout it, and I get the ideaMother especially is stillmoping around. And Leah’sdecided to pay for it bybecomingtheBrideofAfrica.

Adah, now she couldprobably get her a halfwaydecent boyfriend since she’sfinally gotten her problemfixed, but no, she has tothrowherprimeof lifedownthe test tube of a diseaseorganism.Well, that’s their decision.

What happened to us in theCongo was simply the badluck of two opposite worldscrashing into each other,causing tragedy. After

something like that, you canonly go your own wayaccording to what’s in yourheart. And in my family, allour hearts seem to havewholedifferentthingsinside.I ask myself, did I have

anything to do with it? Theanswer is no. I’d made mymindupall along just to riseabove it all. Keep my hairpresentableandpretendIwaselsewhere.Heck,wasn’tItheone hollering night and day

that we were in danger? It’strue that when it happened Iwas theoldestone there,andI’m sure some people wouldsay I should have been incharge. There was just aminute there where maybe Icouldhavegrabbedher,butithappened so fast. She neverknew what hit her. Andbesides,youcan’tpossiblybein chargeofpeoplewhowillnotgiveyouthetimeofday,eveninyourownfamily.SoI

refuse to feel the slightestresponsibility.Ireallydo.In theeveningshereat the

Equatorial I usually wind upthe day by closing down thebar all by myself, sitting inthe dark with my nightcapand one last cigarette,listeningtothecreepysoundsof a bar with no merrimentleft in it. There are creepylittle things that get into thethatch of the roof, monkeysquirrels or something, that

youonlynoticeatnight.Theyscritcharoundandpeepdownat me with their beady littleeyes till I just about losemymind and scream, “Shut thehellup!”SometimesIhavetoslipoffmythongstothrowatthem before they’ll pipedown. Better to keep thisplace filled up withbusinessmen and keep theliquor flowing, is what Ialwayssay.Honestly,thereisno sense spending too much

timealoneinthedark.

LeahPriceNgemba KINSHASA RAINY

SEASON,1981ANATOLEisINPRISON.

Maybeforthelasttime.Igetout of bed and put on myshoes and force myself totake care of the children.Outside the window the rainpours down on all thedrenched, dark goats and

bicycles and children, and Istandhereappraising theendof the world. Wishing likehell we hadn’t come backfromAtlanta.Butwehad to.Aperson likeAnatolehas somuch to offer his country.Not,ofcourse, in thepresentregime, whose single goal isto keep itself in power.Mobutu relies on the kind ofmenwhoarequickwithgunsand slow to ask questions.For now, the only honorable

government work is thematter of bringing it down.So saysAnatole.He’d ratherbe here, even in prison, thanturning his back on anoutrage. I know thedimensions of my husband’shonor, aswell as I know thewalls of this house. So I getup and put onmy shoes andcurse myself for wanting toleave in the first place. NowI’ve lost everything: thecompanionship of his ideals,

andthesecretescapeIheldinreserve, if my own failedcompletely. I always thoughtI could fly away home. Notnow. Now I’ve pulled thatace out of the hole, taken agoodlook,andfoundthatit’suseless tome, devalued overtime.An old pinkCongolesebill.Howdid thishappen? I’ve

made three trips back now,moreasastrangereachtime.Did America shift under my

feet,ordiditstandstillwhileI stomped along my roadtowardwhateverI’mchasing,followingacolumnofsmokethroughmyownExodus?Onourfirsttrip,Americaseemedpossibleforus.Anythingdid.I was pregnant with Patricethen—1968, it would havebeen. Pascal was almostthree,pickingupEnglishlikethe smart littleparrothe is. Istudied agriculturalengineering at Emory, and

Anatole was in politicalscience and geography. Hewas an astonishing student,absorbing everything in thebooks,thenlookingpastthemfor things his teachers didn’tknow. The public library hemistookforheaven.“Beene,”hewhispered,“foreverythingthat has ever come into mymind, thereisalreadyabookwrittenaboutit.”“Watchout,” I teasedhim.

“Maybe there’s one in here

aboutyou.”“Oh,Ifearit!Acomplete

history of my boyhoodcrimes.” He came to feelderelict about sleeping atnight, for the sake of all thebooks he’d miss reading inthosehours.Heretainedsomereticence about speakingEnglish,refusingforexampleever to say the word sheetbecause to his ear it’sindistinguishable from shit,but he read with a kind of

hunger I’d never witnessed.And I got to be with myfamily.Adahwaswell alongin medical school then, sowas terribly busy, but wepracticallylivedwithMother.Shewassogoodtous.Pascalprowled over her furnitureand napped on her lap like acat.I went back the second

timetorecoverfromMartin’sbirth, since I’d gottendangerously anemic, and to

get the boys their boostershots. Mother raised themoney to fly us over. It wasjust the boys and me thattime,andwestayedonlongerthan we’d planned, for theexquisite pleasure of enoughfood. Also to give Mother achance to know her onlygrandchildren.Shetookustothe ocean, to a windsweptplaceofsandyislandsofftheGeorgiacoast.Theboyswerewild “with all their half-

composted discoveries andthe long, open stretches forrunning. But it made mehomesick.The shore smelledlike the fish markets inBikoki. I stood on the coaststaring across an impossiblequantity of emptiness towardAnatole, and whatever elseI’dleftbehindinAfrica.It’s a funny thing to

complain about, but most ofAmerica is perfectly devoidofsmells.Imusthavenoticed

it before, but this last timeback I felt it as animpairment. For weeks afterwearrivedIkeptrubbingmyeyes, thinking I was losingmy sight or maybe myhearing.But itwas the senseof smell thatwasgone.Evenin the grocery store,surrounded in one aisle bymore kinds of food thanwilleverbeknowninaCongoleselifetime,therewasnothingonthe air but a vague,

disinfected emptiness. Imentioned this to Anatole,who’d long since taken noteof it, of course. “The air isjustblankinAmerica,”Isaid.“Youcan’teversmellwhat’saround you, unless you stickyour nose right down intosomething.”“Maybe that is why they

don’t know about Mobutu,”hesuggested.Anatole earned a stipend

from student teaching, an

amount the other graduatestudents called a “pittance,”though it was much morethanheandIhadeverearnedtogether in any year. Welived once again in marriedstudent housing, a plywoodapartmentcomplexsetamongpine trees, and the singulartopic of conversation amongouryoungneighborswas theinadequacyof theserattletraptenements. To Anatole andme they seemed absurdly

luxurious. Glass windows,with locks on every one andtwo on the door, when wedidn’t have a singlepossession worth stealing.Runningwater,hot, rightoutof a tap in the kitchen, andanother one only ten stepsawayinthebathroom!The boys alternated

between homesickness andfrenzy. There were someAmerican things theydeveloped appetites for that

alarmed me, and things theyignored, which alarmed meevenmore. For example, theway well-intentioned whitepeoplespoketomytrilingualchildren (they fluentlyinterchange French, Lingala,and English, with a slightaccent in each) by assaultingthem with broad, loud babytalk. Anatole’s students didessentially the same,displayingaconstantimpulseto educate him about

democracy and human rights—arrogantsophomores!Withno notion of what theircountry is doing to his.Anatole toldme these storiesat night with a flatresignation, but I cursed andthrewpillowsandcriedwhilehe held me in the vastcomfort of our married-studentdoublebed.The citizens of my

homeland regarded myhusband and children as

primitives, or freaks. On thestreets, from a distance,they’d scowl at us, thinkingwe were merely the scourgethey already knew andloathed—the mixed-racecouple,withmongrelchildrenas advertisement of our sins.Drawing nearer they wouldalways stare at Anatole ascontempt gave way to baldshock.Hiswarrior’sfacewithits expertly carved linesspeaks its elegance in a

language as foreign to themas Lingala.That book wasclosed. Even my mother’sfriends, who really did try,asked me nothing ofAnatole’s background ortalents—only, in hushedtoneswhen he left the room,“Whathappenedtohisface?”Anatole claimed the stares

didn’t bother him. He’dalready spent somuchof hislife as an outsider. But Icouldn’t stand the

condescension.Anatole is anexquisitely beautiful andaccomplishedmaninhisowncountry, to those whoappreciate intellect andhonor. I already spent awhole childhood thinking I’dwrecked the life of my twinsister, dragged after me intothe light. I can’t drag ahusband and sons into a lifewhere their beauty willblossom and wither indarkness.

So we came home. Here.To disaster. Anatole’spassport was confiscated atthe airport.WhilePascal andPatrice punched each otherout of exhausted boredomand Martin leaned on mecrying that his ears hurt, myhusband was brought downwithoutmynotice.Hewas awantedmaninZaire.Ididn’tunderstand this at the time.Anatole told me it was aformality, and that he had to

give our address inKinshasaso they’d know where tobringhispassportbacktohimthe next day. I laughed, andsaid(infrontoftheofficials!)that, given our government’sefficiency, it would be thenextyear.ThenwecrammedourselvesintoabatteredlittlePeugeot taxi that felt likehome at last, and came toElisabet’s house, to fall intosleeporthefitfulwakefulnessof jet lag. I had a thousand

things on my mind: gettingthe boys into school, findinga place to live, exchangingthe dollars from Mother atsome Kinshasa bank thatwouldn’tgiveusoldzairesorcounterfeit new ones, gettingfood so we wouldn’toverwhelmpoorElisabet.Notone of my thoughts was formy husband.We didn’t evensleep together, since Elisabethad borrowed the few smallcotsshecouldfind.

Itwouldhavebeenourlastchance. The casques-bleuscame pounding on the doorright at dawn. I wasn’tcompletely awake. Elisabetwas still modestly wrappingherpagneas shestumbled tothe door, and four menentered with such force theyshoved her against the wall.Only Martin was reallyawake, with his huge blackeyes on the guns in their

belts.Anatole behaved calmly,

but his eyes were desperatewhen he looked at me. Hementionednamesofpeople Ishould find right away—tohelp us get settled he said,thoughIknewwhathemeant—andanaddressthatseemedtobebackward.“The boys,” I said, having

noideahowImeanttofinishthesentence.“The boys love you more

than their own eyes. Planchedesalut.”“They’re African, for

always.Youknow.”“Beene. Be kind to

yourself.”Andheisgone.AndIhave

no idea how to be kind tomyself. Living, as a generalenterprise, seems unkindbeyondbelief.At least I know where he

is, which Elisabet says is ablessing. I can’t agree with

her. They took himimmediately to Thysville,which is about a hundredkilometers south ofLeopoldville over the bestroad in this nation, repavedrecently with a grant offoreign aid. The prison isevidently that important. Ihad to go to eight differentgovernment offices to getinformation, submitting likean obedient dog to carry adifferent slip of onionskin

paper from one office to thenext, until I met my masterwithhischairtippedbackandhisbootsonhisdesk.Hewasstartled to see a whitewoman, and couldn’t decidewhether to be deferential orcontemptuous, so healternated. He told me myhusband would be indetentionuntilformalchargeswere filed, which could takesix months to a year. Thecharges are in the general

natureof treason,whichis tosay anti-Mobutism, and themost likely sentence will belife imprisonment, thoughthereareotherpossibilities.“AtCampHardy,”Isaid.“Le Camp Ebeya,”he

corrected me. Of course.Camp Hardy has beenrenamed,forauthenticite.

I knew not to beencouraged about the so-called “other possibilities.”

Camp Hardy happens to bewhere Lumumba was held,and beaten to within an inchof his life, before his deathflight to Katanga. I wonderwhat comfort my husbandwill get from this bit ofsharedhistory.We’veknownseveral other people,including a fellow teacher ofAnatole’s, who’ve beendetained more recently atCamp Hardy. It’s considereda prolonged execution,

principally throughstarvation. Our friend saidtherewerelongperiodswhenhe was given one bananaevery two days. Most of thecells are solitary, with nolight or plumbing or even aholeinthefloor.Thebucketsarenotremoved.I was told I couldn’t visit

until Anatole was formallycharged. After that, it woulddepend on the charges. Iglared at the empty blue

helmet sitting on the desk,andthenatmycommandant’suinprotected head, wishing Imightcauseittoexplodewiththe force of my rage. Whenhe had nomore to tellme, Ithanked him in my politestFrench,and left.Forgiveme,OHeavenlyFather,accordingto the multitude of thymercies. I have lusted inmyheart to break a man’s skulland scatter the stench of hisbrainsacrossseveralpeople’s

backyards.At least he isn’t shackled

under the stadium floor,Elisabet keeps saying, and Isuppose even my brokenheartcanaccept thatasgoodfortune.I’ve never known such

loneliness.The boys are sad,of course, but Pascal andPatrice at fifteen and thirteenare nearly men, with men’sways of coping. AndMartinissoconfusedandneedssuch

comfort he has nothing togiveme.We did find a house right

away, recently vacated by ateacher’s family who’ve leftfor Angola. Its a long wayfrom the center, in o>ne ofthe last little settlements onthe road out toward theinterior, so we have at leastthe relief of flowering treesand a yard for growingvegetables. But we’re farfromElisabet andChristiane,

who work long hourscleaning a police station andattached governmentwarehouse. I don’t have thesolace of daily conversation.And even Elisabet isn’t trulyakindredspirit.Shelovesmebut finds me baffling andunfeminine, and probably atroublemaker. She may loseher job because of familialassociationwithtreason.I never bothered to notice

before how thoroughly I’ve

relied on Anatole to justifyand absolve me here. For somanyyearsnowI’vehad theluxury of nearly forgetting Iwaswhiteinalandofbrownand black. I was MadameNgemba, someone tocommiserate with in themarketoverthepriceoffruit,the mother of children whosought mischief with theirs.Cloaked in my pagne andAnatole, I seemed to belong.Now,husbandlessinthisnew

neighborhood,myskinglowslike a bare bulb. Myneighbors are deferential andreserved. Day after day, if Iask directions or try to chatabout the weather, theyattempt nervously to answerme in halting English orFrench.Did theynotnotice Iinitiated the conversation inLingala?Dotheynothearmeholleringoverthefenceatmysons every day in thehabitual, maternal accents of

a native-born fishwife? Thesight of my foreign skinseems to freeze theirsensibilities. In the localmarket, a bubble of stoppedconversation moves with meas I walk. Everyone in thisneighborhood knows whathappened to Anatole, and Iknow they’re sympathetic—they all hate Mobutu asmuch, and wish they werehalf as brave. But they alsohave to take into account his

pale-skinned wife. Theyknow just one thing aboutforeigners, and that iseverything we’ve ever doneto them. I can’t possiblyimprove Anatole’s standingin their eyes. I must be theweakness that brought himdown.I can’t help thinking so

myself. Where would he benow, if not forme?Dancingwith disaster all the same,surely;hewasarevolutionary

before Imethim.Butmaybenotcaught.Hewouldn’thaveleft the country twice,listening to my pleas of anagingmotherandfantasiesofbeefsteak. Wouldn’t evenhave a passport, most likely.Andthat’showtheygothim.But then,wherewould his

childrenbe?This iswhatwemothersalwayscomebackto.How could he regret themarriage thatbroughtPascal,Patrice, and Martin-Lothaire

onto the face of Africa? Ourunion has been difficult forbothofusinthelongrun,butwhatunionisn’t?Marriageisone long fit of compromise,deep and wide. There isalways one agendaswallowing another, asqueaky wheel crying out.But hasn’t our life togethermeantmoretotheworldthaneitherofuscouldhavemeantalone?These are the kinds of

questions I use to drivemyself to distraction, whenthe boys are out and I’mcrazed with loneliness. I tryto fill up the space withmemories, try to recall hisface when he first heldPascal. Remember makinglove in a thousand differentdarknesses, under a hundreddifferent mosquito nets,remember his teeth on theflesh ofmy shoulder, gently,and his hand on my lips to

quiet me when one of theboys was sleeping lightlynext to us. I recall themusclesofhis thighsand thescentofhishair.EventuallyIhawtogooutsideandstareatmyplump,checkeredhensinthe yard, trying to decidewhich one to kill for supper.In the end I can never takeany of them, on account ofthe companionship I wouldlose.One way of surviving

heartache is to stay busy.Makingsomethingright inatleast one tiny corner of thevast house of wrongs— Ilearned this fromAnatole, ormaybe from myself, the oddcombination of my twoparents. But now I’m afraidofrunningoutofpossibilities,withsomanyyearslefttogo.I’ve already contacted all thepeopleheadvisedmetofind,towarnthem,orforhelp.Thebackward address turned out

after several mistakes to bethe undersecretary toEtienneTshisekedi, the onegovernment minister whomight help us, though hisownpositionwithMobutu isnow on the outs. And ofcourse I’ve written toMother’s friends. (At the“Damnistry International,” asRachelprobablystillcallsit.)I begged them to sendtelegrams on Anatole’sbehalf, and they will, by the

bushel. IfMobutu is capableof embarrassment at all,there’s a chance his sentencecouldbereducedfromlife tofive years, or less.Meanwhile,Motherisraisingmoney for a bribe that willget him some food, so fiveyearsand“life”won’tbe thesame sentence. I’ve gonedown to the governmentoffices to find out where thebribe should go when wehave it ready. I’ve nagged

aboutvisitationandmailuntilthey all know my face anddon’twanttoseeit.I’vedonewhatIcan,itseems,andnowI have to do what I can’t.Wait.By lamplight when the

boys are asleep I write shortletters to Anatole, reportingbriefly on the boys and ourhealth, and long letters toAdah about how I’m reallyfaring. Neither of them willeverseemyletters,probably,

butit’sthewritingIneed,thepouring out. I tell Adah mysorrows. I get dramatic. It’sprobably best that thesewordswillendupsuffocatinginapile,undelivered.ImightbeenviousofAdah

now, with no attachments totearherheartout.Shedoesn’tneedchildrenclimbingupherlegsorahusbandkissingherforehead. Without all that,she’s safe. And Rachel, withtheemotionalcomplexitiesof

a salt shaker. Now there’s alife. Sometimes I rememberour hope chests and want tolaugh,forhowprophetictheywere. Rachel fiercely puttinginovertime, foreshadowingamarital track recorddistinguished for quantity ifnotquality.RuthMayexemptfor all time. My owntablecloth, undertakenreluctantlybutinthelongrundrawing out my mostdedicated efforts. And Adah,

crocheting black borders onnapkins and tossing them tothewind.But we’ve all ended up

giving up body and soul toAfrica, one way or another.EvenAdah,who’s becomingan expert in tropicalepidemiology and strangenew viruses. Each of us gotourheartburiedinsixfeetofAfrican dirt; we are all co-conspiratorshere. Imean,allofus,not justmy family.So

whatdoyoudonow?Yougetto find your ownway to digout a heart and shake it offand hold it up to the lightagain.“Be kind to yourself,” he

says softly in my ear, and Iask him, How is thatpossible? I rock back andforthonmychairlikeababy,craving so many impossiblethings: justice, forgiveness,redemption. I crave to stopbearingallthewoundsofthis

place on my own narrowbody.ButIalsowanttobeaperson who stays, who goeson feeling anguish whereanguish is due. I want tobelong somewhere, damn it.To scrub the hundred years’war off this white skin tillthere’snothing left and Icanwalk out among myneighborswearing rawsinewandbone,liketheydo.Mostofall,mywhiteskin

cravestobetouchedandheld

by the one man on earth Iknow has forgiven me forit.

RachelPriceTHEEQUATORIAL1984THIS WAS THE FIRST

and the absolute last time Iamgoingtoparticipatewithina reunion of my sisters. I’vejust returned from arendezvous with Leah andAdah that was simply a

sensational failure. Leahwasthe brainchild of the wholetrip. She said the last monthofwaitingforherhusbandtogetoutofprisonwasgoingtokillherifshedidn’tgetoutofthere and do something. Thelast time he was getting letout, I guess they ended upmakinghimstayanotheryearat the last minute, whichwould be a disappointment,I’m sure. But really, if youcommit a crime you have to

pay the piper, what did sheexpect?Personally,I’vehadafew husbands that maybeweren’t the top of the line,but a criminal, I just can’tsee. Well, each to his own,like they say. She’s extralonely now since her twoolder boys are trying outschool in Atlanta so theywon’t get arrested, too, andthe younger one is alsostayingtherewithMotherforthesummersoLeahcouldbe

free to mastermind this trip.Which, to tell you the truth,she mostly just arranged forthe sole purpose of getting aLandRover fromAmerica toKinshasa, where she andAnatole have the crackpotscheme of setting up a farmcommuneinthesouthernpartand then going over to theAngola side as soon as it’ssafe,which fromwhat I hearis going to be no time thiscentury. Besides, Angola is

anextremelyCommunisticnation if you ask me. But

doesMother care about this?Herowndaughterplanningtomove to a communisticnation where the roads arepractically made of wall-to-wall land mines? Why no!Sheandherfriendsraisedthemoney and bought a goodLand Rover with a rebuiltengine inAtlanta.Which, bytheway,Mother’s group hasnever raised one red cent for

me, to help put in upstairsplumbing at the Equatorial,for example. But who’scomplaining?I only went because a

friend of mine had recentlydiedof his long illness and Iwasfeelingatlooseoddsandends.Geoffreydefinitelywastalking marriage, before hegot so ill. He was just thenicest gentleman and verywell to do. Geoffrey ran atouristic safari business in

Kenya, which was how wemet, in avery romanticway.Buthecaughtsomethingverybad over there in Nairobi,plus he was not all thatyoung.Still,itshouldn’thavehappenedtoabetterman.Notto mention me turning fortylast year, which was nopicnic, but people alwaysguessmenotadayoverthirtysowho’scounting?AnywayIfiguredLeah and I could telleachotherourtroubles,since

misery loves company, eventhoughshehasahusbandthatisstillaliveat least,whichismorethanIcansay.The game plan was for

AdahtorideoverontheboattoSpainwiththeLandRover,and drive to West Africa.Adah driving, I just couldn’tpicture. I still kept picturingher all crippled up, eventhough Mother had writtenme that no, Adah has trulyhad a miracle recovery. So

wewere all tomeet up therein Senegal and travel aroundfor a few weeks seeing thesights. ThenAdahwould flyhome, andLeah and Iwoulddrive as far as Brazzavilletogether for safety’s sake,although if you ask me twowomen traveling alone aretwiceasmuchtroubleasone.Especiallymy sister andme!We ended up not speakingthrough thewholeentiretyofCameroon and most of

Gabon. Anatole, fresh out ofthe hoosegow, met us inBrazzaville and they drovestraight back home toKinshasa.Boy,didshethrowher arms around him at theferrystation,kissingrightoutin front of everybody, for alot longer than you’d care tothink. Then off they wentholding hands like a pair ofteenagers,yakety-yak,talkingto each other in somethingCongolese.They did it

expresslytoexcludemefromthe conversation, I think.Which is not easy forsomeone who speaks threelanguages,asIdo.Good-bye and none too

soon,iswhatIsay.Leahwaslike a house on fire for thelasthundredmilesofthetrip.She’d made a longdistancecall from Libreville to makesurehewasgettingletoutthenext day for sure, and boy,did she make a beeline after

that.Shecouldn’tevenbotherherself to come up and seetheEquatorial—even thoughwe were only half a day’sdrive away! And me abereaved widow, practically.Ican’tforgivethatinmyownsister. She said she wouldonly go ifwewent on downto Brazzaville first, and thenbrought Anatole with us.Well, I just couldn’t say yesornotothatrightaway,Ihadto think. It’s simply a far

moredelicatematterthansheunderstands.Wehaveastrictpolicy about who is allowedupstairs, and ifyouchange itfor one person then wheredoes it end? I might havemadeanexception.ButwhenItoldherIhadtothinkaboutit,Leahrightawaysaid,“Oh,no, don’t bother. You haveyour standards of whitesupremacy to uphold, don’tyou?”andthenclimbeduponherhighhorseandsteppedon

the gas. So we just stoppedtalking, period. Believe me,we had a very long time tolisten to the four-wheel-drivetransmissionandeverybumpintheroadfor thefull lengthoftwoentirecountries.When itwas finallyover I

was so happy to get back tomy own home-sweet-home Ihad a double vodka tonic,kicked off my shoes, turnedupthetapeplayeranddancedthe Pony right in the middle

of the restaurant. We had awholegroupofcottonbuyersfrom Paris, if I remembercorrectly. I declared to myguests: “Friends, there isnothinglikeyourownfamilyto make you appreciatestrangers!”ThenIkissedthemall on their bald heads andgave them a round on thehouse.Thetroublewithmyfamily

is that since we hardly eversee each other, we have

plenty of time to forget howmuch personality conflictweall havewhen it comes rightdown to it. Leah and Adahand I started bickeringpracticallytheminutewemetup in Senegal. We couldneverevenagreeonwheretogo or stay or what to eat.Whenever we found anyplace that was just theteenieststepabovehorrid,Leahfeltitwastoo

expensive. She and Anatole

evidentlyhavechosen to livelike paupers. And Adah,helpful as always, wouldchimeinwiththelistofwhatdiseaseorganismswerelikelyto be present. We arguedabout positively everything:evencommunism!Whichyouwould think there wasnothing to argue about. Imerely gave Leah the verysensible advice that sheshould think twice aboutgoing to Angola because the

Marxistsaretakingitover.“The Mbundu and the

Kongo tribes have a long-standing civil war there,Rachel. Agostinho Neto ledthe Mbundu to victory,because he had the mostpopularsupport.”“Well, for your

information, Dr. HenryKissinger himself says thatNeto and them are followersof Karl Marx, and the otheronesarepro-UnitedStates.”

“Imagine that,” Leah said.“The Mbundu and Kongopeoplehavebeenatwarwitheach other for the last sixhundredyears,andDr.HenryKissinger has at long lastdiscovered the cause: theKongoarepro-UnitedStates,andtheMbunduarefollowersofKarlMarx.”“Hah!”Adahsaid.Herfirst

actualunrehearsedsyllableofthe day. She talks now, butshestilldoesn’texactlythrow

wordsaway.Adahwas in theback,and

Leah andme up front. Iwasdoing most of the driving,since I’mused to it. I had toslow way down for a stopsign because the drivers in“West Africa were turningouttobeasbadastheonesinBrazzaville. Itwas very hardto concentrate while mysisterswere givingme a popquizonworlddemocracy.“Youtwocanjustgoahead

andlaugh,”Isaid.“ButIreadthepapers.RonaldReagan iskeeping us safe from thesocialistic dictators, and youshouldbegratefulforit.”“Socialistic dictators such

as?”“Idon’tknow.KarlMarx!

Isn’t he still in charge ofRussia?”Adahwaslaughingsohard

in the backseat I thought shewasgoingtopeeonherself.“Oh, Rachel, Rachel,”

Leahsaid.“Letmegiveyouateeny little lesson in politicalscience. Democracy anddictatorship are politicalsystems;theyhavetodowithwho participates in theleadership. Socialism andcapitalism are economicsystems. It has to do withwhoownsthewealthofyournation, and who gets to eat.Canyougraspthat?”“I never said I was the

expert. I just said I read the

papers.”“Okay, let’s take Patrice

Lumumba, for example.FormerPrimeMinisteroftheCongo, his party elected bypopular vote. He was asocialist who believed indemocracy. Then he wasmurdered, and the CIAreplacedhimwithMobutu, acapitalist who believes indictatorship.InthePunchandJudy program of Americanhistory, that’s a happy

ending.”“Leah, for your

informationIamproud tobeanAmerican.”Adah just snorted again,

but Leah smacked herforehead. “How can youpossibly say that? Youhaven’tsetfootthereforhalfyourlife!”“I have retained my

citizenship. I still put up theAmerican flag in thebar andcelebrate every single Fourth

ofJuly.”“Impressive,”Adahsaid.Weweredrivingalong the

main dirt road that followedthecoast towardTogo.Therewere longstretchesofbeach,with palm trees waving andlittle naked dark childrenagainstthewhitesand.Itwaslike a picture postcard. Iwishedwe could quit talkingabout ridiculous things andjust enjoy ourselves. I don’tknow why Leah has to nag

andnag.“For your information,

Leah,”Iinformedher,justtokindofclosethingsoff,“yourprecious Lumumba wouldhavetakenoverandbeenjustas bad a dictator as any ofthem.IftheCIAandthemgotrid of him, they did it fordemocracy. Everybody alivesaysthat.”“Everybody alive,” Adah

said.“Whatdidthedeadonessay?”

“Now,look,Rachel,”Leahsaid. “You can get this. In ademocracy,Lumumbashouldhave been allowed to livelonger than two months asheadof state.TheCongolesepeople would have gotten toseehowtheylikedhim,andifnot,replacedhim.”Well,Ijustblewupatthat.

“These people here can’tdecide anything forthemselves! I swear, mykitchen help still can’t

remember to use the omeletpanforanomelet!ForGod’ssakes,Leah,youshouldknowaswellasIdohowtheyare.”“Yes, Rachel, I believe I

marriedoneofthem.”I kept forgetting that.

“Well, shut my mouth wideopen.”“Asusual,”Adahsaid.For the entire trip I think

the three of us were all onspeaking terms for only onecompleteafternoon.We’dgot

asfarasBeninwithoutkillingeachother, andAdahwantedtosee thefamousvillagesonstilts. But, wouldn’t youknow, the road to that waswashed out. Leah and I triedto explain to her how inAfrica the roads are heretoday, gone tomorrow. Youare constantly seeing signssuchas,“Ifthissignisunderwatertheroadisimpassable,”and so forth. That much wecouldagreeon.

So we ended up going totheancientpalaceatAbomey,instead, which was the onlytouristattractionforhundredsofmilesaround.Wefollowedour map to Abomey, andluckilytheroadtoitwasstillthere.Weparkedinthecenterof town, which had bigjacaranda trees andwas veryquaint. Itwasacinch to findthe ancient palace because itwas surrounded by huge redmud walls and had a very

grandentryway.Snoozingona bench in the entrance wefound an English-speakingguidewhoagreedtowakeupandtakeusthroughonatour.He explained how in formercenturies,beforethearrivaloftheFrench,theAbomeykingshad enormous palaces andvery nice clothes. Theyrecorded their history infabulous tapestries that hungon the palacewalls, and hadskillful knives and swords

andsuch,which theyused toconquer the neighboringtribes and enslave them. Oh,they just killed people rightandleft,heclaimed,andthenthey’d put the skulls of theirfavorite enemies into theirhousehold decor. It’s true!We saw every one of thesethings—the tapestriesdepictingviolentactsandtheswordsandknivesandevenathrone with human skullsattachedtothebottomsofall

four legs, platedwith bronzelikekeepsakebabyshoes!“Why, that’s just what I

need for my lobby in theEquatorial,”Ijoked,althoughtheideaofthosethingsbeingthe former actual heads oflivingpeoplewasabitmuchfor three o’clock in theafternoon.This was no fairy-tale

kingdom, let me tell you.They forced women intoslavemarriagewith theKing

for the purpose ofreproducing their babies at ahigh rate. One King wouldhave, oh, fifty or a hundredwives, easy.More, if hewasanything special. Or so theguide told us, maybe toimpressus.Tocelebratetheiroccasions,hesaid,they’djusthaul off and kill a bunch oftheir slaves, grind up all theblood and bones, and mix itupwithmudformakingmorewalls for their temples! And

what’s worse, whenever aKingdied, fortyofhiswiveswould have to be killed andburiedwithhim!Ihadtostoptheguideright

there and ask him, “Now,would they be his favoritewives they’d bury with him,or the meanest ones, orwhat?”The guide said he thought

probably it would have beentheprettiestones.Well,Icanjust imagine that! The King

getssick,allthewiveswouldbe letting their hair go andeatingsweetsdayandnighttowrecktheirfigures.Even though Leah and I

had been crabbing at eachotherallweek,thatafternoonin the palace at Abomey forsome reasonwe all got quietas dead bats. Now, I havebeenaround:theracialriotingin South Africa, hostingembassy parties inBrazzaville,shoppinginParis

and Brussels, the gameanimalsinKenya,Ihaveseenit all. But that palace wassomething else. It gave methe heebie-jeebies. Wewalked through the narrowpassages, admiring theartworksandshiveringtoseechunks of bone sticking outof the walls. Whatever we’dbeenfightingaboutseemedtofade for the moment withthosedeadremainsallaroundus. I shook fromhead to toe,

even though the day wasquitewarm.Leah and Adah happened

tobewalking in frontofme,probablytogetawayfromtheguide, because they like tohave their own explanationsfor everything, and as IlookedatthemIwasshockedto see how alike they were.They’d both bought wild-coloredwaxclothshirtsintheSenegalmarket,AdahtowearoverherjeansandLeahtogo

with her long skirts (Ipersonally see no need to gonative,thanksverymuch,andwill stick tomy cotton knit),andAdahreallydoesn’t limpa bit anymore, like Mothersaid. Plus she talks, whichjust goes to show you herchildhoodwasnotentirelyonthe up-and-up. She’s exactlyas tall as Leah now; too,which is simplyunexplanatory. They hadn’tseeneachotherforyears,and

here they even showed upwearing the same hairstyle!Shoulder-length, pulledback,which is not even a regularfashion.Suddenly I realized they

weretalkingaboutFather.“No, I’m sure it’s true,”

Leah said. “I believe it washim. I think he really isdead.”Well! This was news to

me.Iwalkedquicklytocatchup,thoughIwasstillmoreor

less of a third wheel. “YoumeanFather?”Iasked.“Whydidn’tyousaysomething,forheaven’ssake.”“I guess I’ve beenwaiting

for the right time, when wecouldtalk,”Leahsaid.Well, what did she think

we’d been doing for the lastfive days but talk. “No timelikethepresent,”Isaid.Sheseemedtomillitover,

and then stated it all as amatteroffact.“He’sbeenup

around Lusambo for the lastfiveyears, inonevillageandanother. This past summer Iran into an agricultural agentwho’sbeenworkingupthere,andhesaidheverydefinitelyknewofFather.Andthathe’spassedaway.”“Gosh, Ididn’t evenknow

he’d moved,” I said. “Ifigured he was still hangingaroundouroldvillageallthistime.”“No,he’smadehiswayup

the Kasai River over theyears, not making too manyfriends fromwhat I hear.Hehasn’t been back to Kilanga,that much I know. We stillhave a lot of contact withKilanga. Some of the peoplewe knew are still there. Anawfullothavedied,too.”“Whatdoyoumean?Who

did we know?” I honestlycouldn’t think of a soul.Weleft, Axelroot left. TheUnderdownswentalltheway

back to Belgium, and theyweren’tevenreallythere.“Why don’t we talk about

this later?” Leah said. “Thisplace is already full of deadpeople.”

Well,Icouldn’targuewiththat. So we spent the rest ofour paid-for tour in silence,walking through the ancientcrumblinghalls, tryingnot tolook at the hunks of cream-coloredbonesinthewalls.

“Thosearepearlsthatwerehis eyes,” Adah said at onepoint, which is just the kindofthingshewouldsay. “Full fathom five thy

fatherlies,”Leahsaidbacktoher.What the heck that was

about I just had towonder. Isure didn’t see any pearls.Those two were alwaysconnectedintheirownweird,specialway.Evenwhen theycan’t stand each other, they

still always know what theother one’s talking aboutwhennobodyelsedoes.ButIdidn’t let it bother me. I amcertainly old enough to holdupmyheadandhavemyownpersonal adventures in life. IdreamedI touredtheAncientPalace of Abomey in myMaiden-formBra!Maybeonceupona time I

was a little jealous of Leahand Adah, being twins. Butno matter how much they

might get to looking andsoundingalike,asgrown-ups,I could see theywere still asdifferent on the inside asnight and day. And I amdifferenttoo,notnightordayeitheronebutsomethingelsealtogether, like the Fourth ofJuly.Sotherewewere:night,day, and the Fourth of July,and just for a moment therewasapeacetreaty.But things fall apart, of

course. With us they always

do, sooner or later. Wewalked into the little town toget something cool to drink,and found a decent placewherewecouldsitoutsideata metal table watching thedogsandbicyclesandhustle-bustle go by, everybodywithout exception carryingsomething on their heads.Except the dogs weren’t, ofcourse. We had a few beersand it was pleasant. Leahcontinued her news report

about the all-importantboondocks village of ourchildhoodfame,whichinmyopinionisbetterofftoforget.I was waiting for the partabout what Father died of.But it seemed impolite topush. So I took off mysunglassesandfannedmyselfwiththemapofWestAfrica.Leah counted on her

fingers: “Mama Mwanza isstill going strong.Mama andTata Nguza, both. Tata

Boandalosthiselderwifebutstill hasEba.TataNdu’s sonis chief. Not the oldest one,Gbenye—theyranhimoutofthevillage.”“The one that stole your

bushbuck,”Adahsaid.“Yep, the one. He turned

out to be the type toconstantly pick a fight, iswhat I gather. Lousy for achief.So it’s the second son,Kenge.Idon’trememberhimvery well. Tata Ndu died of

feverfromawound.” “Too bad,” I said

sarcastically. “My would-behusband.”Adah said, “You could

have done “worse,Rachel.”“She did do worse,” Leah

declared. Which I do notappreciate,andsaidso.She just ignored me.

“Nelson is married, can youbelieve it? With twodaughters and three sons.

Mama Lo is dead; theyclaimed she was a hundredand two but I doubt it. TataKuvudundu is gone, dead, along time now. He lost a lotof respectover the...whathedidwithus.”“The snake, youmean?” I

asked.She took a deep breath,

lookedupat the sky. “Allofit.”We waited, but Leah just

drummed her fingers on the

table and acted like that wasthe end of that. Then added,“Pascal is dead, of course.That’s been forever. He waskilledby theblue-helmetsonthe road near Bulungu.” Shewas looking away from us,but I could see she had tearsinhereyes!YetIhadtorackmybrains to remember thesepeople.“Oh,Pascal,yourson?”Adah informed me I was

animbecile.

“Pascal our childhoodfriend,whomysonisnamedafter.He died eighteen yearsago, right before my Pascalwas born, when we were inBikoki. I never told you,Rachel, because I somehowhad the impression youwouldn’t care. It was whenyou were inJohannesburg.”“Pascal our friend?” I

thought and thought. “Oh.That littleboywith theholes

in his pants you ran aroundwith?”Leah nodded, and kept on

staring out at the bigjacaranda trees that shadedthestreet.Theydroppedtheirhugepurple flowersevery sooften, one at a time, likeladies dropping their hankiesto get your attention. I litanother cigarette. I hadexpected two cartons ofLucky Strikes to last me thewhole trip, but, boy, what

with all the nervous tensionthose suckers were gone. Idreaded to think about it.Hereon the street therewereplenty of grimy little boyswho’dsellyoucigarettesoneat a time with brand nameslike Black Hat and Mr.Bones, just to remind youtheyhadnofiltertipsandtasted like burning tar and

were going to kill you in ajiffy.Africantobaccoisnotaprettypicture.

“So,” I finally said,nudging Leah. “Dear oldDad.What’sthescoop?”She continued looking out

at the street, where all kindsof people were going by. Itwas almost like she waswaiting for somebody. Thenshe sighed, reached over andshook out one of my lastpreciouscigarettesandlitup.“This isgoing tomakeme

sick,”shesaid.“What, smoking? Or

tellingaboutFather?”She kind of laughed.

“Both.Andthebeer,too.I’mnot used to this.” She took apuff,andthenfrownedat theLucky Strike like it wassomethingthatmightbiteher.“You should hear how I getaftertheboysfordoingthis.”“Leah,tell!”“Oh... it’s kind of awful.

He’d been up there for awhileonthenorthbendoftheKasai, in theareawherethey

grow coffee. He was stilltrying to baptize children, Iknow this for a fact. FyntanandCelineFowlesgetupthatwayeveryfewyears.”“Brother Fowles” I said.

“Youstillkeep in touchwithhim? Jeez Louise, Leah. Oldhome week. And he stillknowsFather?”“Theyactuallynevergota

look at him. I guess Fatherhad reached a certain point.He hid from strangers. But

they always heard plenty ofstories about thewhitewitchdoctor named Tata Prize.Theygottheimpressionfromtalking topeople that hewasreallyold.Imeanold,withalongwhitebeard.”“Father? Now I can’t

picture that, a beard,” I said.“How oldwould he be now,sixty?”“Sixty-four,” Adah said.

Even though she talkednow,it was like she was still

handingoverherlittlewrittenannouncements on notebookpaper.“He’d gotten a very

widespread reputation forturning himself into acrocodile and attackingchildren.”“NowthatIcanpicture,”I

said, laughing. The Africansareverysuperstitious.Oneofmy workers swears the headcook can turn himself into amonkeyandstealthingsfrom

theguestrooms.Ibelieveit!“Still trying to drag the

horseto“water,”Adahsaid.“Whathorse?”“So there was a really

horribleincidentontheriver.A boat full of kids turnedover by a croc, and all ofthem drowned or eaten ormaimed.Fathergottheblamefor it. Pretty much hungwithoutatrial.”“Oh,Jesus”I put my hand

on my throat.”Actually

hung?”“No,” Leah said, looking

irritated but getting tears inher eyes at the same time.“Nothung.Burned.”I could see this was hard

for Leah. I reached out andtook hold of her hand.“Honey, I know,” I told her.“He was our daddy. I thinkyou always put up with himbetter than any of us.But hewasmean as a snake.There’snothing he got that he didn’t

deserve.”Shepulledherhandoutof

mine so she could wipe hereyes and blow her nose. “Iknow that!” She soundedmad. “The people in thatvillage had asked him toleave a hundred times, gosomeplace else, but he’dalways sneak back. He saidhe wasn’t going to go awaytill he’d taken every child inthe village down to the riverand dunked them under.

Which just scared everybodyto death. So after thedrowning incident they’dhadenough, and everybodygrabbed sticks and took outafterhim.Theymayhavejustmeant to chase him awayagain. But I imagine Fatherwasbelligerentaboutit.”“Well, sure,” I said. “He

was probably still preachinghell and brimstone over hisshoulder while he ran!“Whichistrue.

“They surrounded him inan old coffee field and heclimbed up on one of thosericketywatchtowers left overfrom the colonial days. Doyou know what I’m talkingabout? They call them toursde maitre.The boss towers,where in the old days theBelgianforemanwouldstandwatching all the coffeepickerssohecouldsingleoutwhichonestowhipattheendoftheday.”

“Andtheyburnedhim?”“Theysetthetoweronfire.

I’msureitwentuplikeaboxof matches. It would havebeen twenty-year-old junglewood, left over from theBelgians.”;“I’ll bet he preached the

Gospelrighttotheveryend,”Isaid.“Theysaidhewaitedtillhe

wasonfirebeforehejumpedoff.Nobodywanted to touchhim, so they just left him

there for the animals to dragoff.”I thought, Well, nobody

around there’s going to bedrinking any coffee for awhile!But it seemed like thewrong moment for a joke. Iordered another round ofElephant beers and we satpondering our differentthoughts.Then Adah got a very

strange look and said, “HegotTheVerse.”

“Whichone?”Leahasked.“The last one. Old

Testament. SecondMaccabees 13:4: ‘But theKing of Kings aroused theanger of Antiochus againsttherascal.’““I don’t know it,” Leah

said.Adah closed her eyes and

thoughtforasecondandthenquoted the whole thing out:‘“TheKingofKingsarousedthe anger of Antiochus

against the rascal.AndwhenLysiasinformedhimthismanwas to blame for all thetrouble, he ordered them toput him to death in the waythat is customary there. Forthereisatowerthereseventy-five feet high, filled withashes, and there they push aman guilty of sacrilege ornotorious for other crimes todestruction.By such a fate itcame to pass that thetransgressor died, not even

gettingburialintheground.’““Holyshit!”Ideclared.“Howcomeyouknowthat

verse?”Leahasked.“I must have gotten that

one fifty times. It’s the final‘The Verse’ in the OldTestament, I’m trying to tellyou.One-hundred-countfromthe end. If you include theApocrypha, which of coursehealwaysdid.”“And what’s at the finish

of it?” I asked. “The take-

homelesson?”“The closing statement of

the Old Testament: ‘So thiswillbetheend.’““So this will be the end,”

Leah and I both repeated, incomplete amazement. Afterthat we were speechless forapproximately one hour,while we listened to eachother’s throat sounds everytime we took a swallow ofbeer.And Leah smoked thelast two Lucky Strikes in

WestAfrica.

Finally she asked, “Whywouldhegiveyou thatverseso many times? I never gotthat one.” Which if you askmeisreallynotthepoint.But Adah smiled, and

answered like it mattered,“Why do you think, Leah?Forbeingslow.”After a while I smelled

wood smoke. Some vendorswere setting up to grill meat

along the sideof the street. Igot up and bought some foreveryone with my ownmoney,soIwouldn’thavetohear Leah gripe that it wastooexpensive,orAdahtellingus what exact germs werelivingon it. Igot chickenonwooden skewers and broughtit back to the table wrappedinwaxpaper.“Eat up and be merry!” I

said.“Cheers.”“InmemoryoftheFather,”

Adah said. She and Leahlooked at their shish kebabs,lookedateachother,andhadanother one of their privatelittlelaughs.“He was really his own

man, you have to give himthat,” Leah said, while wemunched. “He was a historybookall tohimself.Weusedto get regular reports fromTata Boanda and theFowleses, when he was stillaround Kilanga. I probably

could have gone to see him,butInevergotupthenerve.”“Whynot?”Iaskedher.“I

would, just to tell himwheretogetoff.”“I guess I was scared of

seeinghimasacrazyperson.The tales got wilder andwilder as the years wentby.That he’d had five wives,who all left him, forexample.”“That’sagoodone,”Isaid.

“Father the Baptist

Bigamist.”“The Pentecostal

Pentigamist,”Adahsaid.“Itwasreallythebestway

forhimtogo,youknow?Inablaze of glory,” Leah said.“I’msurehebelievedrightupto the end that hewas doingthe right thing.He never didgiveuptheship.”“It’s shocking he lasted as

longishedid,”Adahsaid.“Oh, true! That he didn’t

die fifteen years ago of

typhusorsleepingsicknessormalaria or the combination.I’m sure his hygienewent tohellafterMotherlefthim.”Adah didn’t say anything

to that. Being the doctor, ofcourse, she would know allabout tropical diseases andwouldn’t care for Leahsounding like the expert.That’s how it always is withus. Step too far one way orthe other and you’ve got onyoursister’stoes.

“For gosh sakes,” I saidsuddenly. “Did you write toMother?AboutFather?”“No.IthoughtAdahmight

wanttotellherinperson.”Adah said carefully, “I

think Mother has presumedhim dead for a long timealready.”We finished our shish

kebabs and talked aboutMother,andIevengottotella little about the Equatorial,andI thought foronce inour

livesweweregoing to finishouttheafternoonactinglikeadecent family.But then, sureenough,LeahstartedinaboutMobutu putting her husbandin prison, how the armyterrorizes everybody, whatwashappeningwiththelatestpayola schemes in Zaire,whichbetweenyouandmeisthe only reason I have anycustomersatallonmysideofthe river, but I didn’t say so.Then she moved on to how

the Portuguese and BelgiansandAmericanshavewreckedpoorAfricatoptobottom.“Leah, I am sick and tired

of your sob story!” Ipractically shouted. I guessI’d had one too many, plusmycigarettesweregone,andit was hot. I’m so extremelyfair the sun goes straight tomy head. But really, afterwhat we’d just seen in thatpalace: wife murdering andslave bones in the walls!

These horrible things hadnothing todowithus; itwasall absolutely hundreds ofyears ago. The natives herewerereadyandwaitingwhenthe Portuguese showed upwanting to buy slaves, Ipointed out. The King ofAbomeywasjustdelightedtofindouthecouldtradefifteenof his former neighbors foronegoodPortuguesecannon.But Leah always has an

answer for everything, with

vocabulary words in it,naturally. She said wecouldn’t possibly understandwhat their socialmilieuwas,before the Portuguese came.“This is sparse country,” shesaid. “It never could havesupported a largepopulation.”“So?”Iexaminedmynails,

which were frankly in badshape.“So what looks like mass

murder to us is probably

misinterpreted ritual. Theyprobablyhadwaysofkeepingtheir numbers in balance intimes of famine.Maybe theythoughttheslavesweregoingtoabetterplace.”Adah chimed in: “A little

ritual killing, a little infantmortality, just a few of themany healthy naturalprocesses we don’t care tothink about.” Her voicesounded surprisingly likeLeah’s. Although I presume

Adah was joking, whereasLeahneverjokes.Leah frowned at Adah,

then at me, trying to decidewhichoneofuswas the trueenemy. She decided on me.“You just can’t assume thatwhat’s right or wrong for usisthesameaswhatwasrightorwrongforthem,”shesaid.“Thou shalt not kill,” I

replied. “That’s not just ourwayofthinking.IthappenstobeintheBible.”

Leah and Adah smiled ateachother.“Right. Here’s to the

Bible,” Leah said, clinkingherbottleagainstmine.“Tata Jesus is bangala!”

Adah said, raising her bottletoo. She and Leah looked ateachother for a second, thenboth started laughing likehyenas.“Jesus is poisonwood!”

Leah said. “Here’s to theMinisterofPoisonwood.And

here’stohisfivewives!”Adah stopped laughing.

“Thatwasus.”“Who?”Isaid.“What?”“Nathan’s five legendary

wives.TheymusthavemeantUS.”Leahstaredather.“You’re

right.”LikeIsaid:night,day,and

the Fourth of July. I don’teventrytounderstand.

AdahPriceATLANTA JANUARY

1985FULL FATHOM five thy

father lies; Of his bones arecoralmade:Those are pearls thatwere

hiseyes:Nothing of him that doth

fade,But doth suffer a sea-

changeInto something rich and

strange.

This is no mortalbusiness.The man occupiedus all in life and is stillholdingontohisclaim.Nowwe will have to carry awayhissea-changedpartsrichandstrange to our differentquarters. Estranged,disarranged, we spend ourdarkesthoursstaringat thosepearls, those coral bones. Isthis the stuff I came from?Howmanyofhissinsbelongalsotome?Howmuchofhis

punishment?Rachel seems incapable of

remorse, but she is not. Shewears those pale white eyesaround her neck so she canlook in every direction andwardofftheattack.Leahtookit all—bones, teeth, scalp—andknittedherselfsomethinglike a hair shirt. Mother’sfabrication is so elaborate Ican hardly describe it. Itoccupies so much space inher house she must step

carefully around it in thedark.Havingservedenoughtime

inAtlantawith her volunteerwork, Mother has moved totheGeorgiacoast,toahamletofhoarylittlebrickhousesonSanderling Island. But shecarried the sunken treasurealongtoherlittleplacebytheshore. She stays outdoors alot,Ithinktoescapeit.WhenIgotovisitIalwaysfindheroutinherwalledgardenwith

her hands sunk into themulch, kneading the roots ofher camellias. If she isn’thome,Iwalkdowntotheendof the historic cobbled streetand find her standing on thesea wall in her raincoat andnoshoes,glaringattheocean.Orleanna and Africa at astandoff. The kids flying byonbicyclessteerclearof thisbarefoot old woman in herplastic babushka, but I cantell you she is not deranged.

My mother’s sanest positionis towearonly thenecessaryparts of the outfit and leaveoff the rest. Shoes wouldinterfere with herconversation, for sheconstantly addresses thegroundunderherfeet.Askingforgiveness. Owning,disowning, recanting,rechartingahatefulcourseofevents to make sense of hercomplicity. We all are, Isuppose.Tryingtoinventour

version of the story. Allhuman odes are essentiallyone. “My life: what I stolefrom history, and how I livewithit.”PersonallyIhavestolenan

armandaleg.IamstillAdahbut you would hardly knowme now, without my slant. Iwalk without any noticeablelimp. Oddly enough, it hastakenme years to acceptmynew position. I find I nolongerhaveAda,themystery

of coming and going. Alongwithmysplit-bodydragIlostmy ability to read in the oldway.WhenIopenabook,thewords sort themselves intonarrow-minded single file onthe page; the mirror-imagepoemserase themselveshalf-formed in my mind. I missthose poems. Sometimes atnight, in secret, I still limppurposefully around myapartment, like Mr. Hyde,tryingtorecovermyoldways

of seeing and thinking. LikeJekyll I crave that particulardarknesscurledupwithinme.Sometimes it almost comes.Thebooksontheshelfriseupinsolidlinesofsingingcolor,the world drops out, and itshidden shapes snap forwardtomeetmyeyes.Butitneverlasts. By morning light, thebooks are all hunchedtogether again with theirspines turned out, fossilized,inanimate.

No one else misses Ada.Not evenMother. She seemsthoroughlypleased tosee thecrumpled bird she deliveredfinally straighten up and flyright.“But I likedhow Iwas,” I

tellher.“Oh, Adah. I loved you

too. I never thought less ofyou, but I wanted better foryou.”Don’t we have a cheerful,

simple morality here in

Western Civilization: expectperfection, and revile themissedmark! Adah the PoorThing, hemiplegiousegregious besiege us.Recently ithasbeendecided,grudgingly, that dark skin orlamenessmaynotbeentirelyone’sfault,butonestilloughtto show thegoodmanners toact ashamed. When Jesuscured those crippledbeggars,didn’ttheyalwaysgetupanddanceoff stage, jabbing their

canessidewaysandwagglingtheir top hats? Hooray, allbetternow,hooray!If you arewhole, youwill

argue: Why wouldn’t theyrejoice? Don’t the poormiserablebuggersallwanttobelikeme?Not necessarily, no. The

arrogance of the able-bodiedis staggering. Yes, maybewe’d like to be able to getplaces quickly, and carrythingsinbothhands,butonly

because we have to keep upwith the rest of you, or getThe Verse.We would ratherbe just likeus, andhave thatbeallright.HowcanIexplainthatmy

twounmatchedhalvesusedtoadd up to more than onewhole? In Congo I was one-half benduka the crookedwalker, and one-halfbenduka, the sleek bird thatdipped in and out of thebanks with a crazy ungrace

that took your breath. Weboth had our good points.Here there is no good nameformygift,soitdiedwithoutaproperceremony.Iamnowthe good Dr. Price, seeingstraight. Conceding to be inmyrightmind.And how can I invent my

version of the story, withoutmycrookedvision?Howisitright to slip free of an oldskinandwalkawayfromthesceneofthecrime?Wecame,

we saw, we took away andwe left behind, we must beallowed our anguish and ourregrets. Mother keepswanting to wash herselfclean, but she clings to herclay and her dust. Mother isstillruthless.SheclaimsIamheryoungestnowbutshestillis clutching her baby. Shewill put down that burden, Ibelieve,on theday shehearsforgiveness from Ruth Mayherself.

As soon as I came back, Idrovedowntoseeher.Wesattogetheronherbonycouch -with my photographs ofAfrica, picking through andlaying them out, making atidepoolofshinycoloramongthe seashells on her coffeetable.“Lean’s thin,” I reported,

“butshestillwalkstoofast.”“How is Rachel holding

up?”

That is a good question.“In spite of remarkableintervening circumstances,” Isaid, “if Rachel ever getsbacktoBethlehemforahighschool reunion she will winthe prize for ‘Changed theLeast.’“Motherhandled thephotos

with mostly casual interest,except for the ones thatshowed my sisters. Overthese she paused, for anextremelylongtime,asifshe

werelisteningtosmall,silentconfessions.FinallyImademine.Itold

her he had died. She wasstrangelyuncuriousabout thedetails,butIgavehermostofthemanyway.Shesatlookingpuzzled.“I

have some pansies I need tosetout,”shesaidthen,andletthe screen door bang as shewalkedouttothebackporch.I followed, and found her inheroldstrawgardeninghat,a

trowel already in one handand the flat of pansiesbalanced in the other. Sheducked under the tangledhoneysuckle toward thegardenpath,usingher trowellike a machete to hackthrough some overgrownvinesthatcrowdedherjunglylittle porch. We marchedpurposefully down her littlepathtothelettucebedbythegate, where she knelt in theleaf mold and began

punchingholesintheground.I squatted nearby, watching.Her hat had a wide strawbrimandacrowncompletelyblownout,asifwhateverwasin her head had explodedmanytimes.“Leah says hewould have

wanted to go that way,” Isaid.“Ablazeofglory.”“Idon’t give adamnwhat

hewouldhavewanted.”“Oh,” I said. The damp

ground soaked the knees of

her jeans in large darkpatches that spread likebloodstainsassheworked.“Areyousorryhe’sdead?”“Adah,whatcanitpossibly

meantomenow?”Then what are you sorry

about?

She lifted seedlings out ofthe flat, untangling their netsof tender white roots. Herbarehandsworked them intothe ground, prodding and

gentling, as if putting to bedan endless supply of smallchildren.Shewiped the tearsoffbothsidesofherfacewiththe back of her left hand,leaving dark lines of soilalonghercheekbones.Toliveis to be marked, she saidwithout speaking. To live istochange,todieonehundreddeaths. I am a mother.Youaren’t,hewasn’t.“Doyouwanttoforget?”She paused her work,

resting her trowel on herknee,andlookedatme.“Areweallowedtoremember?”“Who’stosaywecan’t?”

.“Not one woman in

Bethlehem ever asked mehowRuthMaydied.Didyouknowthat?”“Iguess.”“And all those people I

worked with in Atlanta, oncivilrightsandAfricanrelief.We never once spoke of my

having a crazy evangelisthusband still in the Congosomewhere. People knew.But it was embarrassing tothem. I guess they thought itwassomeawfulreflectiononme.”“The sins of the father,” I

said.“The sins of the father are

not discussed. That’s how itis.” She returned to herbusinessofstabbingtheearth.I know she is right. Even

theCongohastriedtoslipoutofherold flesh, topretend itisn’t scarred. Congo was awoman in shadows, dark-hearted, moving to adrumbeat. Zaire is a tallyoung man tossing salt overhis shoulder. All the oldinjuries have been renamed:Kinshasa, Kisangani.TherewasneveraKingLeopold,nobrash Stanley, bury them,forget.You have nothing tolosebutyourchains.

But I don’t happen toagree.Ifchainediswhereyouhave been, your arms willalways bear marks of theshackles. What you have tolose is your story, your ownslant.You’lllookatthescarson your arms and see mereugliness, or you’ll take greatcare to lookaway from themand see nothing. Either way,you have no words for thestory of where you camefrom.

“I’ll discuss it,” I said. “Idespised him. He was adespicableman.”

“Well, Adah.You couldalwayscallaspadeaspade.”“Do you know when I

hatedhimthemost?Whenheused to make fun of mybooks. My writing andreading.Andwhenhehitanyof us. You especially. Iimaginedgettingthekeroseneand burning him up in his

bed. I only didn’t becauseyouwereinittoo.”She looked up atme from

under her hat brim.Her eyeswere a wide, hard, graniteblue.“It’strue,”Isaid.Ipictured

it clearly. I could smell thecold kerosene and feel itsoakingthesheets.Istillcan.Thenwhydidn’tyou?Both

of us together.You might aswellhave.Becausethenyouwouldbe

free too. And I didn’t wantthat. I wanted you torememberwhathedidtous.Tall and straight I may

appear, but I will always beAda inside. A crooked littlepersontryingtotellthetruth.The power is in the balance:we are our injuries, asmuchasweareoursuccesses.

LeahPriceNgembaKIMVULA DISTRICT,

ZAIRE1986IHAVEFOURSONS, all

named for men we lost towar: Pascal, Patrice, Martin-Lothaire,andNataniel.‘Taniel is our miracle. He

was born last year, a monthearly, after his long, bumpyupside-downrideintheLandRover thatmovedour familyfromKinshasa to the farm inKimvula District. We werestill ten kilometers from thevillage when my chronic

backache spread to a deep,rock-hard contraction acrossmy lower belly, and Iunderstoodwith horror that Iwas in labor. I got out andwalked very slowly behindthetruck,tosubduemypanic.Anatole must have beenworried sick by my bizarreconduct, but it’s no usearguing with a woman inlabor, so he got out andwalked with me while theboys bickered over who

would drive the truck. I canvaguely recall its twin redtaillights ahead of us on thedark jungle road, bumpingalong tediously,and thefalsestarts of an afternoonthundershower.Afterawhile,without saying anything, Iwent to the side of the roadand lay down on a pile ofdampleavesbetweenthetall,buttressed roots of a kapoktree.Anatolekneltnexttomyheadandstrokedmyhair.

“You should get up. It’sdark and damphere, and ourcleversonshavegoneoffandleftus.”I raised my head and

looked for the truck, whichwas indeed gone. There wassomethingIneededtoexplaintoAnatole, but I couldn’t bebotheredwithitatthepeakofa contraction. Straightoverhead was the tree, withits circle of limbs radiatingoutfromthegreat,paletrunk.

Icountedmywayaroundthatcircle of branches likenumbers on the face of aclock, slowly, one deepbreath for each number.Seventeen. A very longminute, maybe an hour. Thecontractionsubsided.“Anatole,” I said. “I mean

to have this baby right hereand now.” “Oh, Beene.Youhave never had any patienceatall.”Theboysdroveonforsome time before stopping

andbackingup,by thegraceof God and Martin-Lothaire.He’d lost theargumentaboutdriving and was pouting outthe back window when itdawned on him to shout forhis brother to stop: “Wait,wait, Mama must be havingthebaby!”Anatole threw things

around madly in the truckbefore finding an elephant-grassmatandsomeshirts (atleast we had with us

everything we owned, and itwas clean). He made me situp so he could tuck thesethings under me. I don’trememberit.Ionlyremembermy thighs tensing and mypelvis arching forward withthat sudden thunderous urgethat is so much morepowerful than any otherhuman craving—the need topush. I heard a roar,which Isuppose was me, and thenNataniel was here with us,

bloodyingacleanwhite shirtofAnatole’s and an old, softpagne printed with yellowbirds.Anatole did a laughing,

backward-hopping dance ofcongratulation. It wasn’t yetquite a year since his releasefrom Camp Hardy, and hewas sympathetic to his son’seager escape from solitaryconfinement. But the babywas weak. Anatoleimmediately settled down to

driving us anxiously throughthedarkwhileIcurledaroundour suckling boy in thebackseat, alarmed to see hewasn’teventhat—hecouldn’tnurse.Bythetimewearrivedin Kimvula he felt feverish.From there he wasted veryquickly to a lethargic littlebundleofskin-coveredbonesand a gaunt, skin-coveredskull.Hedidn’tevencry.Thenext many days and nightsrantogetherformebecauseI

wasterrifiedtoputhimdownat all, or even to fall asleepholdinghim,forfearhe’dslipaway. Anatole and I tookturns rocking his limp littlebody,talkingtohim,tryingtocoax him into the world ofthe living.Martin insistedontaking his turn, too, rockingand whispering boy secretsinto the littleprintedblanket.But Nataniel was hard toconvince. Twice he stoppedbreathing altogether. Anatole

blew into his mouth andmassaged his chest until hegaspedfaintlyandcameback.After a week he began to

eat, and now seems to haveno regrets about his decisionto stay with us. But duringthat terrible firstweek of hislife I was racked with themiseriesofaweak,sorebodyand a lost soul. I couldrecollect having promisedsomeGodorother,morethanonce,thatifIcouldonlyhave

Anatole back I would neverask for another thing on thisearth. Now here I was,banging on heaven’s dooragain. A desolate banging,from a girl who could countthe years since she felt anyreal presence on the othersideofthatdoor.One night as I sat on the

floor rocking, sleepless,deranged by exhaustion,cradling this innocent wreckofababy,Ijuststartedtotalk

out loud. I talked to the fire:“Fire, fire, fire, please keephim warm, eat all the woodyou need and I’ll get morebut just don’t go out, keepthis littlebody Ialready lovesomuch fromgoing cold!” Ispoke in English, fairlycertainI’dgonemadentirely.I spoke to the moon outsideand the trees, to the sleepingbodiesofAnatoleandPatriceandMartin,andfinallytothekettle of boiled, sterilewater

and tiny dropper Iwas usingto keep the baby fromdehydrating.SuddenlyIhadafully formed memory of mymother kneeling and talking—praying, I believe—to abottle of antibiotics whenRuth May was so sick. Icould actually hear Mother’sbreathandherwords.Icouldpicture her face very clearly,andfeelherarmsaroundme.MotherandIprayedtogethertowhateveritisthatwehave.

Thiswasenough.If God is someone who

thinks of me at all, he mustthink of me as a mother.Scrapingfiercelyforfoodandshelter,madentirelyforlove,by definition. My boys allcry,”Salambote!”astheyrunout the door, away from myshelter and advice but neverescapingmylove.

Pascal has gone farthest—for two years he’s been in

Luanda, where he studiespetroleum engineering and, Isincerely believe, chasesgirls.Heremindsmesomuchof his namesake, my oldfriend, with similar wide-seteyes and the same cheerfulquestionbreakinglikeafreshegg upon every new day:“Beta nki tutasala?What arewedoing?”Patriceisjusttheopposite:

studious, sober, and an exactphysical copy of his father.

He wants to studygovernmentandbeaMinisterof Justice in a very differentAfrica from this one. I goweakinthekneeswithdreadandadmiration,watchinghimsharpen his hopes. But it’sMartin-Lothaire who’sturning out to be the darkestof my sons, in complexionand temperament. At twelve,he broods, and writes poetryin a journal like his father’shero Agostinho Neto. He

reminds me of his AuntAdah.Here in Kimvula District

we’re working with farmerson a soybean project, tryingto establish a cooperative—atiny outpost of reasonablesustenance in the belly ofMobutu s beast. It’s futile,probably. If the governmentcatches wind of any successhere, the Minister ofAgriculturewillrobusoutofexistence.Sowequietlyplant

our hopes out here in thejungle, just a few kilometersfrom the Angolan border, atthe end of an awful roadwhere Mobutu’s spies won’toftenrisktheirfancycars.We count our small

successes from day to day.Anatole has reorganized thesecondary school, which hadbeen in pure collapse for tenyears—hardly a young adultin Kimvula village can read.I’m busy with my ravenous

Taniel,whonurses night andday,ridinginhisslingononesideor theother sohewon’thavetopausewhileIboilhisdiapers. Patrice and Martinhave been commandeered bytheir father to teach Frenchandmathematicsrespectively,even though this putsMartinin charge of children olderthanhimself.Myself,I’mjusthappy to be living amongfruit trees and cooking withwoodagain.Idon’tmindthe

satisfying exhaustions ofcarryingwoodandwater.It’sthe other exhaustion I hate,theendlessnewsofMobutu’sexcesses and the costs oflong-termdeprivation.Peoplehere are instinctively morefearfulandlessgenerousthantheyweretwentyyearsagoinKilanga.Neighborwomendostill come calling to offerlittlegifts, ahandofbananasor an orange for the baby tosuckonandmakeuslaughat

his puckery face. But theireyes narrow as they lookaround the room. Neverhavingknownawhitepersonbefore, they assume I mustknow Mobutu and allimportant Americanspersonally. In spite of myprotests, I think they worryI’ll report to someone thatthey had an orange to spare.There’snothinglikelivingasa refugee in one’s owncountry to turn a generous

soul into a hard little fist.Zaireans are tired to death,you can see it anywhere youlook.Ourhousehereismudand

thatch,plentylarge,withtworooms and a kitchen shed.Ahappier place, for sure, thanthe tin-and-cement box thatpackaged us up with all ourgriefsinKinshasa.There,thecranky indoor plumbingconstantlygrumbledatuslikeGod toNoah, threatening the

deluge, andAnatole swore ifhelivedthroughtenthousandmornings in Kinshasa hewould never get used todefecatinginthecenterofhishome. Honestly, a latrinedoes seem like a return tocivilization.But our life in this village

feels provisional. We haveone foot over theborder intothepromisedland,orpossiblythegrave.Ourplanistopackup our truck again and drive

from here to Sanza Pombo,Angola, as soon as wepossiblycan.Therewe’llkeepour hands busy in a new,independent nation, whosehopescoincidewithourown.We’ve been leaning towardAngola for ten years now—Anatolehadachancetoservein the new government therein1975, right after the treatythat gave Neto thepresidency. But Anatolewasn’t yet ready to abandon

the Congo. And then Netodied, too young. In 1982another invitation came fromthesecondPresident,JosedosSantos. Anatole waspreventedfromacceptingthatpost by the inconvenience ofliving in a two-meter-squareroom with a bucket of hisexcrementforcompanyintheThysvillepenitentiary.Idon’tbelieveAnatolehas

many regrets, but he wouldhavebeenproudtoworkwith

NetoordosSantos.Thankstothose remarkable men, plusothersuncountedwhodiedontheway,Angola haswresteditselffreeofPortugalandstillowns its diamonds and oilwells. The industry ofAngolans doesn’t subsidizeforeigners, or any castles“with moats, and theirchildren are likely to getvaccinations and learn toread.They’restilldesperatelypoor, of course. They kept

their diamonds and oil at ahorrific cost. None of uspredicted“whatcametopassthere. Least of all Neto, theyoung doctor-poet who justmeant to spare his peoplefrom the scarring diseases ofsmallpoxandhumiliation.Hewent to the U.S. looking forhelpandwasshownthedoor.So he came home to try toknock down Portuguese ruleon his own and create apeople’sAngola.Thenhegot

some attention from theAmericans.FornowhewasaCommunistdevil.Ten years ago, when

Anatole received that firstletter stamped with the new,officialsealofthePresidencyof Independent Angola, itlooked like dreams couldcome true.After six hundredyearsoftheirownstrifeandafew centuries of Portuguesevillainy, thewarring tribesofAngola had finally agreed to

apeaceplan.AgostinhoNetowas President, in an Africannation truly free of foreignrule.Wesonearlypackedupand went, that very day.Wewere desperate to move oursons to a place where theycould taste hope, at least, ifnotfood.But within two weeks of

the peace agreement, theUnited States violated it.They airlifted a hugeshipment of guns to an

oppositionleader,whovowedpersonally to murder Neto.OnthedayweheardthisIsatsobbing in our kitchen,flattened with shame andrage.Patricecameandsatonthefloorbymychair,pattingmy leg with a little boy’ssolemn endurance. “Mama,Mama, ne pleure pas. Cen’est pas de la faute deGrand-mere,Mama.”Itdidn’tevenoccur tohimtoconnectme with American disgrace;

he thought I was angry atMotherandAdah.He lookedupatmewithhisnarrowlittleface and almond eyes andtherewashisfatheryearsandyears and years ago saying,“Notyou,Beene.”Butwho,ifnotme,andfor

how many generations mustwe be forgiven by ourchildren? MurderingLumumba, keeping Mobutuin power, starting it all overagaininAngola—thesesound

like plots between men buttheyarebetrayals,bymen,ofchildren. It’s thirty milliondollars, Anatole told merecently, that the U.S. hasnow spent trying to bringdown Angola’s sovereignty.Everydollarofithadtocomefrom some person, a man orwoman. How does thishappen? They think of it ascommerce, I suppose. Amatter of hardware, theplastic explosives and land

mines one needs to do thejob. Or it’s a commerce ofimagined dreads, theBethlehem housewivessomehow convinced that adistant, black Communistdevil will cost them somequarterintheircolor-matchedlivingrooms.Butwhat could it possibly

have mattered to them that,after the broken treaty andNeto’s desperate plea forhelp, the Cubans were the

only ones to answer it? Wecheered,theboysandAnatoleandourneighborsalljumpingand screaming in our yard,whentheradiosaidtheplaneshadcomeintoLuanda.Therewere teachers and nurses onboard, with boxes ofsmallpox vaccine. Weimagined them liberatingAngolaandmarchingrightonup the Congo River tovaccinateusall!Rachel informs me I’ve

had my brains washed by aCommunist plot. She’sexactly right. I’ve been wonto the side of schoolteachersand nurses, and lost allallegiance to plasticexplosives. No homeland Ican claim as mine wouldblow up a struggling, distantcountry’s hydroelectric damsand water pipes, inventingdarknessanddysenteryintheserviceofitsideals,andburymines ineveryAngolan road

that connected food with ahungrychild.We’vewatchedthiswarwithourheartsinourthroats,knowingwhatthereisto lose. Another Congo.Another wasted chancerunning like poisoned waterunder Africa, curling oursoulsintofists.But with nothing else to

hope for, we lean towardAngola, waiting, while thepast grows heavy and ourfuture narrows down to a

crack in the door. We’repoised on the border witheverythingwemightneedforan eventual destinyassembled around us. Wehavecots,thetableandchairswe acquired in Kinshasa, acollection of agriculturebooks and teaching toolsfrom Bikoki, my ancientsuitcase of family treasuressalvaged from Kilanga.Anatole has even kept theglobe I gave him for a

wedding present, painted bymy own hand on a calabashwhile the nuns prayed theirnovenas.Theirweird library had St.

Exupery but nothing sosecular as an atlas of theworld,soIhadtoworkfrommemory. Later my sons setupon it like apprentice palmreaders, trying to divine thefate of their -world from thelengths and curves of itsrivers. Miraculously it

survivesthehumidityandourmoves, with only a fewunwarranted archipelagos ofgraymolddotting its oceans.Anatole cherishes it, and theastonishingfactthatIwasthefirst to tell him the shape ofourworld. Butwhen I see iton his table I’m taken abackby what I overlooked at ageeighteen:theCaspianSea,forexample.TheUrals,Balkans,Pyrenees—whole mountainranges vanished under my

negligence.But theCongo isexactly the right shape andsize,inrelationtoEuropeandthe Americas. Already I wasdetermined, I guess, to giveAfricaafairshake.Weareallstillthechildren

wewere,withplanswekeepsecret, even from ourselves.Anatole’s, I think, is tooutlive Mobutu and comebackherewhenwecanstandon this soil and say “home”without the taste of gold-leaf

chandeliers and starvationburningbitteronthebacksofour tongues. And mine, Ithink, is to leave my houseone day unmarked bywhiteness and walk on acompassionate earth withRuthMaybesideme,bearingme no grudge. Maybe I’llnever get over my grapplingfor balance, never stopbelieving life is going to befair, theminutewe can clearup all these mistakes of the

temporarily misguided. LikethemalariaI’venevershakenoff, it’s in my blood. Ianticipate rewards forgoodness,andwaitfortheaxof punishment to fall uponevil,inspiteoftheyearsI’verocked in this cradle ofrewarded evils andmurderedgoodness.JustwhenIstarttofeel jaded to life as it is, I’llsuddenlywakeup in a fever,look out at the world, andgasp at how much has gone

wrong that I need to fix. IsupposeIlovedmyfathertoomuchtoescapebeingmoldedto at least some part of hisvision.But the practice of

speaking a rich, tonallanguagetomyneighborshassoftenedhisvoiceinmyear.Ihear the undertones now thatshimmerunderthesurfaceofthe words right and wrong.We used to be baffled byKikongowordswithsomany

different meanings: bangala,for most precious and mostinsufferable and also poison-wood.ThatonewordbroughtdownFather’ssermonseverytime, as he ended them allwith the shout “Tata Jesus isbangalur.”Way back then, while

Rachel could pull words outof thin air tomeanwhat shepleased, and Ruth May wasinventingherown,AdahandI were trying to puzzle out

how everything you thoughtyou knew means somethingdifferent in Africa. Weworriedovernzolo—itmeansdearly beloved; or a whitegrub used for fish bait; or aspecial fetish againstdysentery; or little potatoes.Nzole is the double-sizedpagne thatwraps around twopeople at once. Finally I seehow these things are related.In a marriage ceremony,husband and wife stand

tightly bound by their nzoleand hold one another to bethemostprecious:nzolani.Asprecious as the first potatoesof the season, small andsweet like Georgia peanuts.Precious as the fattest grubsturned up from the soil,which catch the largest fish.Andthefetishmosttreasuredby mothers, againstdysentery, contains a particleof all the things invoked bythewordnzolo:youmustdig

and dry the grub andpotatoes, bind them with athread from your weddingcloth, and have themblessedinafirebythettgangadoctor.Onlyby life’sbest thingsareyour children protected—thismuch I surely believe. Eachofmy peanut-brown babies Icall my nzolani, and said itwith the tasteof fishandfireand new potatoes in mymouth. There is no otherpossibilitynow.

“Everything you’re sure isrightcanbewronginanotherplace. Especially here” I saythis frequently, while I’mboilingdiapers in thekitchenhouse and having myimaginary argumentswith anabsentRachel.(Whicharenotso different from argumentswith Rachel in person.) SheremindsmeonceagainoftheCommunist threat. I walkoutsidetodumpthewaterandwave at my neighbor, who’s

boiling peanuts in a hubcap.Bothofuscoweratthesoundoftires.ItmightbetheblackMercedes of the casque-bleus, Mobutu’s deputiescome to take our measlyharvest to help financeanother palace. And then itcomes to me suddenly, fromchildhood, my firststammering definition ofcommunism toAnatole:ThejdonotfeartheLord,andtheythink everybody should have

thesamekindofhouse.

From where I’m standing,sister, it’shard to fathom thethreat.I live ina tinyhousepiled

high with boys, potatoes,fetishesandbooksofscience,a wedding cloth, adisintegrating map of theworld, an ancient leathersuitcase of memories—agrowingaccumulationofpastcrowding out our ever-

narrowing future. And ourwaiting is almost over. It’staken ten years and seemslike a miracle, but theAmericans are losing inAngola.Their landminesarestillalloverthecountry,theytakeoff thelegorthearmofachildeveryday,andIknowwhatcouldhappentousifwetravel those roads.But inmydreams I still havehope, andin life, no safe retreat. If Ihave to hop all the way on

one foot, damn it, I’ll find aplaceIcanclaimashome.

BookSix

SONGOFTHETHREECHILDREN

All that you have brought

uponusandallthatyouhavedonetous,You have done injustice...

Deliverus inyourwonderfulway.

SONG OF THE THREECHILDREN,THEAPOCRYPHA

Rachel Price THEEQUATORIAL

I AM FOREVERGETTING COMPLIMENTSon my spotless complexion,but let me tell you a littlesecret. It takes more workthananythinginthisworldtokeepyourselfwellpreserved.Jeez oh man, nothing like

turningfiftytomakeyoufeel

ahundredyearsold.Not thatIwasabouttoputcandlesona cake and burn the placedown. I got through that daywithout telling a soul. NowI’veclosedthebarandhereIsitwithmyLuckyStrikeandmysandalhangingoffmytoeand I can always look backonitasjustonemoredaylikeany other. But it sure givesyousomethingtocompensateupon.Did I ever think I would

windupheregettingold?Noton your life. But here I am.I’ve walked off moremarriagesandclosecallsthanyou can shake a stick at, butnever got out of the DarkContinent. I have settleddown here and gotten to besuch a stick-in-the-mud Idon’t even like to go out!Last week I was forced todrivedowntoBrazzavilleforthe liquor order because Ihonestly could not find a

driver trustworthy to comeback with the liquor and carinonepiece,but therewasaflood on the way and twotrees across the road, andwhenIfinallygotbackhereIkissed the floor of the bar. Idid, I swear.Mostly I kisseditforstillbeingthere,sinceIstillexpecteveryplankofthisplacetobecarriedoffbymyownhelpduringmyabsence.Butsofar,sogood.AtleastIcansaythatI’ma

person who can look aroundand see what she’saccomplished in this world.Not to boast, hut I havecreated my own domain. Icalltheshots.Theremaybeafew little faults in theplumbing and minordiscrepancies among thestaff, but I’m very confidentofmy service. I have a littlesign in every room tellingguests they are expected tocomplain at the office

betweenthehoursofnineandelevenA.M. daily. And do Ihearapeep?No.Irunatightship.ThatisonethingIhaveto be proud of. And numbertwo, I’m making a killing.Three, there’s no time to getlonely. Like I said, same oldface in themirror, fiftyyearsold and she doesn’t look adayoverninety.Ha,ha.Do I ever think about the

life Imissed in the good oldU.S.A.?

Practically every day,would be my answer. Oh,goodness, the parties, thecars, the music—the wholecarefree American way oflife. I’vemissed being a partofsomethingyoucouldreallybelieve in. When we finallygotTVhere,foralongwhilethey ran Dick Clark and theAmerican Bandstand everyafternoonat fouro’clock. I’dlockupthebar,makemyselfa double Singapore Sling,

settledown“withapaperfanand practically swoon withgrief.Iknowhowtodothosehairstyles.IreallycouldhavebeensomethinginAmerica.Then why not go back?

Well, now it’s too late, ofcourse. I haveresponsibilities. First therewas one husband and thenanother to tie me down, andthen the Equatorial, whichisn’t just a hotel, it’s likerunning a whole little

country, where everybodywants to runoffwithapiecefor themselves the minuteyouturnyourback.Theveryidea of my things beingscattered over hill and downdale through the jungle, myexpensive French pressurecookerallcharredtotarnationboiling manioc over somestinky fire, and my nicechrome countertops endingupas theroofofsomebody’sshack?No thankyou! Ican’t

bear the thought. You makesomething, seems like, andspend the rest of your daystoiling so it won’t go allunraveled.Onethingleadstoanother,thenyou’remiredin.Years ago, when things

first started going sour withAxelroot, that was probablywhen I should have gonehome. I didn’t have anythinginvested in Africa yet but alittle old apartment boudoirdecorated to the best of my

abilities in blush pink. RightthenIcouldhavetriedtotalkhim into moving back toTexas, where he supposedlyhad some kind of ties,according to his passport,whichturnedouttobealmostentirely false. Better yet, Icould have gone by myself.Hell’s bells! I could havesashayedoutthedoorwithoutsomuchasahowdy-do,sincetechnicallyspeakingwewereonly married in the Biblical

sense.EvenbackthenIknewsome gentlemen in highplacesthatcouldhavehelpedme scrounge up the planefare, and then before youcould say Jack RobinsonCrusoeI’dhavebeenbackinBethlehem, sharing a shackwith Mother and Adah withmytailbetweenmylegs.Oh,sure, I’d have to hear themsay I told you so aboutAxelroot. But I haveswallowed my pride before,

that’sforsure.I’vedoneitsomany times I am practicallylinedwithmymistakesontheinside likeabad-wallpaperedbathroom.Ihadmybagspackedmore

than once. But when pushcame to shove I was alwaysafraid. Of “what? Well, it’shard to explain. Scared Iwouldn’tbeabletofitbackinis the long and short of it. I“wasonlynineteenortwentyat that time.My high school

friendswould still have been“whiningoverboyfriendsandfightingforcarhopjobsattheA&W Their idea of a dog-eat-dog world was BeautySchool.AndnowherecomesRachel“withstainedhairandone dead sister and a wholedarn marriage behind heralready, not to mention helland high water. Not tomention theCongo.My longtramp through the mud leftme tuckered out and just too

worldly- wise to go alongwiththeteenscene.“What “was it like over

there?”Icouldjustheirthemasking. What would I say?“Well, the ants nearly ate usalive. Everybody we knewkept turning up dead of onedisease and another.Thebabies all got diarrhea andplumbdriedup.Whenwegothungry we’d go shootanimals and strip off theirhides.”

Let’s face it, I couldneverhave been popular again athome.Thepeople I’dalwayschummed around with“would stop speaking to youif they somuch as suspectedyou’devergonejoobehindabush. If Iwanted to fit in I’dhave to pretend, and I’m nogood at play-acting. Leahcouldalwaysdothat—she’dtake the high road to pleaseFather, or her teachers, orGod, or maybe just to prove

shecoulddoit.AndAdahofcourse play-acted at nottalking for years and years,merely tobeornery.But if itwasme, I’d never rememberwho I was trying to be.Before the day was out I’dforget, andblurt outmyowntruefeelings.This is off the subject but

do you know who I alwaysreally felt for? Those soldierboys that went back to theStates after Vietnam. I read

about that. Everybody wascrying,“Peace,brother!“Andherethey’dbeeninthejunglewatching fungus eat up thedeadbodies.Iknowjusthowtheyfelt.Personally, I didn’t need

that. I’m the type of personwhere you just never lookback. And I have become asuccessinmyownright.I’vehadopportunitiesasawomanof the world. Anambassador’s wife—imagine

that! Those girls back inBethlehem must be gettingold and gray, still loadingtheir Maytags and runningafter their kids or evengrandkids by now and still -wishing they were BrigitteBardot, whereas I haveactually been in the ForeignService.I never was able to have

children. That is one thing Idoregret.Ihavehadverybadfemale problems on account

of an infection I contractedfrom EebenAxelroot. Like Isaid, I paid my price withhim.There is never a dull

moment here at theEquatorial, though. Whoneeds children when youhave monkeys rushing intothe dining room to steal thevery food off your guests’plates!Thishashappenedonmore than one occasion.Amongthevarietyofanimals

IkeepincagesinthegardenIhavefourmonkeysandabat-eared fox thatwill escapeontheslightestpretensefromtheboywhocleansoutthecages.Intotherestaurantthey’llrunscreaming, the poor foxrunning for his life but themonkeys all too easilydivertedbythesightofsomefreshfruit.They’llevenpauseto grab a bottle of beer anddrink it down! One time Ireturned from a trip to the

markettofindmytwovervetmonkeys,PrincessGraceandGeneral Mills, teeteringdrunk on a table while agroup of German coffee-plantation owners sang “RollOuttheBarrel!”Well,I’lltellyou. I tolerate just about anykindofgoodtimesmyguestswishtohave,sincethat’showwekeepourheadsabove thewater in this business. But Imade those Germangentlemen pay for the

damage.Every so often a group of

fellows will stop by in theafternoon on a sightseeingtour, and receive a mistakenimpression of myestablishment. This onlyhappenswithnewcomerswhoare unfamiliar with theEquatorial. They take onelook at me stretched out bythepoolwithallthekeysonachain around my neck, andone look atmy pretty young

cooks and chambermaids ontheir afternoon break,lounging against the patiowall between tie geraniums.And guess what: they’ll takeme for the madam of awhorehouse!Believeyoume,I give them a piece of mymind. If tliis looks like ahouseofprostitutiontoyou,Itell them, that just shows thequality of your own moralfiber.Ihavetoadmit,though,it’s

funny in a certainway. I amnolongerasyoungasImighthavebeen,butifIdosayso,Ihave never let myself go. Iguess I should be flattered ifsomefellowpeeksaroundthegarden wall and thinks hespies Jezebel. Oh, if Fathercould see me now, wouldn’thegivemeTheVerse!I’m afraid all those

childhood lessons in holinessslidoffmelikehotbutteroffthe griddle. I sometimes

wonder if dear old Dad isturning in his grave (orwhateverhe’sin).I’msureheexpectedme togrowupas anice church lady with cutelittle hits, organizing gooddeeds. But sometimes lifedoesn’t give you all thatmany chances at beinggood.Not here, anyway. EvenFather learned that one thehardway.Hecameonstrong,thinking he’d save thechildren,andwhatdoeshedo

but lose his own? That’s thelesson,rightthere.Ifyoutakeabunchofpracticallygrown,red-blooded daughters toAfrica, don’t you think atleast someof themaregoingto marry or what have you,and end up staying? Youcan’t just sashay into thejungleaimingtochangeitallover to the Christian style,without expecting the jungletochangeyourightback.Oh,I see it time and again with

the gentlemen who comethrough here on business.Some fellow thinks he’sgoing to be the master ofAfricaandwindsupwithhisnice European-tailored suitrumpled in a corner and hiswits half cracked from thefilairesitchingunderhisskin.If it was as easy as theythought it was going to IF,why, they’dbedonebynow,and Africa would look justlikeAmericawithmorepalm

trees. Instead,most of it stilllooks exactly how it did azillionyearsago.Whereas, ifyou think about it, theAfricans are running all overAmerica right now, havingriots for theircivil rightsandpredominating the sports andpopular-musicindustries.

FromtheveryfirstmomentI set foot in the Congo, Icould see we were not incharge.Wegotsweptupwith

those people that took us tothe church for all their half-nakeddancingandgoatmeatwith the hair still on, and Isaid tomyself: this little tripisgoing tobe the ruinof thePrice family as we know it.And, boy, was it ever.Father’smistake, see,was totrytoconvertthewholeentireshebang over into just hisexact way of thinking. Healways said, “Girls, youchooseyourpathandstickto

it and suffer yourconsequences!”Well. If he’sfinally dead now and laid torest in some African voodoocemetery, orworse yet eatenupby thewildanimals,well,amen.Iguessthatisaboutasconsequentialasitgets.Theway I seeAfrica, you

don’t have to like it but yousure have to admit it’s outthere.Youhave yourway ofthinking and it has its, andnever thetrainyeshallmeet!

Youjustdon’tletitinfluenceyour mind. If there’s uglythings going on out there,well, you put a good stoutlockon your door and checkit twice before you go tosleep. You focus on gettingyour own one little place setup perfect, as I have done,andyou’llsee.Otherpeople’sworries do not necessarilyhavetodragyoudown.Iamazemyselfsometimes

at what I have personally

beenthroughandstillremainin one piece. Sometimes Ireally do think I owe thesecret of my success to thatlittle book I read long agocalled How to Survive 101Calamities. Simple remediesfor dire situations, that’s thelesson. In a falling elevator,trytoclimbuponthepersonnearby so their body willcushionyourlanding.Orinacrowded theater wheneverybody’shightailing it for

the fire exit, stick yourelbows hard into the ribs ofyour neighbors to wedgeyourselfin,thenpickupyourfeet so you won’t gettrampled.That ishowpeoplefrequentlylosetheirlivesinariot: somebodystepsonyourheel, then walks right up tillyou’re flat and they’restandingonyou.That’swhatyougetfortryingtostandonyour own two feet—you endupgettingcrushed!

So that’s my advice. Letothers do the pushing andshoving, and you just ridealong. In the end, the neckyou save will be your own.PerhapsIsoundun-Christian,but let’s face it, when I stepoutsidemy own little world at

nightandlistentothesoundsout there in the dark, what IfeeldowninmybonesisthatthisisnotaChristiankindofplace. This is darkestAfrica,

whereliferoarsbyyoulikeaflood and you grabwhateverlookslikeitwillholdyouup.Ifyouaskme,that’showit

isandevershallbe.Youstickout your elbows, and holdyourselfup.

LeahPriceSANZA POMBO,

ANGOLAONCE UPON A TIME,”

Anatolesaysinthedark,and

Iclosemyeyesandflyawayon his stories. It’s almost ashock tobealone together inour bed, practically elderly,after almost thirty years oflittle elbows and heels andhungrymouths.WhenTanielturned ten he abandoned usfor a cot of his own, full ofrocks that fall out of hispockets. Most boys his agestill sleepon thepileof theirfamilies, but Taniel wasadamant: “My brothers have

beds to themselves!” (Hedoesn’trealizethey’vemovedon from solitude—evenMartin now at college has agirlfriend.) With his curlyheadcocked forwardbentonkeeping up and trying to eattheworldinonebite,hetakesmy breath away. He’s somuchlikeRuthMay.And in our bed, which

Anatole calls the NewRepublic of Connubia, myhusband tells me the history

oftheworld.Usuallywestartwith five hundred years ago,when the Portuguese camepoking thenoseof their littlewooden ship into the mouthof the Congo River. Anatolepeers from side to side,pantomiming Portugueseastonishment.“What did they see?” I

always ask, though I alreadyknow. They saw Africans.Men and women black asnight, strolling in bright

sunlightalongtheriverbanks.But not naked—-just theopposite! They wore hats,softboots,andmorelayersofexotic skirts and tunics thanwould seem bearable in theclimate.Thisisthetruth.I’veseen the drawings publishedby those first adventurersafter they hurried back hometoEurope.TheyreportedthattheAfricans lived likekings,even wearing the fabrics ofroyalty: velvet, damask, and

brocade. Their report wasonlyoffbyahair;theKongopeople made remarkabletextilesbybeatingthefibrousbark of certain trees, orweaving thread from theraffia palm. From mahoganyand ebony they madesculpture and furnished theirhomes. They smelted andforgedironoreintoweapons,plowshares, flutes, anddelicate jewelry. ThePortuguese marveled at how

efficiently the Kingdom ofKongo collected taxes andassembled its court andministries.There was nowritten language, but an oraltradition so ardent that whenthe Catholic fathers fixedletters to the words ofKikongo, its poetry andstoriespoured intoprintwiththe force of a flood. Thepriests were dismayed tolearn the Kongo already hadtheir own Bible. They’d

known it by heart forhundredsofyears.Impressed as they were

with theKingdomofKongo,theEuropeansweredismayedto find no commodityagriculturehere.Allfoodwasconsumedveryneartowhereit was grown. And so nocities, no giant plantations,and no roads necessary fortransportingproducefromtheone to the other. Thekingdom was held together

by thousands of miles offootpaths crossing the forest,with suspension bridges ofwovenvinesswingingquietlyover therivers. IpictureitasAnatoledescribesit:menandwomen in tiers of velvetskirts,walkingnoiselesslyona forest path. Sometimes,when I have relapses of myolddemon, I lie in thecrookof his arm and he comfortsmethisway,talkingtomeallnightlongtostaveoffthebad

dreams. Quinine just barelykeeps my malaria in check,and thereare resistant strainshere now. The fever dreamsarealwaysthesame, thefirstwarning that I’ll soon beknockedonmyback.Theoldbluehopelessnessinvadesmysleep and I’m crossing theriver, looking back at thefaces of children begging forfood, “Cadeaux! Cadeaux!”But then I wake up in ournationoftwo,enclosedinour

mosquitotent’sslantedplaneslit silver by moonlight, andalways think of Bulungu,where we first lay togetherlikethis.Anatolecradlingmeinto forgiveness, while Irattled and shookwith fever.Our marriage has been, forme, a very longconvalescence.

Now they are walkinghome,Beene.Withbasketsofpalm nuts and orchids from

the forest. They’re singing.Songsaboutwhat?Oh, everything.Thecolors

of a fish. And how wellbehaved their childrenwouldbe if they were all made ofwax. I laugh.Who are they?How many? Just a womanandamanon thepath.Theyare married. And theirtroublesome children aren’twith them? Not yet. Theyhave only been married oneweek. Oh, I see. So they’re

holdinghands.Ofcourse.What does it look like

there?Theyareclosetotheriver,

inaforestthathasneverbeencut down. These trees are athousand years old. Lizardsand little monkeys live theirwholelivesupabovewithoutcoming down to the ground.Upintheroofoftheworld.But down on the path

whereweare,it’sdark?A nice darkness. The kind

your eyes can grow to like.It’smining, but the branchesare so thick that only a littlemist comes down. Newmbika vines are curling upfrom the ground behind us,where thewater pools in ourfootsteps.What happens when we

cometotheriver?We’llcrossit,ofcourse.I laugh. As easy as that!

Andwhatiftheferryisstuckwithoutabatteryontheother

side?In theKingdomofKongo,

Beene, no batteries. Notrucks, no roads. Theydeclined to invent the wheelbecauseitlookedlikenothingbut trouble in this mud. Forcrossing the river they havebridges that stretch from onegreat greenheart tree toanotherontheoppositebank.I can see this couple. I

know they’re real, that theyreallylived.Theyclimbupto

a platform in the greenheartwhere the woman pauses forbalance, bunches her longskirts into one hand, andprepares towalk out into thebrighter light and rain. Shetouches her hair, which isbraided in thick ropes andtied at the back of her neckwith little bells. When she’sready she steps out over thewater on the swaying vine-bridge. My heart rushes andthensettlesintotherhythmof

her footsteps along theswingingbridge.“But what if it’s a huge

river,” I asked him once—”like the Congo, which ismuch broader than the reachofanyvine?”“This is simple,” he said.

“Such a river should not becrossed.”If only a river could go

uncrossed, and whatever layontheothersidecouldliveasit pleased, unwitnessed and

unchanged. But it didn’thappen that way. ThePortuguese peered throughthe trees and saw that thewell-dressed, articulateKongodidnot buyor sell ortransport their crops, butmerely lived inplaceandatewhattheyhad,likethebeastsof the forest. In spite ofpoetry and beautiful clothes,such people were surely notfullyhuman—wereprimitive;that’s a word the Portuguese

musthaveused,tosalvetheirconscience for what was tocome. Soon the priests wereholding mass baptisms onshore and marching theirconvertsontoshipsboundforsugar plantations in Brazil,slaves to the higher god ofcommodityagriculture.There is not justice in this

world. Father, forgive me -wherever you are, but thisworld has brought one vileabomination after another

down on the heads of thegentle,andI’llnotlivetoseethe meek inherit anything.What there is in thisworld, Ithink, is a tendency forhuman errors to levelthemselves like waterthroughout their sphere ofinfluence.That’sprettymuchthewhole ofwhat I can say,looking back. There’s thepossibility of balance.Unbearable burdens that theworld somehow does bear

withacertaingrace.For ten years now we’ve

been living inAngola, on anagricultural stationoutsideofSanza Pombo. Beforeindependence,thePortuguesehad a palm-oil plantationhere, cleared out of virginjungle a half-century ago.Underthesurvivingoilpalmswe grow maize, yams, andsoybeans, and raise pigs.Everyyear in thedryseason,when travel is possible, our

cooperative gains a few newfamilies. Mostly youngchildren and women withtheir pagnes in tatters, theycome soundlessly out of theforest, landinghereas lightlyas weary butterflies afteryears of fleeing the war. Atfirst they don’t speak at all.Thenafteraweekor two thewomenusually begin to talk,verysoftlybutwithoutcease,until they’ve finished theaccounting of places and

people they’ve lost. NearlyalwaysIlearnthey’vemadeacircular migration in theirlifetimes, first having fledtheir home villages for thecity,bluntly facingstarvationthere, and now returning tothis small, remote outpost,where they have some liopeof feeding themselves. Wemanage to produce a littleextra palm oil for sale inLuanda,butmostofwhatwegrow is consumed here.The

cooperative owns a singlevehicle, our old Land Rover(which has had such a life itwould tell its own history ofthe“worldifitcould),butourrains start in September andthe road doesn’t becomepassable again until April.Most of the year,we look atwhat we have and decide togetalong.We’re not far from the

border,andthepeopleofthisregion look and speak so

muchastheydidinKilangaIwas dumbstruck when wefirst cameherebya senseofchildhood returned. I keptexpectingsomeoneIknewtocome around the corner:MamaMwanza,Nelson,TataBoandainhisredtrousers,ormost eerily, my father.Obviously, the boundarybetweenCongoandAngolaisnothingbutalineonamap—the Belgians and Portuguesedrawing their lots. The

ancientKongousedtostretchacross all of central Africa.As a nation it fell, when amillion of its healthiestcitizens were sold intoslavery, but its language andtraditions did not. I wake upto the same bubblingmbote!shouted outside the openwindowofour stationhouse.Thewomenwrapandrewraptheirpagnesinthesameway,andpressthepalm-oilharvestin the same kind of

contraption that Mama Loused.OftenIhearghosts:theupward slant of Pascal’svoiceinthequestionBetankitutasala?Whatarewedoing?I don’t hear it often,

though. In our village thereareveryfewboysofanagetoclimbtreesforbirds’nests,orgirls stomping self-importantly down the roadwith a sibling clutchedsideways like an oversizedrag doll. I notice their

absenceeverywhere.Thewarcost most of its lives amongchildren under ten. Thatgreat, quiet void is movingslowlyupward throughus.Awar leaves holes in so muchmorethanthedamsandroadsthat can be rebuilt. I teachclasses in nutrition,sanitation, and soybeans, towomenwho respectfully callme Mania Ngemba andignore nine-tenths of what Itell them.Ourhardest task is

teachingpeopletocountonafuture: to plant citrus trees,and compost theirwastes forfertilizer.Thisconfusedmeatfirst. Why should anyoneresist something so obviousas planting a fruit tree orimproving the soil? But forthose who’ve lived asrefugeeslongerthanmemory,learning to believe in thenutrient cycle requiressomethingclosetoareligiousconversion.

Iought tounderstand. I’vebeenas transient inmyadultlife as anyone in ourcooperative. And only now,after working this same landfortenyears,amIcomingtounderstand the length andbreadth of outsiders’ failureto impose themselves onAfrica.ThisisnotBrusselsorMoscow or Macon, Georgia.This is famine or flood.Youcan’t teach a thing untilyou’ve learned that. The

tropics will intoxicate youwith the sweetness offrangipani flowers and layyoudownwith the stingofaviper, with hardly room tobreathe in between. It’s agreat shock to souls gentlyreared in places of moderateclime,hope,anddread.The Portuguese were so

shocked, evidently, that theystrippedthegentleKongoandchained them down in rows,in the dark, for the passage.

Condemned for their lack ofcash crops. The Europeanscouldn’timagineareasonablesociety failing to take thatstep, and it’s hard for us toimagine even now. In atemperate zone it’s the mostnatural thing in the world,rightasrain,togrowfieldsofwaving grain. To grow themyear after yearwithout dreadoffloodorplague,insoilthatoffers up green stems thatbend to the scythe again and

again, bread from abottomless basket. Christianscould invent and believe intheparableof the loaves andfishes, for their farmers cantrustinabundance,andshipitto burgeoning cities, wherepeople can afford to spendtheir liveshardlynoticing,orcaring,thataseedproducesaplant.Hereyouknowwhataseed

isfor,oryoustarve.Ajungleyields no abundance to feed

the multitudes, and supportsnoleisureclass.Thesoilsarefragile red laterite and therainissavage.Clearingarainforest toplantannuals is likestrippingananimalfirstofitsfur, then its skin. The landhowls.Annualcropsflyonawingandaprayer.Andevenif you manage to get aharvest,why,youneedroadsto take it out! Take one tripoverland here and you’llknow forever that a road in

the jungle is a sweet, flat,impossible dream. The soilfalls apart. The earth meltsinto red gashes like themouthsofwhales.Fungi andvinesthrowablanketovertheface of the dead land. It’ssimple, really.CentralAfricais a rowdy society of floraandfauna thathavemanagedto balance together on atrembling geologic plate forten million years: when youclearoffpartoftheplate,the

whole slides into ruin. Stopclearing, and the balanceslowly returns.Maybe in thelong run people will persisthappily here only if theyreturn to the ways of theancient Kongo, traveling byfoot, growing their foodnearathand,usingtheirowntoolsand cloth near the site ofproduction. Idon’tknow.Tobe here without doingeverything wrong requires anew agriculture, a. new sort

ofplanning,anewreligion.Iam the un-missionary, asAdah would say, beginningeachdayonmyknees,askingto be converted. Forgiveme,Africa, according to themultitudesofthymercies.If I could reach backward

somehow to give Father justone gift, it would be thesimple human relief ofknowingyou’vedonewrong,and living through it. PoorFather,whowasjustoneofa

million men who never didcatch on. He stamped mewith a belief injustice, thendrenched me in culpability,and I wouldn’t wish suchtorment even on amosquito.But that exacting, tyrannicalGod of his has left me forgood.Idon’tquiteknowhowtonamewhatcreptintotakehis place. Some kin to thepassion of Brother Fowles, Iguess, who advised me totrust in Creation, which is

made fresh daily and doesn’tsufferintranslation.ThisGoddoes not work in especiallymysterious ways. The sunhere rises and sets at sixexactly. A caterpillarbecomes a butterfly, a birdraises its brood in the forest,and a greenheart tree willonly grow from a greenheartseed. He brings droughtsometimes, followed bytorrential rains, and if thesethings aren’t always what I

had in mind, they aren’t mypunishment either. They’rerewards, let’s say, for thepatienceofaseed.Thesinsofmy fathers are notinsignificant. But we keepmoving on. As Mother usedtosay,notathingstandsstillbutsticksinthemud.Imovemy hands by day, and bynight,whenmyfeverdreamscome back and the river ismilesbelowme,Istretchoutover the water, making that

endlesscrossing,reachingforbalance. I long to wake up,and then I do. I wake up inlove, and work my skin todarknessunder the equatorialsun. I look at my four boys,who are the colors of silt,loam, dust, and clay, aninfinitepaletteforchildrenoftheir own, and I understandthat time erases whitenessaltogether.

AdahPriceATLANTAA TOAD CANDIE OF

LIGHT!Emilywarnedus,asshe peered out at the streetfrom between her drawncurtains. Death is thecommon right of Toads andMen.Whyswagger,then?My colleagues in medical

school accused me ofcynicism but they had noidea. I am a babe in thewoods,abandonedat thefoot

ofa tree.On thedayIsworeto uphold the Hippocraticoath, the small hairs on thebackofmyneckstoodupasIwaitedfor lightning tostrike.Who was I, vowing calmlyamong all these necktiedyoungmentosteallifeoutofnature’s jaws, everyold timewe got half a chance and apaycheck? That oath neverfelt safe to me, hangingaround my neck with thestethoscope,notforaminute.

I could not accept thecontract:thateverychildbornhumanuponthisearthcomeswith a guarantee of perfecthealthandoldageclutchedinitssmallfist.The loss of a life:

unwelcome.Immoral?Idon’tknow. Depends perhaps onwhereyouare,andwhat sortof death. Hereabouts, wherewe sit among such piles ofleftover protein we press itinto cakes for the pets, who

usefully guard our emptychairs; here where we paysoothsayers and acrobats tohelp lose our weight, thenyes, for a child to die fromhungerisimmoral.Butthisisjust one place. I’m afraid Ihaveseenaworld.In the world, the carrying

capacity for humans islimited. History holds allthings in the balance,including large hopes andshort lives. When Albert

Schweitzer walked into thejungle, bless his heart, hecarried antibacterials and apotent, altogether newconvictionthatnooneshoulddie young.Hemeant to saveevery child, thinking Africawouldthenlearnhowtohavefewer children. But whenfamilies have spent amillionyearsmakingnineinthehopeof saving one, they cannotstopmakingnine.Cultureisaslingshotmovedby the force

ofitspast.Whenthestrapletsgo, what flies forward willnotbefamilyplanning,itwillbe the small, hard head of achild. Overpopulation hasdeforested three-quarters ofAfrica, yielding drought,famine, and the probableextinctionofallanimalsmostbeloved by children andzoos.The competition forresources intensifies, andburgeoning tribes itch to killeach other. For every life

saved by vaccination or foodrelief,oneislosttostarvationorwar.PoorAfrica.Noothercontinenthasenduredsuchanunspeakably bizarrecombination of foreignthievery and foreigngoodwill. Out of sympathyfortheDevilandAfrica,Ileftthe healing profession. Ibecame a witch doctor. Mychurch is the Great RiftValley that lies along theeasternboundaryofCongo. I

do not go there. I merelystudythecongregation.This is the story I believe

in: When God was a child,the Rift Valley cradled acaldron of bare necessities,andout of itwalked the firsthumans upright on two legs.With their hands free, theytook up tools and beat fromthe bush their own food andshelter and their own finebusiness of right and wrong.They made voodoo, the

earth’s oldest religion. Theyengaged a powerful affinitywith their habitat and theirfood chain. They worshipedeverything living andeverything dead, for voodooembraces death as itscompany, not its enemy. Ithonors the balance betweenloss and salvation. This iswhat Nelson tried to explaintomeonce,whilewescrapedmanure from the chickencoop. I could not understand

how muntu could refer to aliving person or a dead onewith equal precision, butNelson just shrugged.”Allthatisbeinghere.”God is everything, then.

God is a virus. Believe that,when you get a cold.God isan ant. Believe that, too, fordriver ants are possessed,collectively, of the size andinfluenceofaBiblicalplague.Theypass through forest andvalley in columns a hundred

metersacrossandmanymileslong, eating theirway acrossAfrica. Animal an000000dvegetable they take, mineralthey leave behind. This iswhat we learned in Kilanga:move out of the way andpraise God for thehousecleaning. In a fewdaysthe dark brigade will havepassed on through—thoseants can’t stop moving. Youreturn to find your housescombed spotless of spoiled

crumbs,yourbedding freeoflice, your woodlots cleansedof night soil, your hen coopsrid of chicken mites. If bychanceababywasleftbehindin a crib, or a leopard in acage, it would be a skeletonwithout marrow, clean as awhistle. But for thoseprepared tomove aside for alargerpassage,itworks.Lossandsalvation.Africahasathousandways

of cleansing itself. Driver

ants, Ebola virus, acquiredimmune deficiencysyndrome: all these arebrooms devised by nature tosweep a small clearing verywell. Not one of them cancross a river by itself. Andnone can survive past thedeathofitshost.Aparasiteofhumans that extinguished usaltogether, you see, wouldquickly be laid to rest inhuman graves. So the racebetween predator and prey

remains exquisitely neck andneck.As a teenager reading

Africanparasitologybooksinthe medical library, I wasboggled by the array ofcreatures equipped to takerootuponahumanbody.I’mboggledstill,butwithafinerappreciation for thepartnership. Back then I wasstill a bit appalled that Godwould set down his barefootboy and girl dollies into an

Eden where, presumably, Hehad just turned looseelephantiasis and microbesthat eat the human cornea.NowIunderstand,Godisnotjust rooting for the dollies.We and our vermin allblossomedtogetheroutofthesamehumidsoil in theGreatRiftValley,andsofarnooneis really winning. Fivemillion years is a longpartnership.Ifyoucouldforamoment rise up out of your

own beloved skin andappraise ant, human, andvirus as equally resourcefulbeings,youmightadmire theaccordtheyhaveallstruckinAfrica.Back in your skin, of

course, you’ll shriek for acure. But remember: airtravel, roads, cities,prostitution, the congregationof people for efficientcommerce—thesearegiftsofgodspeed to the virus. Gifts

of the foreign magi, broughtfrom afar. In the service ofsaving Africa’s babies andextracting its mineral soul,theWesthasbuiltapathtoitsowndoorand thrownitwidefortheplague.A toad can die of light!

Deathisthecommonrightoftoadsandmen.Whyswagger,then? My colleagues accuseme of cynicism, but I amsimply a victim of poetry. Ihave committed to memory

the common rights of toadsandmen.IcouldnotswaggerifItried.Idon’thavethelegsforit.Myworkistodiscoverthe

lifehistoriesofviruses,andIseem to be very good at it. Idon’t think of the viruses asmywork, actually. I thinkofthemasmy relations. I don’thave cats or children, I haveviruses. I visit them daily intheir spacious glass dishes,and like any good mother I

cajole, I celebratewhen theyreproduce, and I take specialnotewhentheybehaveoddly.IthinkaboutthemwhenIamnot with them. I have madeimportant discoveries aboutthe AIDS and Ebola viruses.As a consequence, I mustsometimes appear at publicfunctions where I am laudedas a saviour of the publichealth.Thisstartlesme. Iamnothingofthekind.CertainlyI’mnomadexterminatorbent

on killing devilmicrobes; onthe contrary, I admire them.That is the secret of mysuccess.My life is satisfying and

ordinary.Iworkagreatdeal,and visit my mother onSanderling Island once amonth.Ienjoymytimethere,which we mostly passwithoutspeaking.Motherletsmebe.Wetakelongwalksonthebeach,whereshewatchesthose namesake shore-birds,

the sanderlings, leaving nostoneunturned.Sometimesinmid-Januarywhen she seemsrestless we’ll take the ferryand drive up the coasthighway,passing through themiles of flat, uninhabitedpalmetto scrub and theoccasionalstickshack,whereold, darkwomen sitweavingbeautiful sweetgrass baskets.Late in the evening we willsometimes pull into the dirtparking lot of a clapboard

praisehouseandlistentoold,darkGullahhymnsrisingoutthe windows. We never goinside. We know our place.Motherkeepsherheadturnedthe “whole time towardAfrica, with her eye on theocean, as if she expects itmight suddenly drainaway.But on most of my visits

wegonowhere.Wesitonherporch, or I watch while sheworks her small jungle,

snapping off dead leaves,forking rotted manure intoher camellias, talking underher breath. Her apartment isthe ground floor of one ofthosecentury-oldbrickboxeswith earthquake bolts,remarkable pieces of gianthardware that run rightthrough the building fromeast to west, capped off ontheoutsidewithironwashersthesizeofendtables.I thinkof them as running through

Mother too. It would takesomething on this order,really,toholdhertogether.She inhabits her world,

waitingforforgiveness,whileherchildrenareplanted inorupon the four differentnations that have claimedus.“Lock,stock,andbarrel,”shecallsus.Rachel isclearlytheone with locks on everypossible route todefenestration. And Leahbarrels forward, setting

everything straight. So I amthe one who quietly takesstock,Isuppose.Believinginall things equally. Believingfundamentally in the right ofa plant or a virus to rule theearth.Mother says I have noheart for my own kind. Shedoesn’t know. I have toomuch. I knowwhat we havedone,andwhatwedeserve.She still suffers from the

effectsofseveraldiseasesshecontracted in the Congo,

including schistosomiasis,Guineaworms, and probablytuberculosis.Whenshesticksouthertongueandallowsmeto treat her smallmaladies, Icansee thateveryoneofherorganshasbeencompromisedinsomeway.Butastheyearspassandshebendsovermoreand more, she seems tosurvive in her narrowingspace. She never marriedagain. If anyone asks, shesays, “Nathan Price was all

themarriageIneeded.”Icanseethisistrue.Herbodywaslockeduptight,yearsago,bythe boundaries of her costlyliberty.I have not married either,

for different reasons. Thefamous upstart neurologistwanted to be my lover, itturned out, and actually wonmetohisbedfora time.Butslowly it dawned upon mylove-drunkskull:hehadonlywelcomed me there after

devisinghisprogramtomakemewhole!Hewasthefirstofseveralmen to suffer the icestorms of Adah, I’mafraid.This is my test: I imagine

them back there in themoonlightwiththegroundallaround us boiling with ants.Now,whichone,thecrookedwalker, or the darlingperfection? I know how theywouldchoose.Anymanwhoadmires my body now is a

traitor to the previous Adah.Sothereyouare.Sometimes I play chess

withoneofmycolleagues,ananchorite like myself, whosuffers from post-poliosyndrome. We can passwhole eveningswithout needfor any sentence longer than“Checkmate.” Sometimes wego out to a restaurant in theAtlantaUnderground,orseeafilm at a theater thataccommodates his

wheelchair. But the racketalways overwhelms us. Erosisnot somuchaneyesore, itturns out, as just too muchnoise. Afterward we alwayshave to drive out of towntoward Sandy Springs or theChattahoochee,anywherethatis flat and blank andwe canparkthecarinareddirtroadbetweenpeanut fieldsand letmoonlightandsilencereclaimus.ThenIgohomebymyselfand write poems at my

kitchen table, like WilliamCarlos Williams. I writeabout lost sisters and theGreat Rift Valley and mybarefootmotherglaringattheocean. All the noise in mybrain. I clamp it to the pagesoitwillbestill.I still love to read, of

course.Ireaddifferentlynowthat I am in my right mind,butIreturntooldfriends.NoSnickidy Lime: “This is mylettertotheWorldThatnever

wrote to Me—” What moresatisfyinglinesforabroodingadolescent? But I only sawhalf, and ignored the othersideofthepoem:“ThesimpleNews thatNature told—Withtender Majesty.”At Mother’shouse I recently found mydusty Complete EmilyDickinson with its marginslitteredshockinglybymyoldpalindromes: Evil deed live!croaked that otherAdah, andIwonder,Which evilwas it,

exactly?Such childhood energy I

spentonfeelingbetrayed.Bytheworld ingeneral,Leah inparticular. Betrayal bent mein one direction while guiltbent her the other way. Weconstructedourlivesaroundamisunderstanding,andifeverItriedtopullitoutandfixitnow I would fall down flat.Misunderstanding is mycornerstone. It’s everyone’s,come to think of it. Illusions

mistaken for truth are thepavementunderourfeet.Theyarewhatwecallcivilization.Lately I’ve started

collecting old books that arefamous for their misprints.There’saworldofironyinit.Bibles, in particular. I’venever actually seen any ofthese inoriginal editions,butback in the days when printwasscarce,onlyoneprintingof the Bible was widespreadatanygiventime,andpeople

knewitbyheart.Itsmistakesbecame celebrated. In 1823when the Old Testamentappearedwiththeverse“AndRebekah arose with hercamels”—instead of damsels—it was known as theCamel’s Bible. In 1804, theLionsBiblehadsonscomingforth from lions instead ofloins, and in the Murderers’Bible of 1801, thecomplainers in Jude 16 didnot murmur, they murdered.

In theStandingFishesBible,the fishermen must havelooked on in such surprisewhen “the fish stood on theshoreallthewayfromEngedito Eneglaim.” There aredozens of these: the TreacleBible,theBearBible,theBugBible, the Vinegar Bible. Inthe Sin-On Bible, John 5:14exhorted the believers not to“sinnomore,”but to“sinonmore!”Evol’sdog!Dogho!Ican’tresisttheseprecious

Gospels. They lead me towonderwhatBiblemyfatherwrote inAfrica.We came instampedwith such errors wecan never know which onesmade a lasting impression. Iwonder if they still think ofhim standing tall before hiscongregation shouting,”TataJesusisbangala!”Ido.Ithinkofhimexactly

thatway.Weare thebalanceof our damage and ourtransgressions. He was my

father. I own half his genes,andallofhishistory.Believethis: themistakes are part ofthestory.Iambornofamanwho believed he could tellnothing but the truth, whilehe set down for all time thePoisonwoodBible.

BookSevenTHEEYESINTHE

TREES

THE GLIDE OF BELLYON BRANCH. The mouththrownopenwide,skyblue.Iam all that is here. The eyesin the trees never blink.Youpleadwithme your daughtersister sister for release, but Iamnolittlebeastandhavenoreasontojudge.Noteethandno reason. If you feel agnawingatyourbones,thatis

onlyyourself,hungry.I ammuntuAfrica,muntu

one child and a million alllost on the same day. I amyour bad child now gonegood, for when children dietheywere only good.That isourgaininthegreatlongrun,andyourloss.Amothercriesfor what she remembers, butshe remembers the preciousinfant harvested already bytime, and death is not toblame. She sees innocence,

the untouched kingdom thegreat leader slain the greatempty hole shaped like thechild growing large andbecoming grand. But this isnot what we are. The childmight have grown to bewickedorgoodnessitselfbutalmost surely ordinary.Would have made mistakescaused you pain eaten theworld in one bite. But yousend us to the kingdom ofsomewhere else, where we

move untouched through theforestandno trees fall to theax and everything is as itcouldneverbe.Yes, you are all

accomplices to the fall, andyes, we are gone forever.Gone to a ruin so strange itmust be called by anothername. Call it muntu: all thatishere.Mother, be still, listen. I

can see you leading yourchildrentothewater,andyou

callitastoryofruin.Hereiswhat I see: First, the forest.Trees like muscular animalsovergrownbeyondallreason.Vines strangling their kin inthe wrestle for sunlight. Theglide of snake belly onbranch. A choir of seedlingsarching their necks out ofrotted tree stumps, suckinglife out of death. I am theforest’s conscience, butremembertheforesteatsitselfandlivesforever.

Away down below singlefile on the path comes awoman with four girls, thepale doomed blossoms. Themother leads them on, blue-eyed,waving a hand in frontof her to part the curtain ofspiders’webs.Sheappearstobe conducting a symphony.Behind her back the smallestchild pauses to break off thetip of every branch she canreach. She likes the stinginggreen scent released by the

brokenleaves.Asshereachesto snatch a leaf she spies aplump, orange-bodied spiderthat has been knocked to theground.The spider is on itsback and fatly vulnerable,struggling to find its pointedfeet and scurry back into theair. The child delicatelyreaches out her toe andsquashes the spider. Its darkblood squirts sideways,alarmingly.Thechild runs tocatchup.

At the river they eat theirpicnic lunch, then movedownstream to shriek in thecool water. The noise theymakefrightensawayayoungokapi. He had just latelybeguntoinhabit thisterritoryon the edge of the village. Ifthe children had not cometoday, the okapi would havechosen this as his place. Hewould have remained untilthe second month of the dryseason, and then a hunter

would have killed him. Butinsteadheisstartledtodaybythe picnic, and his cautiousinstincts drive him deeperinto the jungle, where hefindsamateandlivesthroughthe year. All because. If themother and her children hadnot come down the path onthis day, the pinched treebranches would have grownlarger and the fat-bodiedspider would have lived.Everylifeisdifferentbecause

you passed this way andtouched history. Even thechild Ruth May touchedhistory. Everyone iscomplicit. The okapicomplied by living, and thespider by dying. It wouldhavelivedifitcould.Listen: being dead is not

worse than being alive. It isdifferent, though.You couldsaytheviewislarger.On another day the same

woman leads her children

through a market. Now shehaswhitehairandonly threedaughters. None of themwalks with a limp.They donot stay in line, as they didbefore. One of the daughtersoften strays away to handlebolts of fabric and talk withthe merchants in their ownlanguage. One of thedaughters touches nothing,andclutcheshermoneytoherbreast.Andone daughter keeps her

hand on the mother’s arm,guiding her away fromdustycraters in the pavement. Themotherisbentandbetraysthepaininherlimbs.Theyareallsurprisedtobehere,surprisedatthemselvesandeachother.These four have not beentogether in one place sincethe death of the other. Theyhavecomehere to saygood-bye to Ruth May or so theyclaim. Theywish to find hergrave. But in truth they are

saying goodbye to theirmother. They love herinordinately.Themarketaroundthemis

crowded with sellers andbuyers. Women from thevillageshavewalkedfordaysto narrow their eyes at thiscitymarket. They stack theiroranges into carefulpyramids, then squat on thinlegs, resting their angularwrists between their knees.And the city women, who

wrap their skirts only a littledifferently, come to bargainon feeding their families.Hoping to lower the pricethey scatter insults over theirsisters’ wares, like irritatinghandfuls of harmless gravel.Whathorribleoranges,Ipaidhalf as much for better lastweek. The orange vendordeflects this nonsense with ayawn.Sheknows that, in theend, every need findspurchase.

The mother and daughtersmove like oil through thecleardarkfluidofthiscrowd,mingling and then comingbacktoitself.Foreignvisitorsare rare here but notunknown. Narrowed eyesfollow them, summingpossibilities.Littleboyschasewith hands extended. Onedaughteropensherpurseandfinds coins, another daughterclutches her purse moretightly. Older boys with

colorful stacks of T-shirtscollectandfollowinaswarmlike bottleflies. They leap infront of each other to attractattention to their goods, butthe visitors ignore them,stooping instead to examineordinary wood carvings andbeadedjewelry.Theboysarebaffled and shove each othermorenoisily.Drowning out all other

noise is themusic thatblaresfrommanysidewalkshopsof

the cassette vendors. Thismusic is so familiar it doesnot seem foreign. The littleboys, the visitors, the villagewomen all move their headstothetightlystrungvoicesofthree different singers,popular ones from America,whose wrecked ancestors,captive and weeping, wereclamped in iron bracelets inthehold of a ship at a seaport

very close by. Their music

has made a remarkable,circular trip. That fact is loston everyone present. Thisruin must be called byanother name. What wouldhavebeenisthisinstead.The woman and her

daughters are looking forsomething theywill not find.Theirplanwas to findawaybacktoKilangaandfinallytothe sister’s grave. It is themother’sspecialwishtoputa

gravemarker there. But theyare stalled. It’s impossible tocross the border. In the sixmonths since they began toplantheirtrip,theCongohasbeen swept by “war. Aterrible war that everyonebelieveswill soon have beenworth theprice.Agoodboil,they say here, a good boilpurifiestherottenmeat.Afterthirty-five years the manMobutu has run away in thenight. Thirty-five years of

sleeplikedeath,andnowthemurdered land draws abreath, moves its fingers,takesuplifethroughitsriversand forests.The eyes in thetrees are watching.Theanimals open their mouthsand utter joyful, astonishingwords. The enslaved parrotMethuselah, whose flesh hasbeendevourednowbymanygenerations of predators, isforcing his declaration ofindependence through the

mouths of leopards and civetcats.On this same day at this

hour of early morning themanMobutuliesinbedinhishiding place.The shades aredrawn. His breath is soshallow the sheet drawnacrosshischestdoesnot riseor fall: no sign of life. Thecancer has softened hisbones.The flesh of his handsissodeeplysunkenthebonesof his fingers are perfectly

revealed.Theyhaveassumedthe shape of everything hestole. All he was told to do,andmore, he has done.Nowin his darkened room,Mobutu s right handfalls.This hand, which hasstolen more than any otherhand in the history of theworld, hangs limp over theside of the bed. The heavygoldringsslideforwardtotheknuckles, hesitate, then falloff one at a time.They strike

the floor with five separatetones: a miraculous, briefsong inanancientpentatonicscale. A woman in whitehurries to thedoor, believingagainstallreasonthatshehasjustheardtheailingPresidentplaying a song on thefealimfea.Whensheseeshim,shecovershermouthwithherhand.Outside, the animals

sigh.Soon the news will reach

every city and lodge like abreath or a bullet in all thedifferentbreasts.ThefleshofGeneral Eisenhowerconsumed by generations ofpredators will speak aloud.The flesh of Lumumba, alsoconsumed, will speak aloud.For a time the howl willdrown out everything. Butrightnowtheworldiscaughtin that small blank space inwhich no one has yet heardthe news. Lives proceed for

one last moment unchanged.In the marketplace they buyandsellanddance.The mother and her

daughters are stopped shortbythesightofawomantheyseem to recognize. It is notthewomanherselftheyknow,but her style of dress andsomething else. Herbenevolence. They cross thestreettowhereshesitsonthesidewalk with her back to acool north wall. Spread out

around her on a bright clothare hundreds of tiny animalscarvedfromwood:elephants,leopards, giraffes. Anokapi.A host of tiny animalsin a forest of invisible trees.The mother and daughtersstare,overtakenbybeauty.The woman is about the

age of the daughters, buttwice as large. Her yellowpagne isdouble-wrappedandher ornate bodice cut lowonher largebosom.Herhead is

boundinskyblue.Sheopensher mouth, smiles broadly.Achetezuncadeaupourvotrefils, sheorders themsweetly.There is not a trace ofpleading in her voice. Shecups her hand as if it werefull of water or grain as shepoints to the small, perfectgiraffes and elephants.Having used up her singleFrench phrase, she speaksKikongo unabashedly, asthough there were no other

languageonearth.Thiscityisfarfromtheregionwherethatlanguageisspoken,butwhenoneof thedaughtersanswersher inKikongo, shedoesnotseem surprised. They chatabout their children. Too oldfor toys, all of them, a bit.Grandchildren, then, thewoman insists, and so aftermore deliberation they pickout threeebonyelephants forthechildrenofthechildren.Itis the great-grandmother,

Orleanna, who buys theelephants. She studies herhandful of unfamiliar coins,then holds all of themout tothevendor.Thewomandeftlyplucksoutthefewsheneeds,and then presses intoOrleanna’s hand a gift: thetiny wooden okapi, perfectlycarved. Pour vous, madamc,shesays.Uncadeau.

Orleannapocketshersmallmiracle, as she has done for

the whole of her life. Theothers stand half-turned butunwilling to go. They wishthewomangoodluckandaskifshecomesfromtheCongo.Of course, she says, A bu,and to come here with hercarvingstosellshemustwalkall the way, more than twohundred kilometers.Sometimesifsheisluckyshecanbuyarideonatruck.Butlately without the blackmarket not so many

commercantscrosstheborderanditwillbedifficult.Itmaytakeher amonth to get backtoherfamilyinBulungu.Bulungu!Ee,monoimwesiBulungu.OntheKwiluRiver?Ee——ofcourse.Have you heard any news

latelyfromKilanga?The woman frowns

pleasantly, unable to recallanysuchplace.They insist: But surely. It

isLeahwhodoes the talkingnow, in Kikongo, and sheexplains again. Maybe thenamewaschangedduringtheauthenticate, though it’s hardto imagine why. The nextvillage down the river, onlytwo days’ walk on the roadthat goes through there. ThevillageofKilanga!Yearsago,there was an Americanmissionthere.But no, the woman says.

Thereisnosuchvillage.The

roaddoesn’tgopastBulungu.There is only a very thickjungle there, where the mengo to make charcoal. She isquite sure. There has neverbeen any village on the roadpastBulungu.Having said all that needs

to be said, thewoman closesher eyes to rest. The othersunderstand they must walkaway.Walk away from thiswoman and the force of herwill, but remember her as

they move on toward otherplaces. They will recall howsheheldoutherhandas if itwere already full. Sitting onthe ground with her clothspread out, she was ashopkeeperamotheraloverawilderness to herself. Muchmorethanashopkeeper,then.Butnothingless.Aheadofthem,asmallboy

hunched with a radio to hisear is dancing down thestreet.He is the size ofRuth

May when last seen alive.Orleanna watches the backsof his knees bending in thewayoflittlechildren,andshebegins once more—howmanytimesmustamotherdothis?—begins to work outhowoldIwouldbenow.But this time will be the

last. This time, before yourmindcancalculatetheansweritwillwanderawaydownthestreetwith the child, dancingto theAfricanmusic thathas

gone away and come homechanged.Thewoodenanimalin your pocket will sootheyour fingers, which aresimplylookingforsomethingtotouch.Mother,youcanstillhold on but forgive, forgiveand give for long as long aswe both shall live I forgiveyou,Mother. I shall turn thehearts of the fathers to thechildren,andtheheartsofthechildren to their fathers. Theteeth at your bones are your

own, the hunger is yours,forgivenessisyours.Thesinsof the fathers belong to youand to the forest and even totheonesinironbracelets,andhere you stand, rememberingtheir songs. Listen. Slide theweight from your shouldersand move forward. You areafraid you might forget, butyou never will. You willforgiveandremember.Thinkofthevinethatcurlsfromthesmall square plot that was

once my heart. That is theonlymarker youneed.Moveon. Walk forward into thelight.

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