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Authors: Nancy Farmer
Tags: Fiction
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The sun slanted through the musasa trees as it lowered toward the horizon. It turned everything gold. For the first time in several days, Grandmother smiled. It made Nhamo’s spirit happy to see the old woman nod her head in time tothe music. If only the golden afternoon could go on forever, with Ambuya and her at the center of this friendly crowd. But eventually the musician grew tired and the sunlight faded. The trader’s assistant brought out the hissing lamps and hung them over the porch.
“He go for Maputo soon,” said the trader as the musician slung the guitar over his back. “Make money like bandits.”
Still, the enchantment lingered as the blue twilight flooded the land. No one was willing to ask for the radio just yet. “You have many death in your village, hey?” said the trader suddenly. Nhamo could have killed him.
Grandmother’s face became sad again. “Many people died,” she agreed.
“Cholera a bad bugger. Frelimo send soldiers with muti , * but too late. Muti no work good, anyway.” He shook his head. “You lose someone special, ambuya ?”
Nhamo wanted to drop a lantern on his head.
“Yes,” Grandmother replied.
“Me, too. My little Maria. My wife cry. I cry, too.” The trader took a picture from his shirt pocket. He signaled to the assistant to lift down one of the lamps. Nhamo saw a girl about Ruva’s age, wearing a beautiful dress covered with ruffles. The girl had on shiny black shoes and she carried a small purse. Pinned over her hair was a lace handkerchief. Maria was almost as dark as herself, so Nhamo guessed that the trader’s wife wasn’t Portuguese.
“I don’t have a picture of Shuvai,” Ambuya said with the tears rolling down her face.
“No matter. Her picture here, no?” The trader slapped himself on the chest. “Inside have best photo.”
Grandmother was too overcome to answer. Nhamo was desperate to get her back to camp.
“Can we have the radio?” someone called hopefully.
“Shut up,” roared the trader. “Me and Va-ambuya talk seriously. You rascals can get drunk without music.” Nhamo heard murmured grumbles, but no one spoke out loud. Theassistant began bringing out buckets of beer. “Bring something for this old lady, hey? Nice stuff. Not the swill these buggers drink.”
Nhamo’s spirits rose. It was unheard of for Ambuya to drink with strangers. Now she would surely ask to go home. But to Nhamo’s horror, Grandmother accepted the dark bottle the assistant brought. He provided his boss with a bucket of “shake-shake.” Apparently the trader had no qualms about drinking swill himself.
Nhamo brooded in the shadows as Ambuya and the trader discussed dead relatives. It seemed an insane thing to do, but gradually she noticed that Grandmother appeared more lighthearted. Perhaps, in remembering, her spirit let go of the unhappiness.
Soon, on her third bottle of the dark beer, Ambuya was recounting how Ruva squealed when a fish she had been given by Crocodile Guts wriggled in her hands. The trader responded with a tale of how his wife heated a can of peas on hot coals without opening it first. “Boom! Peas on the walls. Peas on the ceiling. ‘Ah! Ah!’ my wife cried. ‘It’s a hand grenade!’” Grandmother shook with laughter.
“Come here, Nhamo,” she called. “Tell him about the time you put a grass snake in the boys’ hut.”
Nhamo burned with embarrassment. She still remembered the beating Aunt Chipo had given her.
“They left puddles on the mats, I can tell you,” Grandmother recalled.
“Nhamo mean ‘disaster,’ no? She’s a nice kid. No look like a disaster to me.”
“She’s my wonderful Little Pumpkin,” Grandmother said warmly. “She’s my Runako’s only child, but her birth caused trouble, I can tell you!”
“How so?” The trader called for his assistant to bring them bowls of sadza and relish from his kitchen. Nhamo brightened up at once. Her stomach was growling with hunger.
“Runako
The sun slanted through the musasa trees as it lowered toward the horizon. It turned everything gold. For the first time in several days, Grandmother smiled. It made Nhamo’s spirit happy to see the old woman nod her head in time tothe music. If only the golden afternoon could go on forever, with Ambuya and her at the center of this friendly crowd. But eventually the musician grew tired and the sunlight faded. The trader’s assistant brought out the hissing lamps and hung them over the porch.
“He go for Maputo soon,” said the trader as the musician slung the guitar over his back. “Make money like bandits.”
Still, the enchantment lingered as the blue twilight flooded the land. No one was willing to ask for the radio just yet. “You have many death in your village, hey?” said the trader suddenly. Nhamo could have killed him.
Grandmother’s face became sad again. “Many people died,” she agreed.
“Cholera a bad bugger. Frelimo send soldiers with muti , * but too late. Muti no work good, anyway.” He shook his head. “You lose someone special, ambuya ?”
Nhamo wanted to drop a lantern on his head.
“Yes,” Grandmother replied.
“Me, too. My little Maria. My wife cry. I cry, too.” The trader took a picture from his shirt pocket. He signaled to the assistant to lift down one of the lamps. Nhamo saw a girl about Ruva’s age, wearing a beautiful dress covered with ruffles. The girl had on shiny black shoes and she carried a small purse. Pinned over her hair was a lace handkerchief. Maria was almost as dark as herself, so Nhamo guessed that the trader’s wife wasn’t Portuguese.
“I don’t have a picture of Shuvai,” Ambuya said with the tears rolling down her face.
“No matter. Her picture here, no?” The trader slapped himself on the chest. “Inside have best photo.”
Grandmother was too overcome to answer. Nhamo was desperate to get her back to camp.
“Can we have the radio?” someone called hopefully.
“Shut up,” roared the trader. “Me and Va-ambuya talk seriously. You rascals can get drunk without music.” Nhamo heard murmured grumbles, but no one spoke out loud. Theassistant began bringing out buckets of beer. “Bring something for this old lady, hey? Nice stuff. Not the swill these buggers drink.”
Nhamo’s spirits rose. It was unheard of for Ambuya to drink with strangers. Now she would surely ask to go home. But to Nhamo’s horror, Grandmother accepted the dark bottle the assistant brought. He provided his boss with a bucket of “shake-shake.” Apparently the trader had no qualms about drinking swill himself.
Nhamo brooded in the shadows as Ambuya and the trader discussed dead relatives. It seemed an insane thing to do, but gradually she noticed that Grandmother appeared more lighthearted. Perhaps, in remembering, her spirit let go of the unhappiness.
Soon, on her third bottle of the dark beer, Ambuya was recounting how Ruva squealed when a fish she had been given by Crocodile Guts wriggled in her hands. The trader responded with a tale of how his wife heated a can of peas on hot coals without opening it first. “Boom! Peas on the walls. Peas on the ceiling. ‘Ah! Ah!’ my wife cried. ‘It’s a hand grenade!’” Grandmother shook with laughter.
“Come here, Nhamo,” she called. “Tell him about the time you put a grass snake in the boys’ hut.”
Nhamo burned with embarrassment. She still remembered the beating Aunt Chipo had given her.
“They left puddles on the mats, I can tell you,” Grandmother recalled.
“Nhamo mean ‘disaster,’ no? She’s a nice kid. No look like a disaster to me.”
“She’s my wonderful Little Pumpkin,” Grandmother said warmly. “She’s my Runako’s only child, but her birth caused trouble, I can tell you!”
“How so?” The trader called for his assistant to bring them bowls of sadza and relish from his kitchen. Nhamo brightened up at once. Her stomach was growling with hunger.
“Runako
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