Chapter 6: Dinai
The gentle east-west orientation of the continent of Europe has allowed the undulating waves of culture and ideas, like the fulcrum of a see-saw in a playground, to swing back and forth between Europe and Asia for thousands of years.
However, with the vertical north-south gradient of Africa it has been easier for the gravity of northern culture and ideas to press themselves into Africa, than the other way around.
Only recently has modern travel evened out the gradient, so that the ideas of Africa can ooze out and begin to patina the paler surfaces of the world.
But as is often the case in the aftermath of uninvited mingling, the progeny of cultural chaos does not care about its origins, as long as they have a loving caring mother.
Africa has always been the mother of mankind, a mother who has been pillaged and raped so often by arrogantly uncaring outsiders that nobody particularly cares.
“Come.” The old man broke the silence in which we were walking, “I have a story to tell.”
Instead of returning to his office, the priest deviated slightly past the row of buildings which served as classrooms and offices.
The mission is a subtle mix of Europe and Africa. The straight lines of the efficiently built class room blocks, were taken from the blueprints left behind by the old administrators and used all across the old British Colonial Federation. The straight lines gave the place its subtle hint of European order.
Rural Africa does not have straight lines.
The old man led me back to the upstream river-side corner of the complex.
Here, as in the rest of the mission, the haphazard placement of the big trees is owing to where their seeds scattered and sprouted eons ago, before this spot was settled. At least these trees have not been cut down, and thus provide soothing shade from the midday sun, even if the scrub and grass that once filled between their trunks is gone, leaving only bare sandy soil. It is the daily sweeping of the sand, with hand-held grass switches, as is the custom in the villages, which gives the mission its opposing subtle blend of Africa.
Looking down on the slow dirty brown eddies of the river, the bench on which Father Xavier and I sat was placed in such a swept spot, sheltered from the sun by the spreading branches of a big fig tree.
Each year, at the end of the dry winter, much of Central Africa is set alight to flush small creatures into the jaws of packs of scrawny village dogs. It being late October there wasn’t much more of Africa left to burn. Over our heads it was the smoke from countless fires across the country which hazed the heavens. However the sun’s perpendicular rays was so bright they imparted a lightness to the smoky grey tint of this wash.
We sat under these nebulous skies, silent and listening. From somewhere not too far away came the faint musical evidence of how unconcerned about origins was the mixing of southern ebony and northern ivory, in the beauty of its bastard progeny. Rising above the multiplication tables being rote chanted by the children, from somewhere on the other side of the river, came the exquisite sounds of ‘Tuku’ singing his haunting “Neria” …”Do you know that song?” I asked Xavier. “She must have been special to inspire such a melody. If I had life over again, I would name a daughter Neria”.
Father Xavier sat on his hands with his torso leaning forward. He appeared to be peering down at his knees. His long thin body held his clothes as loosely as a scarecrow its rags.
As “Tuku’s” voice faded across the river, the skies high above were filled with the tinkling chatter of a huge flock of European bee-eaters, recently arrived from their marathon migration down the eastern seaboard of the Mediterranean, and across all of Africa. For the rest of the summer they would grace us, as with that faded song, with their beautiful presence.
It took a while for the old man to say anything. He sat staring at the leather of his sandals listening to the birds, and children, and the even more distant bark of a dog. Without looking up he asked, “How did Moses fit in with the others when you were together over there?”
The question caught me off balance. I wasn’t expecting a personality evaluation. That was the sort of thing I remembered from the tests when applying for some corporate jobs after the war. Back then I had little to show for the years of fighting, except bitter memories. They wanted to know if my “leadership style” would fit-in with their corporate culture. I could not take them seriously. ‘You had to fit in, or else you fucked off.” That answer didn’t fit in to corporate culture, so I stumbled off.
But like with a twist on the yoke of an aircraft, the side slip of my thoughts were nudged back to the father’s question, with as little input as him leaning back and straightening as he crossed his legs over each other.
I never really considered it. “We all fitted in, I don’t know how, we just did. But, of course there was a selection, an extreme process. Whoever could stay the course had the “fit” forced into them by the togetherness of mission and spirit. It didn’t matter what your race or creed. As long as there were a group of you pulling together. We were the first truly multi-racial unit in the army. Everybody was judged by worth and merit, not where they came from.”
I stopped and listened to the singing coming from a classroom.
I had a sudden rush of introspection with this question of fitting in. I realized that back then we were required to fit in together to survive. If we met the criteria we were all welcome in the unit, white, brown or black. Anyone, if they were determined and tried hard, could join our purpose and mission, which fundamentally were some of the stated goals of those who struggled against us. But today, I felt it was the hypocrisy of history that had me struggling to overcome the empowerment which kept me from fitting in and having relevance in the new independent Africa. I felt that I was not really welcome. Policy would prefer an African to be doing my job.
I pushed the thought aside, after all I was even more unwelcome everywhere else in the world.
Then I spoke again, “But Father, I am curious. Why do you ask if he fitted in?”
The priest leaned sideways and reached down to the side of the bench where a few straggly stems of grass had survived the daily sweeping. Then straightening back to place his elbows on both knees spread apart, he contemplated the strand of straw as he slowly picked it apart in his fingers.
With a deep sigh he began to speak, at first softly, and then later as he told me the story, more emphatically, angrily!!
‘Like you and I, Moses never fully fitted in anywhere. He carries the Mark of Cain, which is why he loved being with you in Angola, because you were too busy to notice it.
The old man raised the blue-grey hue of his eyes at me with a quizzical look, ‘I think that you should be aware of this if you want him to help your cause, it may be a blessing.”
I sat looking at the sand beneath my slightly spread legs, and with the palms of my hands turned downwards and tucked beneath the sides of my thighs, I listened to a tale of African sadness.
“In life, there are never any second first impressions.”
A deep soulfulness effused the elderly priest’s voice. It was so palpable that I glance at him to check if anything was amiss.
He went on speaking, “My first impression was of her face. Big sad charcoal eyes, and the tight curls of her flame red hair. It was the face of a child, maybe three or four years old.”
The priest pointed at the wide lumpy surface of the old fig trees trunk, and following his gesture I raised my gaze to see how the twisty stem lifted its big branches high above us.
“She was hiding over there, behind the trunk.”
The age wrinkled limbs stretched out until they droop down like the ribs of an umbrella, hanging so low they brush the sand beyond where we sat, cloistering us in a leafy bower.
The old man paused for a moment, as if to gather his emotions before continuing.
I asked her, “U mang’i? What is your name?”
As she peered out from behind the tree she replied, “Ki na Danai, My name is Dana’.”
The old man leaned forward, and with a stub of grass in his hand, drew parallel lines in the sand between his feet. At the same time he continued to tell his story.
“It was in the mid or late 50’s.” He hesitated. “I was young when I first arrived here, full of enthusiasm and a desire to serve. I wanted to change the world, bring all of the kingdom of God to this big flat empty land. I was sitting right here. Like me, the child had also discovered this quiet shady spot, with its dome of branches providing some solitude from the world. Its shelter wasn’t as thick in those days, but it was adequate, and like now, you could see the water under those branches as they spread out over the river. I surprised her, which was why she was hiding.”
Father Xavier used his grassy stub to scratch vertical lines over the horizontals already etched in the sand. He lifted his head to look directly at me. I felt the turquoise squint of his stare again brush over my face.
“As I said, there are no second first impressions. That face was one of the most striking impressions I have ever had. Seldom does one confront such a visage, in such an unexpected manner. It was so long ago. But I can still see before me those child’s eyes, eyes that always seemed to be seeing a special sadness, as if they peered into the future.”
He straightened, and leaned back to cock his one knee to lift his leg so that the tip of his footwear erased the lines in the sand.
Father Xavier picked another stem of grass from beside the bench. Then, smoothing the sand with his sandal, began once again to draw his lines.
“Before I go on with my story I will give you some background… Maybe you know it, but maybe you were too young for it to be part of your life.
As you know I grew up in Portugal, but my uncle lived in Angola, which at the time was a Portuguese colony. So I came to Africa and to this area to help the people when the British left, in case, maybe, the same chaos as had been in India happened here, when Independence was given. Because of that I have been here for a very long time. Long enough to know Moses’s mother and his grandmother.
He waited for this information to sink in. What its relevance was I was not sure, but I pandered the old man by not saying anything.
“Yes, I know what you seek. Because of that I will tell you a story which will help you when you find him. It is a different kind of foe that you will now be facing. It is the foe that I have faced almost every day since I came here sixty years ago, in my battle to overcome the traditional beliefs of the people of these parts.
I think that my story will help you to understand who Moses is and what is special about him. You said you will need to hunt not so much men, but rather the ideas that motivate them. So be patient and listen to me.”
I was slightly skeptical of his assertion and asked, “What is it that I need to know about a little girl which will help me avoid the ambushes of men’s beliefs and the ideas they spawn?”
We walked in silence for a while, passing through the mission gate and heading away from the river along the dusty road. Where it edged to the left to parallel the river, he paused his steps and with a tic of his lips and a slight grimace of his jaw, bent down to pick up the flattened remnants of a plastic water bottle crumpled into a sandy rut in the road.
“There must be a special place in hell for the man who invented the plastic bottle, with the way these things are polluting Gods world.” He said. Then with the shard held gingerly between the forefingers and thumb of his hand, like a conductor’s baton he spoke again.
“To understand Moses,” he murmured quietly, “You need to know about his mother. You will find in her story things that even Moses does not understand. I asked you if he fitted in with your unit in the war. I asked that question because here he never fitted in. He could not. He wasn’t allowed to. He was always an outsider. To understand why, you need to know about his mother. His mother was that special little girl under the tree.”
Father Xavier nodded a greeting to two women bearing buckets of water on their heads as they walked away from the river.
‘Of course, to understand that little child’s life one needs to be knowledgeable about the traditions out here. This I am sure you know. You will understand how important it is to belong to a tribe, and to have a totem. That was something I didn’t realize when I came to Africa. I think of myself as Portuguese, and the other whites, like you, those who were born and grew up here, you think of yourselves as Zambian, Zimbabwean or South African. You do not regard yourselves as firstly Lozi, or Kaunde, or Bemba, or Tonga, and only after that is Zambian, as they do here.”
I nodded to acknowledge my agreement.
“Also,” he continued, “one of the unfortunate realities of Africa is that the colonial powers didn’t understand or care about this importance of the tribe to the African way of life. They set borders which cut across tribal lands, so that some of the tribe is in one country and the rest in another. Because of this most of the Lozi tribe live here on the Zambezi plane, but some of them are in Angola across the border. When the British and Belgians and Portuguese departed, the new African leaders made no effort to change the colonial borders.”
The tall thin priest slowly stretched his sinewy sun-burned arms above his head before clasping them behind his back.
“Come”, he said, “Let’s walk back to my office while we talk”.
“My son, when you were here the last time, and yes that was a long time ago, you were married. Where is your wife, and do you have children?”
I responded with a chuckle to his question. “Yes Father, you have a good memory.”
I was hesitant at revealing too much to this old man of religion. But after a few moments of reasoning I reckoned that I could be delicate about my past, and he wasn’t the city sort of clergyman. He would know that for those who spent their lives in remote parts, life was seldom conformist. He would understand that often we had had to make do with what we could find at the roadsides of life. At the verges the rules were not as stringent and the consequences for disobedience not as dire or dangerous. After all, one is less likely to be run over when standing at the curb than in the center of life’s bustle. The moral policing is less prevalent. But one is also less likely to go anywhere quickly or conveniently. It was obvious to me that neither Father Xavier nor I, in our different, yet unconventionally similar ways, were interested in going anywhere easily and fast. Neither of us had ever chosen to fully respect the rules at the center of life.
I kicked at a twig as I walked next to him. “Father that marriage didn’t last long after we left the bush. I think that the reason it lasted as long as it did was that I was always on active duty, and she liked collecting my paycheck. We got good money, with the extra “danger pay” added in. We had a son. He is now grown. He even finished University. I have 3 other children, but I never married their mothers. I am lucky they all still like me, but they like being away from me even better.”
Father Xavier smiled. “Yes, so you will understand how different the idea of marriage is in tribal Africa. You will also know what it is like to be a parent.”
He walked in pensive thought for a while. “But even though I have never had children myself, what I have seen is that it is more important to have a good mother than a good father.”
He coughed to clear his throat before going on.
“In many ways it feels that out here we are closer to the old testament. The people of the Old Testament were tribal, and you know that out here they marry with Lobola.
“Like with the bible characters, in these remote tribal areas, even today, a woman often does not have much to say about who she should marry. Some people think this is bad. But it works and is similar to arranged marriages in other parts of the world.”
He seemed to be thinking as we walked for a while.
This brings me back to the story of the child. Out here, if a man is poor and he has a lot of daughters, sometimes, even despite the strength of the tribe, he will sell his daughter to someone from a different group, if enough is tendered for lobola.
Dinai’s grandfather was a poor Lozi man living in Angola with 7 daughters. He sold one of them to a man from the Ganguela tribe for twenty cows. It was a lot to pay in those days.”
A deep sigh prefaced the next part of the priest’s tale. “And of course, giving its flavor to all of life out here, like the sea its salt, is witchcraft. I have struggled with this from the day I first arrived here, and I still do. We in the west have a much more esoteric understanding of evil. Yes, we all know that the world is full of it. But we seldom individually personalize it. When bad things happen, we say it is the work of the devil. We generally think that the devil lives in some faraway place, some distant hell, maybe even further away than heaven beyond the stars. But out here the understanding of evil is very different. That is because the spiritual world of Africa is all around us, all the time. Here they believe the dead do not travel far away to a heaven or hell. They wander the darkness and the lonely places around us. They believe these spirits are sometimes benign, even good. But at others they are full of evil, which needs to take possession of the soul of a living person to work its malignancy.
As you know, often when people begin to die in the villages the consensus is that someone must be possessed by such a devil. Their belief is that the only way to get rid of the evil is to banish or kill the witch who is possessed. In Dinai’s village some children had died, and Dinai’s mother was an outsider, she was a Lozi. A sangoma was summoned to sniff out and hunt down the person who was the witch. Dinai’s mother, seeing the writing on the wall, took her daughter and ran away, before that little girl could be identified as being possessed of a devil.”
The sadness edged back into Father Xavier’s voice as he spoke softly to me.
“You see, my son,…., The most damming factor of them all, her daughter, that little girl with the charcoal black eyes, and the fire red hair, she was an albino. And you will understand the place the albino occupies in the spiritual world of Africa.”
The priest shook his head. “I often wonder if it was the constant threat of witch accusations that etched the sad mark of Cain in the little girl’s eyes. Even then it was as if they could see far into the future and it’s portend of sorrow.
She was a wonderful child. She grew into a wonderful girl. But the mark of Cain followed her everywhere. It wasn’t the stark difference of the color of her skin and hair that made her stand out. It was as if the echo of her past trailed behind, like the gentlest of zephyrs, whispering to everyone that somewhere was a spirit, waiting and lurking to take possession of her soul, with all the special evil potency of an albino witch.”
The old man bent down and snapped a length of grass, which he chewed on pensively between his words.
“You see, the little girl I first saw hiding behind that old tree trunk over there had been abandoned by her mother. Even her mother dared not stay with her, lest she be possessed by proxy. The rumors of who, and what she was, clung to her like the burs of the black-jack cling to your clothes. This aura made the other children shun and avoid her. Even the adults kept their distance. Only one person, a mulatto nun at a clinic across the river, completely accepted the little girl. To that nun I am eternally grateful. She took the little one under her habit, and help me raise the child.”
The priests tone brightened as he spoke. “She attended school here at the mission. On many an afternoon, and on some days on the weekends the child, and later the girl, would meet me out under the trees and we would talk. We would talk about religion, politics and history. We would play checkers and chess. I would even speak Portuguese to her. She was brilliant. She learned fast. It was as if her mind was a sponge, she soaked up knowledge and information. In those days here at the mission we only provided classes up to Standard 5, or the end of Junior School. But she was so talented I realized that it would be a travesty if she somehow didn’t go on to finish high school. Maybe even to get a teaching diploma so that she could return to the mission as a staff member. She herself dreamed one day of attending Fort Hare in South Africa, or Makarere in Uganda. Thus, to this effect I arranged with a friend in Lusaka to have her stay with them, while she attended Munali Girls High School. After independence the top Lusaka schools were now available to African children.
As he picked another stem of grass, I said that I had recently been to the school with an acquaintance, whose daughter was a pupil there.
“We at the mission would not see her for months.,” he said. “Only during the long Christmas break, during the wet season would she come back here to stay with us, her ‘foster’ parents. Those years were the happiest of her life, the sadness almost left her eyes. Then one day, when she was just short of her sixteenth year, she stepped down unexpectedly from a bus from Lusaka. It was during the school term. We were shocked to see her. But what shocked us even more was to see that her pregnancy was showing.”
Again we walked in silence until reaching the mission gate before Father Xavier spoke again.
“It took her a long time to tell me about the father of her unborn child. He was dark, she said and his breath smelled of spicy food. The only feature she clearly remembered was a burn scar on his chest, in the form of an inverted Africa. He had raped her. And so it was that her baby boy Na’u was born.”
At this stage the old man raised his bony hands from where they had been clasped behind his back. He clasped them again behind his head as he walked.
“When the child was a year old and Dinai about 16 she suddenly announced she had received a message from her mother. A mother who had abandoned her and whom she could barely remember. She was determined to go back to the village in Angola and show her mother her baby. A month later, here at the mission a stranger showed up one morning with the baby. As you know here in Africa when a baby is born out of wedlock it is raised by the father’s family, not the mother. This Angolan stranger said that the baby was being brought back to us to send to the father.
We never saw Dinai again. She simply disappeared. I sent people back into Angola to search for her, but nobody knew anything. Thus it was that Moses came to stay with me at the mission.
“Why was he called Moses and not Nau?” I asked.
“It was my nickname for him,” Xavier answered. ‘It stuck. Like Moses he had shown up abandoned on the banks of a big broad African river, and I didn’t push his cradle away. But, for her baby son, the whisper that followed his mother, with its scent of spiritual smoke, continued to fan the same embers in the people’s minds. He inherited her curse. He was never allowed to fit in. So there you have the story.”
I had been listening with no interruptions. “But father,” I said, “I still do not see how this information helps me with the issues I have back at the Kafue!”
“Well,” he said, “As you know I am a religious man, I love my Lord, but after so many decades out here I am a practical person, and I have learned that the Lord works in mysterious ways. Thus, I suspect that curse, the curse I tried for so long to eradicate, for you it could be a blessing. I say this because, my son, I have spent so much time with the people of Africa. I think that Moses will be good for your cause, because even the sangoma’s, those powerful witch -doctors, they will be scared of him. As the ways of the Lord are mysterious, so are the ways of the bush. He may not realize it, but somehow, in an unknown manner, the sangoma’s will know that he is the son of a ‘white witch’…
And that is very powerful Muuti.”
I nodded in agreement.
“So you see my son,’ the old Portuguese priest spoke quietly, ‘I think that I was a good foster father, but we all need special mothers. And Moses had a very special one, even though she was taken away from him.”