A Girl Named Disaster Read Online Free PDF

woman, everyone said. She was modest and obedient. She never put herself forward, but kept her position respectfully equal with other people, and she did not say irritatingly clever things. The praises became more extravagant as the beer flowed.
    Nhamo padded from group to group with snacks. Old Takawira sang in a reedy voice as his son played an mbira, a hand piano. Someone else was beating a drum. Nhamo’s feet danced along to the music. Uncle Kufa sent her to fetch more bananas from the grove at the edge of the village.
    She could see the party from the shadows of the banana trees. If she made a circle with her hands, the whole village fit inside. Here and there were small, lively fires. People danced and chattered, and she smelled popcorn and beer. It suddenly seemed that she held everyone in her hands, like a picture in a magazine. She could almost roll them up and hide them in a pot.
    Cough-cough.
    From the dark forest behind her came a noise.
    Cough-cough.
    Nhamo didn’t have to think. She burst out of the banana trees and ran faster than she dreamed possible. She fled back to the campfires and fell on her knees in front of her astonished relatives.
    “Nhamo,” cried several people, springing to their feet.
    “Did you hurt yourself?”
    “What’s the matter?”
    Nhamo lay on the ground, moaning with terror. “Leopard,” she finally managed to gasp.
    Everyone grabbed branches from the fire and ran off to protect the animal pens. For a while, all was confusion. Men shouted; women dragged babies into huts. Then, gradually, the commotion died down.
    “All that exercise has given me a powerful thirst,” said a man, tossing his burning branch into the fire.
    “Me, too,” agreed his friend, settling next to a pot of beer.
    “I didn’t see any leopard tracks,” Uncle Kufa said in a dangerous voice.
    “It—was in the forest behind the banana trees.” Nhamo was huddled against Grandmother’s knees.
    “If you ask me, she made it up,” said Aunt Chipo. “She’s always trying to grab attention.”
    “Look how she’s trembling. She isn’t making that up.” Ambuya patted Nhamo’s shoulder.
    “It’s so dark in the banana grove. I’ve often been frightened there,” Masvita added kindly. Uncle Kufa scowled, but he didn’t say anything more.
    Quite soon, everyone was singing and dancing again. Grandmother kept Nhamo by her side and refused to let her run any more errands. After a while, the conversation reverted to roora , the bride-prices that had been paid for various relatives. This was a very popular topic of conversation. Fathers counted on the wealth they would get for their daughters. How else could they be rewarded for raising otherwise useless girls? How else could they afford to buy wives for their sons and insure that they would eventually become ancestors?
    Sometimes it took many years to pay the roora; sometimes—there were several sly looks—it took no time at all. Nhamo understood that a woman’s value was determined by the size of her bride-price.
    Vatete told them all about someone who had earned a whole herd of cattle for her family. Years and years the son-in-law slaved to pay for his wife.
    “Ah,” everyone sighed with envy.
    On the other hand, Vatete said, even a barren goat was too much for some women, not mentioning names of course.
    “We won’t have that problem with Masvita,” said Aunt Shuvai.
    No indeed, everyone agreed.
    “Or with Ruva,” added Vatete. “She’s so plump and pretty.”
    Ruva ducked her head with embarrassment.
    What about me? Nhamo wanted to ask. I’m older than Ruva. What about me?
    She waited for Grandmother to introduce the subject, but Ambuya merely signaled for Aunt Shuvai to massage her feet. Not long afterward she sent Nhamo and the other girls to bed.

5
    W ake up,” said Masvita, shaking Nhamo. Nhamo sat up and rubbed her face to clear it of sleep. It was still dark, although the crowing of a rooster told her dawn was not far