for trial.
The sun was already setting beyond the western mountains and lengthy shadows were creeping eastwards when headman Mutengu completed his duties in administering tribal law. And still the queen of the Wakambi had not arrived. A small doubt began to gnaw at the back of the mind of the great Induna; he began to wonder for the first time whether his little deformed niece was wrong in her prophecy. Eventually he strode into her hut and knelt down beside the blind child, holding her hand gently, reassuringly.
‘Little one, for once the little spirits have played a trick upon my niece, for lo, the queen Marimba has not come yet.’
‘But she has, Oh honourable uncle, the queen of the Wakambi is here. I can feel the pulse of her thoughts.’
Mutengu was aghast: ‘Child! What words are these? My scouts have brought no news of the coming of the queen. They have seen no warrior escort. And yet you say that the royal Marimba is already within this village!’
‘She is, Oh uncle. I receive her thoughts quite clearly. At this moment she is pleased with the joke she has played on you, and she is convinced that my real father Lusu has accused you falsely.’
‘Where is she?’ Mutengu demanded. ‘Has she made herself invisible?’
‘No, uncle. Tell me, how many visitors are spending the night with us?’
‘Well over a hundred, child, men and women, young and old.’
‘The Great One has come into the village as a common visitor, my uncle. You must command all visitors to report to your Great Hut and there I shall pick her out for you.’
The one hundred and ten visitors were gathered at the Great Hut and a sumptuous supper was in progress. Already the induna knew that one of these many women was Marimba and one thing remained – the identification parade!
Mutengu led his little blind niece, gently holding her hand, past all the guests. He noticed how most of the visitors shrank slightly with revulsion as the deformed child approached. He saw this and he smiled; if only these fools knew that the little deformed child was the equivalent of ten so-called normal human beings. Led by powers beyond human comprehension, the young girl made her way towards the old man and his daughter. The child knelt down beside the girl and gently removed the kaross of respect with which she had covered her head. Mutengu immediately recognised his chieftainess – in spite of her shaven head and the false scar she had improvised with a piece of fish bladder. Mutengu gently pulled off the scar and the great, mischievous eyes of Marimba smiled softly at him.
‘My queen . . . living goddess of the Wakambi . . . what is the meaning of this cruel joke?’
‘I heard that you were a corrupt and vicious man who broke every tribal law laid down. I wanted to see for myself, Oh Induna, and I am glad to say that I found all accusations against you false and groundless.’
The assembled visitors fell on their faces in the presence of their great queen and a deep silence fell upon the gathering like a thick skin blanket. Then came Marimba’s clear voice: ‘Arise, my people, and let us enjoy our meal. Then we shall perform a little dance to thank our host for his great kindness and generosity.’ And turning to Mutengu she spoke softly: ‘Tell me, Oh Mutengu, how did you know about my secret arrival?’
‘This child, with her god-given sight, indicated you to me, your humble servant, Oh Marimba.’
‘I shall give the little one a gift to remember me by. And when we have unseated her evil father in the village across the river we shall appoint your niece as headwoman of that village for the rest of her life.’
A roar of applause greeted the announcement. Men stood up and raised their right hands in salute to the little Nonikwe, Headwoman-for-life of a village and district. And then, into the hands of the little girl Marimba pressed the newest instrument of music that she had invented. It was a ‘hand xylophone’ – a mukimbe – made entirely of reeds.
A mukimbe is an instrument particularly suited for use by blind people or those left weak and convalescing after an attack of one of the numerous tropical diseases. Many a convalescent owed his recovery to the sweet, birdlike, soothing notes of the mukimbe. Thus this instrument soon acquired the nickname of ‘the sick one’s comforter’.
A good mukimbe is constructed as follows: The bulrush reeds must be cut in the middle of summer when fully grown but not yet hard or dry. They must be of equal thickness (a man’s little finger) and of equal length (from the wrist to the elbow). Eight of these are cut and woven together with lengths of reed bark till the whole thing looks like a miniature raft. More strips of green reed are then attached to the raft, fixed both ends, and a strip of wood is then inserted to lift these strips away from the raft in the middle. The whole contraption is then left to dry in the sun for ten days. The woven knots tighten and the strips become taut while the spirit of music enters into them. The strips must all be of unequal breadth and arranged in order of thickness. For an additional rattle effect tiny pebbles can be inserted in the hollow reeds and the openings sealed with tree resin.
The blind child was overjoyed. Tears of pure gratitude welled from her sightless eyes and she clutched the instrument to her heart. She wept as if her soul would melt. ‘Thank you, Oh my queen. I honour you with all my heart, and may you grow as tall as the tallest of tall trees.’
‘Now, now, little Nonikwe, do not cry so. I am going to see to it that you are happy for the rest of your life and that you will never want for anything. Now come, all my people, let us dance before we go to sleep. I have a new dance for you, my lazy ones – the “Three-Fire Dance”.’
The women had become wands of living fire; they were leaping and swaying, twisting and shaking, like things gone completely mad. Marimba was leading the group of dancers in the centre, symbolising the ‘flame of life’ while the other groups of dancers represented the forces that try to snuff out the flame. It was a wild, uninhibited, savage dance that sent the flood of desire surging through the bodies of the men and brought tears into the eyes of the old ones. Every woman of the village was now taking part in the strangest dance of all time, while all the men watched intensely, deeply moved.
But elsewhere in the village three men were conferring – three whose hearts were full of evil and whose souls were caught in the dark webs of evil being hatched against the peerless Marimba. One, called Luchiza, was nothing but a stripling boy, the first-born son of the headman Mutengu. The second was a one-eyed scoundrel named Mbomongo and the third was Kalembi, the old man who had posed as Marimba’s father when they entered the village earlier that day. Kalembi had found an opportunity to slip away unnoticed during the earlier part of the dancing and he now addressed the two others in a bitter and cracked voice: ‘We cannot allow this thing to go on! If we do not put a stop to this woman’s antics soon we shall all be turned into a mob of brainless, capering fools who will do nothing but dance ourselves from the childbirth-hut to the very grave, and on to the land of Forever-Night. I tell you, we have to do something about this.’
‘Tsaaaiieee!’ spat the young man Luchiza, the son of Mutengu, ‘I am a firm believer that the woman is mad. Who ever heard of a nation of dancers? That is what we are already – a mad nation of capering idiots!’
‘Well, my lords,’ said Mbomongo with an obscene leer, ‘if you want to get rid of Marimba I am the man to do it for you. I would enjoy nothing better.’
‘What
