Without warning Ajoola straightened from his crouch and leaped backward, landing three paces away from Zuriye. Standing rigid as a tree, he chanted, his voice a high-pitched singsong:
“This one is marked by the Devil of the River ... this one will bring doom to the Bagara ... this one is a mganga, a witch... this one must not be among us!”
He pointed a bony finger directly at Zuriye.
“Slay the mganga!” he shouted.
Then, laughing maniacally, Ajoola raced away from the Bagara, who hastily cleared space for him as he passed. No one dared to risk contact with his disease-ridden body. With unbelievable speed, he ran beyond the shambas, then disappeared into the forest.
For a moment, the Bagara were left stunned and incapable of action. Only rarely did the Witch Smeller come among them. When he did, he brought discord and death – yet his were the words of Ngai ...
“Why do we wait? Does not Ajoola speak with the tongue of Ngai? Why do we wait? Let us slay the mganga ... now!”
It was Ktibi who spoke; Ktibi, the woman Mkimba had expelled from his house so that he could help Zuriye.
“Kill the mganga!”
The cry spread like a brushfire. Some of the people in the throng surged forward as though they meant to tear Zuriye apart with their bare hands. As fear fought with hatred on their faces, Mgaru pushed Zuriye behind him and pulled his dagger from its sheath.
“I will wash my blade in the blood of the first person who harms this woman,” he said grimly.
The attackers halted in the face of the bared weapon. Mgaru was the best warrior among the Bagara; few would be foolhardy enough to hurl themselves heedlessly at his blade.
“What further proof do we need that this one is a mganga?” Ktibi screamed. “She has put a spell on Mgaru so that he raises his blade against his own people!”
“She isn’t a witch; she’s a Silent Ghost!” cried Msumu, adding to the hysteria. The people shook their fists in frenzy, and many knives were drawn. But no one dared to be the first to face Mgaru.
“Quiet!” Mweyzo roared, his voice carrying above the shouts of the crowd.
“Now, listen to me ...”
Before the diop could continue, he felt a sudden tug at the sheath of his dagger. He turned swiftly, only to discover that Zuriye had taken his weapon. All the Bagara, from the most hysterical shouter in the crowd to the diop himself, fell silent as Zuriye pushed past Mgaru and strode directly to Kitibi.
She halted within arm’s length. Then she raised her hands: one empty and the other holding razor-sharp iron. In a quick movement, she slashed the blade across the palm of her open hand. Immediately, blood welled against her skin.
Contempt plain on her face, Zuriye waved her bleeding hand in the faces of her tormentors. Then she spoke, each word laced with disdain.
“Does a ghost bleed?” she demanded. “Does a witch nearly die from the bite of a jaculi? My blood flows as red as yours. And yours will flow with mine if you seek to harm me. You do not have to kill me; I’m leaving! I have no wish to remain among you.”
Zuriye stood defiantly, blood from her hand dripping into the dust. Her eyes glared hotly as she fought the dizziness beginning to assail her yet again.
“When was Ajoola ever wrong?” Ktibi demanded, though there was a tremor in her voice now as Zuriye confronted her.
“The final word is not Ajoola’s,” said Mgaru, who had resumed his position at Zuriye’s side. “It is the diop’s.”
Mgaru looked at his father, as did the rest of the Bagara. Mweyzo met his son’s gaze. Then he looked at his people ... and finally at Zuriye. He knew the decision he made now would possibly be the most important one of his life. For he hated Ajoola. Ajoola was a madman, and it angered the diop that someone like the Witch-Smeller could possess such pervasive influence over the Bagara. If he yielded to Ajoola now, Mweyzo’s own power could be permanently undermined. He knew Ajoola’s madness concealed ambition ...
But it was Mgaru’s grim gaze that steered Mweyzo toward his decision. For Mweyzo knew that if he allowed Zuriye to be killed, he would forever lose the respect of his son.
“I have decided,” the diop said. “Zuriye of Komeh will remain our guest as long as she desires to stay. Let no hand be raised against her. These are my words, not Ajoola’s. Obey them.”
Mweyzo’s pronouncement had several effects. The Bagara, though they did not fully agree with him, knew the diop’s word was final. They dispersed in muttering fragmentation, returning to their fields and other enterprises. Zuriye, smiling in gratitude, returned Mweyzo’s weapon to him. The diop did not return her smile.
Replacing his own weapon in its sheath, Mgaru asked Mkimba to minister to the slash on Zuriye’s palm. The rootman took her back into his dwelling, Mgaru following dutifully.
Ktibi, twice humiliated by the turbaned stranger, now nurtured a hatred as large as her body. She exchanged glances with her daughter, Nyimbi, whom Ktibi had hoped to see wed to Mgaru. Neither woman had failed to notice the way the diop’s son had drawn his blade to defend the stranger ...
DURING THE ENSUING days, Zuriye learned much about the Bagara. Hundreds of rains ago, their ancestors had come from the west, fleeing the depredations of the Mizungus of Atlan. Settling at the bend of the Zaikumbe, those ancestors cleared a large tract of forest for shambas. Soon, they established a regular network of trade with the people who already dwelt along the riverbanks.
Though the hippopotamus, dogs and guinea-fowl were their only domesticated beasts, the Bagara hunted extensively in the forest beyond the fields. The men of the tribe were fearless hunters, braving the menace of leopard and buffalo and forest elephant. Yet they disliked warfare,
