Zuriye was determined to learn the ways of Bagara women. She adopted the shuka, as her gossamer trousers had been soiled irreparably on the riverbank. But she still wore her turban. Once, while bathing, she had unwound it – and the women with her had been shocked to discover that the stranger’s wooly hair was a fiery shade of crimson.
“When you become women, you weave your hair in basketwork,” Zuriye explained in reply to their questions. “When Komeh women reach maturity, we dye our hair so often that the red does not wash out.”
The “witch” talk had resurfaced then. But a few angry words from Mweyzo suppressed it. Still, Zuriye knew she was in some danger. Despite the diop’s pronouncement, she had become the cause of a schism among the Bagara. There were those who continued to believe that Ajoola had truly smelled out a mganga, and that every moment Zuriye lived brought the tribe closer to doom. Others, like Mgaru, believed a madman’s words meant nothing. In the past, such thinking would have been considered blasphemous. Then again, never before had there been a Witch-Smeller like Ajoola.
Well aware that half the Bagara wished to see her dead, Zuriye had on several occasions pressed Mweyzo to fulfill a promise he had made to send a mtumbwi upstream to the spot where she had been found by Mgaru. From there, she was certain she could find her way back to her people. Indeed, they were probably searching the length of the Zaikumbe for her by now.
But the diop always found a reason to delay. Zuriye knew why. Mgaru was with her constantly. In part, his presence was necessary, for it was possible some adherent to Ajoola might decide to kill her, despite Mweyzo’s injunction. Mgaru’s feelings for her, however, were much more than protective.
Mgaru’s attentions were not unwelcome. Zuriye felt deep gratitude and affection for him. But she had no desire to live among the Bagara. It was Komeh she longed for. If Mweyzo did not soon act on his promise to send a mtumbwi, she would take one herself ...
Such were Zuriye’s thoughts as she bathed in a shallow inlet of the Zaikumbe near a town. She had slipped away from Mgaru, for she wanted to be alone, and mute the pain of their inevitable parting.
Tiny droplets gleamed like diamonds in the flaming bush of her hair. She poured a double handful of water between her breasts. The silver paint that had highlighted her lips and nipples had long since washed away. She would have the paint reapplied when she returned to her people.
A rustle from the foliage lining the riverbank startled her. Looking up, she saw Nyimbi, daughter of Ktibi, standing on the bank. Nyimbi’s presence was not unusual, for this inlet was a favorite bathing-spot for Bagara women and girls. The foliage concealed it from unwelcome observers.
With a surly glance toward Zuriye, Nyimbi unwrapped her shuka and let it fall near Zuriye’s clothing. Zuriye did not look at her. She knew where Nyimbi stood on the question of her continued survival.
Nyimbi entered the water and waded close to Zuriye. Annoyed, Zuriye attempted to brush past the Bagara woman and leave the inlet. But Nyimbi blocked the outlander’s path.
“Let me by!” Zuriye said sharply.
Nyimbi did not move.
“It is well that you bathe so close to the shore,” Nyimbi said with an unpleasant smile. “There are deep holes further out. Why, an unwary person could drown in one of them ...”
Nyimbi’s hands shot outward, striking Zuriye painfully on her breasts and knocking her backward. As Zuriye fell, Nyimbi was upon her immediately. She used both hands to force Zuriye’s head under the surface. Zuriye struggled in blind desperation as the water of the Zaikumbe poured into her nostrils.
Then her hands struck something solid. It was one of Nyimbi’s legs. Zuriye grasped one thick ankle in both hands and pulled with all her strength. Nyimbi tottered and fell, her hands flying away from Zuriye’s head. Zuriye’s face breached the surface, and she gratefully gulped a lungful of air.
Both women gained their footing. Panting and glaring spitefully at each other, they circled like rival she-cats, water swirling around their naked thighs. Nyimbi had the physical advantage: she was taller and heavier than Zuriye, and her muscles had been strengthened by toil in the shambas. But Zuriye was lithe and quick, and there was a grace to her movements that Nyimbi could never hope to match.
Again, Nyimbi lunged at Zuriye. This time, Zuriye sidestepped, and Nyimbi flew face-first into the water. Sputtering, the Bagara struggled to rise. Then Zuriye planted one foot in the middle of Nyimbi’s broad buttocks, and shoved hard. With a tremendous splash, Nyimbi went down again.
The brief struggle had carried them closer to the bank. Appearing to concede defeat, Nyimbi stumbled out of the water. Zuriye followed.
“Had enough?” Zuriye asked.
Nyimbi reached into her crumpled shuka. When her hand came back into view, it sprouted a gleaming dagger. Hatred twisting her features, Nyimbi advanced upon the outlander.
“You don’t have a chance now, mganga,” Nyimbi spat. “After I shove your body into the water, the crocodiles will do the rest. No one will be able to deny my claim that you drowned while bathing ...”
In reply, Zuriye motioned Nyimbi forward. A cold smile curved her lips. Dagger held high, Nyimbi rushed forward like a juggernaut. Zuriye stepped lightly aside, like a dancer confronting a cow. Then she reached out and clamped her fingers on Nyimbi’s wrist. With surprising strength, she wrenched the Bagara’s arm upward, nearly dislocating it from its socket.
Shrieking in pain, Nyimbi fell to her knees and dropped the dagger. Zuriye picked up the weapon. Then she shoved Nyimbi onto her back and straddled her. She laid the point of the dagger against Nyimbi’s neck. Even though it was
