some kind of fetish, some animal spirit to be worshipped? Sibilla’s suspicion grew when they reached the village, a cluster of mouldy thatched roofs held up by wooden poles, bundled goods here and there, ready to be transported.
Enela cleared their way through the throng, speaking in Tonga, a heavy language that freighted the air with ceremony. The women, naked but for their string skirts, averted their eyes but the men lay on the ground and rolled side to side, clapping their hands against their thighs as a sign of respect. Sibilla longed to ask them to get up – the rains had already kneaded the ground to red dough – but she refrained, knowing they’d find it condescending.
A plank was laid over the mud for her to enter one of the huts. An old native man in Western clothes was sitting on a wooden stool – this must be Enela’s uncle. He beamed as Sibilla approached but fumbled over her hand and she realised that he could not see – his eyes had the blueish tinge that Nonna Giovanna’s used to have. Sibilla sat on a stool and Enela introduced her as the wife of the bwana at Kariba. Only then did Sibilla understand that she was here not as a demi-god but because of her husband. The Tonga wanted her to serve as an emissary for the suicidal elders. Enela bowed and crouched out of the hut backwards.
Sibilla let her shawl fall away with relief – it was hot and fetid in here. The uncle grinned at her. He had no teeth, but she couldn’t tell if this was age, health or Tonga custom – many of the women outside were also missing their front teeth. Rain rustled the thatch roof. A mosquito looped ringingly round. Not for the first time, Sibilla was glad for the protective net of her hair.
‘My name is Sibilla Gavuzzi,’ she began.
‘Mmmmm!’ The old man clapped and smiled. ‘Me. I am N’gulube.’
* * *
‘They shot them,’ Smith said after a moment. ‘Eight Tonga men died on my watch.’
Federico looked at him, puzzled. ‘Sì, but the Tonga declared war against your queen!’
‘War?’ Smith laughed bitterly. ‘The villagers beat drums and threw rocks. They nailed misspelt manifestos to trees. They marched up and down in bare feet, imitating our police squadron, carrying spears on their shoulders as we carry rifles. Do you know how many spears were thrown? Hundreds! Not one policeman was injured. But eight bullets found their mark in the civilians.’ Smith stood, put his hands in his pockets, and strolled over to the window. ‘I dare say, Colonel, it was quite like Cain and Abel. Brothers murdering brothers.’
Federico started, then gave a forced chuckle. ‘You think the blacks are our brothers?’
Smith turned to frown at him. ‘No. The policemen shooting them were natives too.’
‘Ah.’ Federico tried to divert the topic from fratricide. ‘Well, if you think a demonstration of the dam will help—’ He was interrupted by the sound of a horn. It came in deafening blasts over the racket of construction and rain. Federico jumped up from his desk and ran to the window.
‘The high-water signal!’ he shouted over the din. ‘It’s too soon!’
But Smith was staring at him, shouting something incomprehensible.
‘What?!’
‘I thought!’ the Scotsman shouted, pointing down at Federico’s leg. ‘You had! A limp!’
Federico shrugged, but panic was hammering through his body. The horns were still blasting. There was nothing to see out there – the floods had not yet come – but to distract Smith, he gestured out the window. And as if he had conjured her, there, suddenly, was his wife.
Sibilla was standing on the edge of the gorge, on a rocky outcropping. There was a crowd of people around her, natives, it looked like, some wearing traditional Tonga dress, others in Western clothes. Smith saw the villagers too – he put his hand to the glass as if out of fatherly concern. But Sibilla was neither their captive nor their leader. She simply stood among them in the static of the rain, her wet black hair encasing her, the Zambezi raising its red hackles behind her. Then the wind came and it started to roil.
We meet you wherever there’s standing water. You like to treat us like beasts of the wild but civilisation suits us fine. A puddle, a tree hole or a lake works well; so does a tyre, a gutter, a pipe. You see, whenever you collect water – stand it in jars or gutter your