The River Doll – Tariro Ndoro

By Tariro Ndoro

They say the tears of innocent ones are like prayers that go straight to heaven and do not come back down without answers. Well, heaven probably heard eight-year-old Fara’s prayers on the day her twin brothers, along with some other bored village children, chased her to the stream. The boys carried sticks with which to beat their quarry and the other children ran after the trio, shouting and jeering with varying levels of excitement.

“Fight! Fight, fight, fight,” sang one particular troublemaker.

“Fara!” the boys yelled after her, causing even the birds in the trees to scatter and the field mice to shiver with fear. The rock rabbits and lizards scurried into the safety of the foliage, upset by the pounding of scurrying feet.

#

Fara hides in the reeds as always. Had it been planting season, the boys would have been too tired, too hungry to harass her any further, but this day has been a lazy day, and the boys are hungry for sport.

“She thinks she’s the only one in this village who knows how to swim,” says Jongito, the eldest of the twins, throwing away the rind of a guava he’s been chewing. “I’ll show her, if it’s the last thing I do!”

Fara is afraid. She trembles like the reeds she hides among.

Her heart thumps a steady staccato beat. Fara hears the sound of feet moving in her direction and she submerges one foot in the shallows. She knows that this time of year water snakes can sometimes be found here; she knows too that if her half-brothers set upon her, she’ll go home with bruises all over her body, and no one will say anything that the twins can’t laugh off.

“There, I see her by that patch,” exclaims Dodo, the younger twin by two minutes. Fara trembles, takes a deep breath, then swims to the other side.

#

This part of the river is almost stagnant. Fara swims underwater against the current, so her brothers can’t see her. It was her mother who taught her to swim like this, while her half-sisters sneered.

Fara climbs out on the far side of the river, where she finds clayey mud, and sits under a mupane tree. Across the water, Ilala, the chief’s daughter walks past and the twins follow after her. The twins are old enough now to know that girls aren’t revolting, and although marriage is nowhere near their minds, they still want to impress the girl.

“Say, Ilala, do you want to watch me catch a rabbit?” Dodo calls after her.

“Ahh, Dodo, I didn’t see you there,” Ilala says. “How are you and your brother?”

“We are well – if you are well.”

“Are you fishing in this part of the river? The fish are better upstream, you know.”

“No, we’re not fishing, we are looking for Fara. We were playing hide and seek, you see. Let us escort you to your home. Have you heard about…”

Their voices trail off, and although Fara is certain that they are gone for good, and she’s cold and hungry, she’s afraid to swim back to the other side. She begins to sculpt a doll out of the clay, talking as she does.

“Those were my brothers. You know, they can be really mean. Once they forced me into a shallow well and made me stay there for hours. If it wasn’t for one kind old man passing by, they would have left me there to die.”

It is not odd that she speaks to the doll as she works. It is her way to make dolls out of everything and speak to them. Her mother is sad enough without her adding her worries, for if her brothers are awful to her it is only because their mothers are awful to hers. They simply copy the bad example.

Soon the sun dips low into the horizon and Fara is afraid of being out alone after dark. She weighs her fears: the fear of the water snakes versus the fear of being out after dark until she remembers that further downstream the river is narrower and more shallow, and there are stepping stones to help her walk across.

She is almost home, so close she can see her mother working alone because her sister-wives can’t stand the sight of her.

Usually, the homestead is alive with activity at dusk. Girls work with their mothers to get supper ready while the boys help the young men get the cattle back into their kraals. The delicious scent of roasting meat makes Fara’s mouth water. Yet tonight, instead of the general hum of activity, everyone is standing still and staring at her. Fara looks down at her hands, her feet. She is caked in mud, despite all her efforts to clean herself in the river, but it is not the first time she’s returned home looking unruly.

It is not until her mother, Runako, calls out: “Fara, who is that you have brought with you?” that Fara realises that she has gained a shadow.

#

“Who’s your friend, Fara?” Someone else repeats the question.

One quick glance backward and Fara runs into her mother’s arms in terror.

The thing behind her looks just as she does, except it is heavy and clunky and made of clay, like the doll she had made down by the river. It is the doll she made!

Its eyes are lifeless greyish brown orbs, like the soapstone carvings that Nontrete, the famous village sculptor, makes. But soapstone carvings don’t follow people home.

The creature mimics Fara’s movements, but it is slower than her and it sways as if its body is too heavy for it to carry. Blobs of clay drop off its frame as it moves.

Fara’s heart beats so fast she thinks she’ll die right there.

It is Kamara, Fara’s stepmother, who panics first. She drops the clay pot she was holding and it breaks into shards at her feet.

“Do you see the tokoloshe Runako has made for us?” she calls out.

“She’s finally decided to kill us!” responds Nangai, who is also a wife to Fara’s father. “Aren’t you the one who always teases her, Kamara? You’ll be the first to die!”

Fara’s stepmothers speak in loud voices and upset her mother. She feels guilty for adding this burden to her mother’s shoulders.

“Don’t just stand there and stare, Nangai! She’ll kill us all! Call someone, send for help!”

Munhari, Fara’s father rushes from a neighbouring compound, attracted by the shouts and screams. He stops mid-step when he spots the doll.

“Quick! Dodo, Kono! Call the chief! Call the medicine man,” he cries, galvanising everyone into action.

By the time both the twins return with half the village in their wake, everyone who lives close enough to have heard Nangai and Kamara’s shrieks has gathered around Runako’s hut. Most of the boys are trying to look brave but their mothers are visibly shaking, and many of the toddlers are crying in fear.

By now the sky is a blue-black blanket and the stars are twinkling, the air is filled with the krtss krtss sound of the crickets. Fara and her mother stand before their hut. Fara would like to retreat inside, but the creature has stationed itself in front of the entrance, blocking her path.

“I told you that Runako was a witch. Why else did God close her womb for such a long time?” Kamara asks no one in particular.

Everyone nods in assent. Everyone except Fara and Runako, who stand as still as the creature that followed Fara home. All three of them may as well be statues.

“I tell you, I will not sleep in this compound unless something is done about that, that monstrosity!” Nangai is the first to shout above the sound of everyone’s whispers. Kamara stands behind her, egging her on.

“Since when has such evil been allowed to enter our village? I beg you; beat that Runako until she tells us what black magic this is!”

Kanyauru, an officious busybody with heroic ambitions, tries to pick the creature up, but he is unable. He finds she is heavier than granite. The other brave men of the village strike the doll with whips, sticks, and cudgels. The instruments break, but the river doll remains intact. Porani, the village strongman is summoned. His muscles ripple in his effort to move the creature, but the doll does not budge.

Finally, Shando, the village medicine man arrives. He shuffles to the front of the crowd. He stares at the river doll then nods his head, as though he can see something that everyone else cannot. The wrinkles on his face seem to furrow deeper as, with his instruments and incantations, he concentrates on the task before him. Everyone cranes their neck to watch him at work. By the time he pours the last potion onto the creature’s head, the sun is beginning to rise and the birds in the msasa trees stir, also watching the unfolding drama.

Everyone stills when the medicine man turns and faces the crowd. The gossips and the children, and even the cattle in the kraals wait expectantly.

“I have failed to cleanse this magic,” he proclaims finally, “the creature will have to stay. But if there is any trouble, it will rest on the head of Runako.”

Kamara and Nangai spit in the general direction of the doll, but other than that they can do nothing. The other would-be objectors are too tired to protest, and amble back to their own homes instead, leaving Fara and Runako alone with the river doll. However, Kamara and Nangai decide to stay in their friends’ homestead, and they take their children with them.

Fara thinks of running too, of going to some relative’s home and staying there until the scary doll has gone away, but her grandparents died long before she was born; her mother has few friends and fewer relatives.

Runako sighs and sits in the dust with her head in the hands. Fara thinks she looks like a little girl who wants to cry. She feels bad because, despite all the bad things people have said to Runako, Fara has never seen her crack like this.

“Well, are you hungry?” Runako finally asks Fara.

When Fara shakes her head, Runako nods but this does not ease the frown that has clouded her face since the doll arrived.

#

The sickness begins with the boys, the twins to be exact. Two moons after the arrival of the river doll, they begin to complain that their eyes are gritty and their throats are parched.

Fara watches on as their mother, Kamara, reminds them that it is always hot this time of the year, and that there is nothing to complain about. This doesn’t stop her from walking to the area behind Runako’s hut, where Fara and the river doll are helping Runako to winnow millet , and slapping Runako across the face.

“Whatever witchcraft you’ve concocted, Runako, I will search it out and pay you back,” she says. “You mark my words.”

Kamara always accuses Runako of witchcraft whenever her boys are sick. Fara knows Kamara wishes she was father’s first wife instead of Runako. The only reason her own mother was cast aside was because she couldn’t have children for a long time, and when the heavens finally smiled upon her, all that came was a girl. If Kamara hadn’t given birth to twin sons in her first year of marriage, she wouldn’t be as important as she is now. Fara hopes the twins die.

Soon all the children begin making pilgrimages to the river, carrying gourds, calabashes, clay pots, anything they can gather water with. They drink and drink but their thirst isn’t quenched.

Nanita, a short child of seven years, is the first to say she feels tired all the time, that her limbs are too heavy to carry her. Fara feels bad for Nanita, even though she refused to help her escape from the shallow well her half-brothers once trapped her in. Again, the medicine man is summoned to the village. Again he recites his incantations, and prescribes his potions. But in the end, he throws his hands in the air and shakes his head. He cannot divine this illness.

#

The day of reckoning comes with a cloud of dust. That is how Fara sees it — a whole horde of women walking so resolutely that the dust rises around their feet. They may as well be warriors on their way to battle, except they are wearing colourful wrappers and have only clenched fists in their hands. They gather at the clearing in the middle of Munhari’s compound in front of Runako’s hut, where they find her pounding millet outside. Fara and the river doll watch from underneath the shade of a msasa tree nearby.

A few men from the neighbouring compounds join the commotion and although the men aren’t as vocal as their wives, their anger is etched deeply on their faces. Nangai, who was absent when the rest of the women arrived, now walks toward the front of the crowd with the village medicine man in tow.

Fara is surprised by the fuss. At first, she too was afraid of the creature, but it would follow her everywhere and help her with her chores. The doll would even sit cross-legged next to Fara whenever Runako would tell folktales after supper. This unnerved her at first, but after a while as the doll began to look more like her than an overgrown mud pie, she began to speak to it more and more.

She almost jumped out of her skin when it answered her one day, speaking with a voice that sounded oddly like her own.  That’s when she realised the river doll was the only friend she had and she named it Oseja, the same way she had named the other dolls she had made. Now, no one would believe Oseja was once made of clay, at least not by looking at her.

“It is Runako! Runako has bewitched our children. Her own child runs free and plays games while our daughters lie wasting in our arms,” shouts Oga Mahaya, the worst gossip in the village and de facto general of the mob. “Beat her until she spills it all! Beat her, beat her, I say!”

“We will not suffer witchcraft,” agrees Kamara, holding her twins to herself as if that will protect them from the mysterious illness that has beset the other children of the village.

“Runako must pay for this,” says Shuriya, who was once Runako’s closest friend. Fara watches her mother flinch when she hears this. She is used to Kamara’s barbs, but Shuriya has eaten in their hut on more than one occasion.

The village women have started throwing rotten fruit and excrement at Runako, and Fara and Oseja come to her mother’s side. They do their best to hide behind Runako’s wrapper but it is of no use. Stray missiles land on them. Fara’s eyes prickle with angry tears. This is her fault. If she hadn’t made Oseja then no one would have cause to shout at her mother like this. This is worse than all the bullying she’s suffered at her brother’s hands.

Munhari, Fara’s father has heard the commotion and rushes out of his hut. He raises his hands and comes to stand between Runako and the rest of the village. He clears his throat meaningfully before speaking.

“Yes, your concerns are indeed valid, but if we harm the girl, err, the river doll, it will bring dishonour to our village. If Runako is a witch, she cannot undo her curses if she is dead. Let’s call the strongest men to guard the hut then summon the paramount chief to judge the matter.”

The crowd is not easily persuaded.

“You only say that because she is your wife,” Shuriya says. “Do you want your other children to die? It is men like you, Munhari, who allow witchcraft to enter our village.” The village medicine man interjects, “Munhari is right. If the witch is dead, she can’t reverse this illness. We must find another way.”

One scoundrel throws cow dung at Munhari. The missile is swift but inaccurate, landing on the wall of Runako’s hut instead.

“Go inside and wait for me, my children,” Runako whispers to Fara and Oseja.

Silently, the two girls walk into the hut. Fara sits in the darkest part of the hut, her back against the wall, while Oseja sits near the door, watching the unfolding events. Fara can’t see the people outside but she can hear their angry voices as she drifts into a fitful sleep.

#

The next morning is unbearably still, unbearably silent. By the time Fara rises, the sun has travelled far enough in the sky for it to be a hot day. She feels thirsty and weak, then remembers she didn’t have time to eat or drink before falling asleep.

Blood curdles in her stomach as she recalls the shouts from the night before. Some people’s cruelty has no boundaries.

“If Shando is not strong enough to cure our children, he doesn’t deserve to be our medicine man. We must find another,” she remembers Kamara saying.

“Surely, there are men who are not cowards in this kingdom. Was it not Shando who failed us? If he fails again, we shall banish him along with that witch,” Shuriya said.

“Banishment is mercy. Who is to say they won’t bewitch us from wherever they settle?” Oga Mahaya asked. “We must burn them, all three: mother, child, and tokoloshe!”

“Yes!” shouted some people in the crowd but others argued it was too drastic, too cruel. By the time Fara fell asleep, no clear decision had been made.

Fara sits up and notices Oseja is still sitting by the door and looking out toward the outside world. The side of her face that Fara can see is radiant. She looks so pretty that if Fara didn’t know she had been a doll before she would never have guessed it now.

“Where’s Mama?” Fara asks.

Oseja shrugs without turning back to face Fara.

Fara walks toward the door and braces herself for angry villagers throwing all sorts of objects at them and saying horrible things about her mother.  The scene she sees instead makes her blood run cold.

The strong men set to guard the front of the hut have turned to clay, like Oseja when she first left the river. Kamara has turned to stone, her hand frozen in the process of throwing an overripe zhanje toward the hut. The zhanje is still ripe and green bottle flies buzz around it. Oga Mahiya’s body is also frozen but her nose is still fleshy and brown and the whites of her eyes move around in anger and accusation. Fara looks back at Oseja and a smile passes between them.

Fara runs through the crowd of frozen people and finds the statues that used to be her brothers. They are completely solidified and she feels even gladder. All the mean people who said cruel words to her mother and her are gone!

“Mama! Mama,” Fara calls, eager to tell her mother the good news, but Runako is nowhere to be found. Again she weaves through the sea of frozen people, taking care not to bump into them lest they fall on her.

She finds her mother behind her father’s hut. Runako and Munhari stand together, holding hands, but when Fara looks closely she realises that their legs have ossified and their faces are ashy.

Fara’s heart pounds in her chest.

“Oseja,” she calls out, “Oseja! What have you done?”

Although she doesn’t hear the river doll’s footsteps, Fara knows she is right there behind her.

The river doll cocks her head to the side. “You want me to save Mama?” she asks.

Fara nods her head vigorously, not taking care to wipe the tears that roll down her face.

“But I will have to turn you,” the doll says, and suddenly Fara has a feeling that Oseja is older than she appears to be.

Fara looks at her mother, who has been laughed at by Munhari’s other wives and never said a word back to them.

“Take me instead,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

Fara nods her head. Her legs begin to feel heavier and her throat is so dry she thinks she’ll die. Fara wants to tell Oseja to stop but then she looks at her mother and reminds herself that big girls aren’t selfish. The last thing she remembers is a fat drop of rain landing between her eyes. She wants to wipe it away but her hands have turned to stone.

#

When she wakes, it is like one of those days when she’s gone to bed feeling tired and awoken with every muscle feeling rested. There is no thirst and no pain. She is in a clearing in the forest, a place she almost recognises but doesn’t remember visiting.

“You’re awake!” Oseja cries happily and the events of the past days rush back to Fara. A cold wave of panic hits her.

“You were supposed to save Mama instead of me! You promised.”

Yet the river doll, now fully human, simply giggles and grabs Fara’s hand.

“Come with me,” she says. She drags Fara as she runs along, weaving through the trees, until they stop at a different clearing. This one is larger and filled with music. Fara sees many people gathered, laughing and happy. People she has never seen before. Oseja drags her into the crowd and points at a beautiful woman in a red wrapper.

“Mama!” Fara cries but Runako doesn’t turn toward her. A younger version of Fara’s father appears beside Runako and embraces her. If Runako looks prettier than she did before, then Munhari looks younger than ever. It is as though many cares have been taken from their shoulders and they are happy again. Fara has never felt this elated.

“Yes, that’s Mama but she can’t hear you.”

“But how?” Fara interjects.

“Your parents were willing to lay down their lives for you and you would lay down your life for them. You were the only selfless ones in the village. Everyone else remained a stone.

“Come,” Oseja says, taking her hand again. “This is a happy place for grownups. We are going somewhere different, where only children can enter.”

Fara is afraid of the unknown but she knows she must be brave, and more importantly, she knows that is ready for whatever lies ahead.