Chapter 1

The wind carried the threat of rain, making an already hot day even hotter. The dust that rose thick and heavy carried the hoarse voices of the traders, shouting out their wares. It was the second morning of the market day at Osai Village. All three days after the appearance of a new moon were called “the market day.” For three days, traders from far and wide lined the clearing to the south of the village with their goods. The rain would no doubt slow things down, but wouldn’t bring them to a halt. Sensing the danger, though, the traders shouted all the louder.

“Chicken! Chicken! Two cowries for a chicken.”

“Beads! Beads!”

“Ivory. Get your ivory pendants here.”

They all remained within their stalls, and none dared peddle up and down the narrow paths between. The master of the market, Karo, was a firm man. He fined fifty cowries – a heavy price – to any trader who would sell beyond the limits of their shed.

The herbalists’ stalls were bunched close to one edge of the market, far from the livestock. That had been Ssebe’s idea. He had insisted on it for years. He proved that keeping herbs and livestock side-by-side caused more sickness. Only after bringing the matter to the attention of the chief, Lwamo, had Karo conceded. It was the first time that such respect had been given to a mere boy of fourteen. Everyone wondered what he would turn out to be. Omuse, the Chief Herbalist of Osai village, called him his star pupil. The other apprentice healers saw why as they stood beside him that day at the market. Ssebe never needed to call for customers. They pressed around his stall, sampling his root bark, tree bark, dried leaves, stems, flowers, seeds, gums, and resins. Some were tied into little pouches from bits of bark cloth and twine—for cases like chronic headaches or fever. The harder cases needed a minute or two of the apprentice healer’s ear, before he would spin into action. In an instant, his herb stained fingers would choose the correct plants from his display. His calloused hands would pound them together with his pestle and mortar. With deft movements, he’d tip the mixture into a pouch or a gourd, explain the dosage to the customer, and move to the next one. The customers were never there for themselves. The healer’s craft was reserved for those too sick to walk and too ill to be cured with home remedies. Ssebe had learned to be sparing with his words. It was best to get to the point. Lengthy explanations meant customers had more to remember. That created room for error. Errors could mean death. Ssebe had once lost a patient like that. He swore it would never happen again.

Whenever business lulled, he turned to Zola and Nzuzi, his fellow apprentices, and explained everything to them. They respected how generous he was with his knowledge. Zola, a year younger than Ssebe but much more competitive, listened with a fixed frown. Nzuzi, always jovial, simply smiled.

That morning was particularly busy. It barely gave Ssebe an opportunity to talk much with his peers. The queue of customers had been endless. He was about to take a break when a young woman pushed her way before him. She was wearing an ankle length wrap. Another bound around her chest held a sleeping baby.

“Please help me. My child has been crying for many days. At night, she cannot sleep. She makes…” The lady hesitated, then leaned in. “She makes a rasping noise. I think it’s nkosila.”

Ssebe nodded. The whooping cough was thought to be caused by mothers who let their children get cold on the chilly nights. No mother would openly admit that her child had it, and they would often seek treatment in secret. Ssebe didn’t recognize this woman. He suspected she came from the neighboring village.

“Please,” she said. “I’ll pay you however much you want.”

“Let me see the child.”

She unwrapped the cloth from around her and eased the sleeping child into her arms. Ssebe leaned in, and sniffed. Diagnosing illnesses by smell was something that he couldn’t teach anyone.

The child’s breathing was shallow, and smelled slightly stale. Ssebe frowned.

“She is having trouble breathing even when sleeping peacefully,” he said. “How long has she been like this?”

“This is the fifth day now.”

“We need her to recover her strength. Nkosila kills because of exhaustion. If we can get her to sleep well for the next few nights, then she will have a chance.” He turned to Nzuzi, who peered at him with arched eyebrows.

“Pack her a handful of kimbwa flowers.” Nzuzi poked around the dried flowers at the edge of the herbs display, and made a quick selection from the faded pink blossoms.

“Steep the flowers in your milk,” Ssebe continued, “and feed her from a calabash. That will open up her chest at night. Make sure you warm the milk a bit.”

The woman nodded as Nzuzi wrapped the flowers in a banana leaf and tied it with a length of cord.

“Zola, grind some mbidi for me.” The frowning apprentice set to work, as Ssebe hunted around for a leather pouch. “The mbidi is what will actually cure the nkosila. Pour some in some boiling water, and make the baby inhale the steam. Repeat it three times each day. In the morning, at noon and at night. The kimbwa should help her inhale it properly.” He handed a small leather pouch to Zola, who poured the fine powder out of his little stone mortar into it. Ssebe handed it to the mother, who reached to touch his feet but Ssebe stepped back quickly.

“No need for any of that, please. I am not yet an elder.”

“The ancestors bless you my son. How much will that be.” She reached into her bosom and pulled out a pouch.

“Only one cowrie. The mbidi is hard to find. The rest you can find anywhere, if you know where to look.”

Zola let out a gasp of surprise, but said nothing. The woman gave Ssebe a cowrie, bowed again, then left.

“Ssebe, Omuse is going to kill us,” Zola said, when she was out of earshot. “You know that mbidi costs at least three cowries for a palmful.”

“Who climbs up the mountain to find it? Him or me?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Zola said. “Rules are rules.”

“The main rule that guides us is that we help people. You saw that mother. Did you want her to spend her last cowries on us, or on buying food for her sick child?”

Zola started to respond, but Nzuzi interrupted them both.

“I think you’re both forgetting the most important thing,” he said, pointing at the sky.

“What? The rain?” Ssebe asked.

“No. Look at the sun. It’s midday. Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else right now?”

“Oh no! I completely forgot.” He tore the raffia apron from around his waist and shoved it into Zola’s hands.

“Zola. You’re in charge now. If anyone comes asking for something that you’re not sure about, send them home. Don’t kill them, okay?”

“You know Omuse hates home visits.”

“I know, but I’ll handle both him and them. I will see you back home.”

With that, he took off at a sprint down the path back towards the heart of the village. Nzuzi and Zola watched the trees lining the path swallow him up.

“What kind of person forgets that he has an appointment with the uncles of his potential bride?” Nzuzi asked.

“Ssebe,” Zola said.

Ssebe tore down the well-known path. It wound through the gigantic trees around Osai village. These cooled the air and brought the rain that nourished the crops. The scattered farms were green with sprouting sorghum, cassava and beans.

The rains had come right on time, he thought, even as the first giant drop pelted his face. The path went straight through the heart of Osai. He ran past the swept ground near chief Lwamo’s compound. It stood right in the middle of the village. Several other homesteads nestled around it. The musky scent of the cooking fires reminded him of the time of day. He picked up the pace, scattering the goats and fowls that blocked his path. Little ones playing with their clay balls and singing songs to the rain watched him race by. So did the elders seated in the shade of their huts.

Omuse stood waiting at the low reed fence that bounded his homestead. He looked up at the grey sky, even as a drop of rain landed on his bald pate.

“It’s a good omen,” he muttered to himself. “The boy is going to need all the luck he can get if he’s starting off like this.”

Almost sixty years of age, Omuse was still strong. His thick arms rested around his broad middle, and he stared down the path through heavy-browed eyes. He didn’t do much walking anymore, and relied on his apprentices to gather all the herbs that he needed. His star apprentice rounded a bend at that moment and came running up, panting for breath.

“I was about to come and find you myself.”

“Where is Pokoi?” Ssebe asked.

“Right there,” Omuse nodded down the road. A small boy came running down the same path that Ssebe had used. Omuse’s last-born hopped from one leg onto the other.

“They are here. They’ve just entered the edge of the village.”

“How many?” Omuse asked.

“Three old men.”

“Humph. They’re coming in full force. Go and get dressed,” he ordered Ssebe. Ssebe took in Omuse’s multicoloured mbongo wrapper. It was the one that he reserved for special occasions. And to make it even more special, he had added an extra length that he had thrown across one shoulder.

“I’ll put mine on,” he said. He took off running towards the apprentice’s hut. It stood beside the entrance of Omuse’s compound.

“Ssebe,” Omuse called out after him. “Remember, speak when spoken to. I don’t want you to..”

“Yes, father,” he called back, before Omuse had finished. He sped through the swept-earth courtyard and dived into the little mud-walled hut. That was where he lived with the other apprentices. Omuse shook his head, and made his way slowly into the grass-thatched, mud-walled main house. White smoke rose from the kitchen hut beside it. All his three wives were preparing a meal for the visitors. He cast a quick glance at the small separate hut close to the door of his. That was where he stored his stock of herbs. Not the most precious ones. Those he kept inside the main house, under his careful watch and far from any thieving hands. Before entering his hut – it would never do for the visitors to find him standing at the entrance – he cast one last glance across his homestead. Everything was spick and span, and looked luxurious, clean and comfortable. A homestead befitting the head herbalist of the village of Osai. A place worthy of the master and holder of the bronze mortar.

Ssebe ducked into the hut, and headed for the water pot sitting at one edge. He dipped a gourd into it, then sped out again, and poured the water over his head, his face and his armpits. He hoped the cool water would stem the sweat that he had worked up as he sped on his way home. The rain would only make the weather more humid, but maybe it would mask the sweat, he thought with a wry smile. He ducked back into the hut, and dried himself with a soft sheep fleece.

Then he rifled through his few belongings, looking for his fine raffia wrapper. Gifted to him by Mabinda, Omuse’s second wife, he only wore it on days of festivals and dances. These were quite few, and so, he rarely had to take it out of the cowhide wrap where he kept it.

“Nlemba,” he said aloud. “Where did Zola keep it?” His fellow apprentice had asked him for some of the aromatic leaves that the young men would use as perfume and that the old men would mock them about. He found the leaves next to Zola’s sleeping mat. He grabbed up a handful of them, crushed them between his palms, and breathed in their sharp clove and camphor smell. Then he rubbed them liberally on his neck, chest and armpits, and wound the fine raffia wrapper around his waist.

Pokoi appeared at the door of the hut, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other.

“They’re here. They’re here.” Then he ran off again just as suddenly as he had appeared.