Dugumbe had decided that the need to stay on the move precluded his participation in the regional slave trade, thus saving me from an inconvenient crisis of conscience. Though never really dead in Africa, trafficking in human beings had in recent years proliferated to an extent that rivaled its ancient heights; and although I often heard Dugumbe describe it as an honored tradition, I chose to ignore such statements, just as I ignored all potentially disturbing aspects of the tribe's folklore, including and especially the ridiculous edicts of Dugumbe's shaman. My satisfaction with the way in which I'd removed myself from the information society that dominated the rest of the world, along with my nightly conversations with Dugumbe about the evils of said society, allowed me to turn a blind eye toward not only the petty squabbling that underlay most of the area's conflicts but also the smaller ways in which purely traditional wisdom hurt these people of whom I was daily growing fonder. It was not until the following summer that their customs and rituals would present me with any serious problem; when it finally came, however, the problem was so serious that I almost lost my life over it.
One evening, I arrived at the series of linked canvas tents that was home to Mutesa's family to find the mood uncharacteristically solemn. Mutesa was striding about with the air of a truly authoritarian patriarch, which stood in stark contrast to the usual way in which he joked and played with both his children and his wife. That good woman, Nzinga, was utterly silent — again very unusual — and while Mutesa's four sons were going through their usual evening ritual of cleaning both his and their rifles, the three girls were huddled in one of the tents. All of them were crying; the loudest was Mutesa's eldest daughter, Ama, who was just thirteen.
I asked Mutesa what evil had come into his house. "No evil, Gideon," he answered. "My daughters weep foolishly."
"And me?" Nzinga called out as she prepared the evening meal. "Do I weep because I am a fool?"
"You speak because you are disobedient!" Mutesa shouted back. "Finish making my food, woman, and then prepare your daughter! The shaman comes soon."
"The butcher comes soon," Nzinga said as she passed us on her way into the tent where her daughters were hiding. Mutesa made a move to strike her, but I grabbed his upheld arm, although I don't think that he would have followed through with the blow. Nonetheless, he was clearly a tormented man just then — and his discomfort was becoming infectious.
"Why is the shaman coming?" I asked. "Is there illness in your house? If so, I can—"
"You must not interfere, Gideon," Mutesa said firmly. "I know that you of the West do not approve — but it is Ama's time."
All was instantly, appallingly clear. I groaned once as the realization sank in and then tightened my grip on Mutesa's arm. "You must not do this," I said, quietly but with real passion. "Mutesa, I beg you—"
"And I beg you," he answered, his voice softening. "Gideon, Dugumbe has decreed it. To resist means the girl's death, and if you involve yourself, it will mean yours, too."
He pried himself from my grip, no longer looking angry but instead deeply saddened; and as he followed his wife into the next tent to comfort his daughter I stood there agape, trying to determine what in the world I could do to stop the sickening rite of passage that was about to take place. My mind, however, had been dulled by shock; and when I heard a gaggle of old maids start to collect outside the tent, chanting a lot of idiotic nonsense about a girl's entry into womanhood, I began to panic stupidly, rushing outside and screaming at them to keep quiet and go away. But they completely ignored me, making it plain that my status as an outsider made me invisible at such a ritualistic moment. All the same I kept hollering until the shaman arrived, accompanied by several armed guards who looked quite menacing. In the shaman's hand was a vicious-looking knife, and the sight of it, along with a very no-nonsense glare from the shaman, was enough to send me back into the tent, where I now found Mutesa with his arm around the shaking, sobbing Ama.
"Mutesa," I said, realizing with deep dread that there was in fact no way to stop the nightmare, "at least tell the shaman to let me prepare her. I have drugs that can dull the pain, and we must keep the knife and the wound clean."
"Gideon, you must not interfere" Mutesa once again declared. "This is not a subject for argument. It will be done as it is always done." I thought he might even weep himself when he said, "She is a female child, Gideon. The pain does not matter, only the ceremony." At his words Ama began to shriek fearsomely, and Mutesa tightened his grip on her. Ordering her to be silent, he proceeded to drag her out to the crowd that had gathered.
Ama's cries were horrible to hear even before the cutting began; but when the knife went in they became quite simply the most horrifying and unbearable sound I've ever heard. I clutched my head, thinking that I might go mad — and then a thought occurred to me. I ran to where I'd stowed my bag and withdrew the stun gun. If I could not stop the unspeakable act, I could at least ease the child's torment.
I dashed outside to a scene so revolting that it stopped me dead in my tracks. There was no special area set aside for the procedure, not even a blanket thrown on the earth — the regard in which the "female child" was held was amply displayed by the way her genitalia were being cut up in the dirt, much as one would have gelded an animal. With a sudden roar, I brought the ceremony to a halt; and when I raised my weapon the shaman, bloody knife in hand, took a step away from the girl, giving me a line of fire. Instantly I pulled the trigger, and Ama's body jerked a few inches into the air as she painlessly and mercifully lost consciousness.
"She is only asleep!" I shouted, using much of what little I knew of their language and breathing hard; then I quickly directed the weapon at the shaman's guards. "Tell the shaman that he can go on now, Mutesa," I said in English, opening the tent flap and backing inside. "And I hope that your gods will forgive you all."
CHAPTER 46
Needless to say, things were never quite the same for me in Dugumbe's camp after that evening. Oh, I argued the subject with the chief, to be sure, argued it many times on many nights. But for the most part he thought my declarations nothing more than amusing, although on a few occasions they seemed to make him quite irritated. A woman who took physical pleasure from sex, he said, was a woman who could never be controlled, who would roam from tent to tent like a whore — and he would have no whores in his camp. Furthermore, he told me that though he had enjoyed my company and appreciated my efforts on behalf of his people, I would do well to pick my battles more carefully: he could brook only so much impertinence from any man, particularly any white man, and he had no desire to make an example of me. Knowing that his veiled threat was sincere, I finally let the subject drop and elected to surreptitiously do what I could by teaching the mothers in camp how to administer analgesics and, when we could make them, opiates to their daughters before the terrible ceremony. But in truth many of those women, having endured the same torture, seemed to have no inclination to ease the suffering of even their own flesh and blood; and so the mutilations went on as before.
Little came of my use of the stun gun. I knew that the soldiers who had been at the ceremony would report to Dugumbe about it (though the shaman, not wanting to admit that anyone's powers were greater than his, would likely not follow suit); so that very night I went outside camp and drained the weapon's energy cells. When Dugumbe demanded to see the thing, I offered it to him as a gift; and when it failed to produce any effect he tossed it back, declaring that the soldiers were fools and that Ama had simply fainted from the pain. This left me with the dilemma of possessing only a weapon that would kill; and so it became necessary to watch myself carefully, to avoid arguments (which meant avoiding the shaman), and to try to concentrate on my medical duties.