suddenly. My dear friend, Tilly – my new Guide, my sweet, English apothecary – has brought out this hidden urge in me. There is something about her… She is different from the others. She is more transparent. Cleaner. Like fresh rainwater caught in an old enamel cup. She is wilder. She resembles the Blue Gum: skin white like the trunk, eyes blue-grey like the leaves.
We work together, in silence. It is a great relief to me. There is no need to talk.
She has a sister. The sister is fierce – powerful. Strong as an ox. There was an old pastor, lately retired, who the sister admired (a vengeful man, full of bile, like Brother Francis – remember Brother Francis,who beat us so? After you were taken and I joined the Force Publique I had him dispatched. The act of a moment. Strange, really, to think about it now…).
Well, this pastor, a man called Horwood, came to the kitchen where I was carving last week – a figure on a cross, a nkondi. He asked me if he could look at it. He admired it for a while. It pleased him. I told him that I had yet to finish it – to pierce the chest with nails (because how else might the fetish work otherwise?).
‘The chest?! Surely just the hands?’ he said, winking. I merely laughed.
He asked if he could have it.
‘Take it, Pastor,’ I said, ‘and pray for me.’ He nodded. He took it away with him. The next thing I know he’s hung it up in the church. In the front portal – the fool! – for all the village to gawp at!
The new pastor – Reverend Paul – comes to pay me a visit in my home. He wants to confer with me about the nkondi.
‘Would it offend you terribly,’ he asks, ‘if I took it down?’
‘Mortally,’ I say, with a ferocious scowl. Then I laugh. He laughs with me, nervously, the way the English do.
(What do I care, Bro’? Eh?)
‘It’s just that Reverend Horwood hung it up without consulting me,’ he says. ‘Members of the congregation have been complaining. It’s not that they don’t like it, as such. But the church is Anglican – there are certain, unspoken rules about decoration… We tend to prefer the plain cross over the crucifix—’
‘Crucifix?’ I interrupt him, smiling. ‘But it isn’t a crucifix, Reverend Paul. It’s a nkondi.’
He stares at me, blankly.
‘A fetish,’ I say. ‘It’s the figure of a man I tortured, a man I hung on a cross. He comes to me in my dreams and he haunts me, so I made the nkondi to frighten him away, that’s all.’
‘What happened to this man?’ the priest demands.
‘Was he killed? Did he die?’
‘Oh no,’ I shrug, ‘he was cleverer than that. He confessed.’
Then I laugh again. After a long moment the pastor laughs with me. There are beads of sweat on his lip – on his brow.
‘It’s all right.’ I grin, and slap him on the shoulder. ‘Just a joke!’ I say, then I offer him a drink. To my surprise he accepts one. A whisky.
As he sits and drinks it he ponders something for a while and then he says, ‘Jesus was just a man, a mortal man, like you and me, hung and tortured on a cross…’
Then he laughs. And I laugh.
‘We all nailed him up there,’ he says, ‘every one of us.’
His eyes are suddenly full of tears.
‘A touch of water?’ I ask.
‘What?’ He blinks.
‘The whisky? A touch of water?’ I repeat.
‘God bless you,’ he says, passing me his glass. Happy Christmas, Brother.
I miss you, my Blood.
May God keep you.
May God love you.
May God forgive you, and all of us.
Edo
[letter 7a]
121 Juniper Street
Pevensey Bay
Pevensey
East Sussex
28th January, 2007
Dear Sergeant Everill,
Further to our earlier telephone call (26/01/07), I have enclosed the commissioned copy, finally complete. I’m sorry that it took me longer than I had originally estimated to turn it around, and I hope you’ll forgive the delay. As I said on the phone, I like to think that I provide SOMETHING ABOVE AND BEYOND over and above what might generally be considered ‘a standard
We work together, in silence. It is a great relief to me. There is no need to talk.
She has a sister. The sister is fierce – powerful. Strong as an ox. There was an old pastor, lately retired, who the sister admired (a vengeful man, full of bile, like Brother Francis – remember Brother Francis,who beat us so? After you were taken and I joined the Force Publique I had him dispatched. The act of a moment. Strange, really, to think about it now…).
Well, this pastor, a man called Horwood, came to the kitchen where I was carving last week – a figure on a cross, a nkondi. He asked me if he could look at it. He admired it for a while. It pleased him. I told him that I had yet to finish it – to pierce the chest with nails (because how else might the fetish work otherwise?).
‘The chest?! Surely just the hands?’ he said, winking. I merely laughed.
He asked if he could have it.
‘Take it, Pastor,’ I said, ‘and pray for me.’ He nodded. He took it away with him. The next thing I know he’s hung it up in the church. In the front portal – the fool! – for all the village to gawp at!
The new pastor – Reverend Paul – comes to pay me a visit in my home. He wants to confer with me about the nkondi.
‘Would it offend you terribly,’ he asks, ‘if I took it down?’
‘Mortally,’ I say, with a ferocious scowl. Then I laugh. He laughs with me, nervously, the way the English do.
(What do I care, Bro’? Eh?)
‘It’s just that Reverend Horwood hung it up without consulting me,’ he says. ‘Members of the congregation have been complaining. It’s not that they don’t like it, as such. But the church is Anglican – there are certain, unspoken rules about decoration… We tend to prefer the plain cross over the crucifix—’
‘Crucifix?’ I interrupt him, smiling. ‘But it isn’t a crucifix, Reverend Paul. It’s a nkondi.’
He stares at me, blankly.
‘A fetish,’ I say. ‘It’s the figure of a man I tortured, a man I hung on a cross. He comes to me in my dreams and he haunts me, so I made the nkondi to frighten him away, that’s all.’
‘What happened to this man?’ the priest demands.
‘Was he killed? Did he die?’
‘Oh no,’ I shrug, ‘he was cleverer than that. He confessed.’
Then I laugh again. After a long moment the pastor laughs with me. There are beads of sweat on his lip – on his brow.
‘It’s all right.’ I grin, and slap him on the shoulder. ‘Just a joke!’ I say, then I offer him a drink. To my surprise he accepts one. A whisky.
As he sits and drinks it he ponders something for a while and then he says, ‘Jesus was just a man, a mortal man, like you and me, hung and tortured on a cross…’
Then he laughs. And I laugh.
‘We all nailed him up there,’ he says, ‘every one of us.’
His eyes are suddenly full of tears.
‘A touch of water?’ I ask.
‘What?’ He blinks.
‘The whisky? A touch of water?’ I repeat.
‘God bless you,’ he says, passing me his glass. Happy Christmas, Brother.
I miss you, my Blood.
May God keep you.
May God love you.
May God forgive you, and all of us.
Edo
[letter 7a]
121 Juniper Street
Pevensey Bay
Pevensey
East Sussex
28th January, 2007
Dear Sergeant Everill,
Further to our earlier telephone call (26/01/07), I have enclosed the commissioned copy, finally complete. I’m sorry that it took me longer than I had originally estimated to turn it around, and I hope you’ll forgive the delay. As I said on the phone, I like to think that I provide SOMETHING ABOVE AND BEYOND over and above what might generally be considered ‘a standard
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