The Boy Who Stole the Leopard's Spots Read online

  The Boy Who Stole the Leopard’s Spots

  Tamar Myers

  Dedication

  For Ndeke Daniel, tuasakidila—“we laugh and we cry.”

  Notes to the Reader

  Unlike in Indo-European languages, the plural forms of words in Bantu languages rely on changing prefixes. Thus the words for the name of a tribe, a single member of the tribe, and the tribe’s language will all have different prefixes, although the suffixes will remain constant.

  Baluba—name of Cripple’s tribe

  Muluba—a member of the Baluba tribe, e.g., Cripple

  Tshiluba—the language spoken by the Baluba tribe (Note: “Tshiluba” was the spelling in 1958; it is sometimes spelled “Chiluba” today.)

  Bapende—of the twins’ tribe

  Mupende—a member of the twins’ tribe

  Kipende—the language spoken by the twins’ tribe

  Almost all of the African words used in this novel are of Tshiluba origin, since that was the predominant trade language for Kasai Province, where the book is set. Because life is so tenuous in this part of Africa, in Tshiluba where we might say “hello,” they would say “life to you.” A distinction is made between the singular and plural forms of “you.” Thus when one is speaking to an individual, the greeting is: muoyo webe. When addressing more than one person, one says: muoyo wenu. Both kah and aiyee have no direct translation, as they were merely expressions of surprise and dismay. As such, it is also possible that they were geographically restricted in their use.

  This is a work of fiction and, as such, none of the characters are real people. However, many of the incidents are based on my childhood memories. I did, in fact, live among the Baluba, Bashilele, and Bapende peoples, from birth to almost the age of sixteen.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Notes to the Reader

  Prologue

  Chapter 1:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 2:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 3:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 4:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 5:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 6:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 7:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 8:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 9:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 10:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 11:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 12:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 13:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 14:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 15:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 16:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 17:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 18:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 19:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 20:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 21:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935–1942

  Chapter 22:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 23:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 24:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 25:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 26:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 27:

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chapter 28:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 29:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 30:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 31:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 32:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 33:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 34:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 35:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Chapter 36:

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Acknowledgments

  P.S.: Insights, Interviews & More . . .

  About the author

  About the book

  Read on

  Also by Tamar Myers

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  It was much cooler in the canyon that lay in front of, and below, the village. Over centuries the crystal clear spring had carved itself a bed two hundred meters lower than the surrounding savannah. Erosion had widened this space enough to accommodate a forest with trees large enough to require buttress roots, their crowns soaring up to neck-craning heights. It was a place of magic, awe, and, of course, much superstition. Women had to go there to draw water, and men to cut the leaves of raffia palms with which to thatch their huts, but no one stayed after dark. Except the chief. One night the chief stayed in the canyon to kill a leopard that had been terrorizing his village. This is the story of what happened, and how it came to be that a boy could steal a leopard’s spots, and what that would mean for that boy when he grew into a man.

  This was no ordinary leopard, to be sure, but to understand that, one must first understand that the lion is not the king of the beasts; it is the leopard. Lions thrive mostly on the savannahs, because they are bulky creatures, unsuited for slipping silently between, and up, trees. Mature lions—that is to say, the males—have manes that can catch on deep brush. It is true that a lion is larger and heavier than a leopard, and thus can take down heavier prey. (However, the most dangerous of all the creatures on land is mankind, and an unarmed man is no match for a healthy leopard.) At any rate, the leopard has proven to be far more adaptable and its distribution far greater that of the lion, inhabiting both forest and plain, and the dense jungle in between. That is why a chief wears a leopard skin, and nothing else will do.

  But again, this was no ordinary leopard. Its first act of terror was to snatch a toddler who had strayed too close to the tall grass that encircled the village. The sun was not yet low in the sky when it happened. The child’s mother described an animal of mythic proportions with paws the size of a man’s head. Paw marks discovered in a nearby patch of sand indicated that the woman had not exaggerated. They also displayed signs of an extra toe on the forepaws.

  That night the leopard returned and set about dispatching every single dog in the village; not one was spared. This was a tragedy of the gravest sort, for the men in the village were hunters and they relied on their dogs to help feed their families. To them a good hunting dog was worth more than a wife.

  The villagers mourned the death of their dogs as one would mourn the death of a relative. They shrieked, they wailed, they threw dust in the air, but then, being a practical people, they picked up the torn carcasses and stewed them in palm oil along with hot chilies to eat with the evening’s musa. One did not waste protein in the Belgian Congo, Africa, of 1927.

  After that, the villagers stayed close to their huts, and for a few days and nights nothing untoward happened. And given that the people had done their best to round up their chickens, ducks, and goats and house them indoors, even their livestock went unscathed. But then gradually the villagers relaxed their guard, and one sun-drenched morning the oh-so-patient and very clever cat slipped unnoticed through the shadows of their huts and seized upon a woman as she scraped at manioc roots. Neither leopard nor woman emitted a sound
, and the only proof that the leopard had been there was the woman’s absence, and the steaming pile of her entrails following her evisceration.

  “This is no real leopard,” the witch doctor cried. “This is the spirit of the man known as Never Stops Crying, he who took his own life by hanging. He has returned to haunt us. Truly, truly, I say this as one speaking with authority; we are being punished for the way we treated him when he was alive.”

  “Aiyee!” It was a male who raised his voice to keen like a woman, for that showed the intensity of his distress.

  Several people laughed, at which point the witch doctor shook his staff in an angry fashion. “This man has a right to be afraid. You should all be afraid, for I witnessed all of you treating Never Stops Crying shamefully. All of you, that is, except for the chief.”

  “Yes,” they chorused, “except for our beloved chief.”

  “This means,” said the witch doctor, “that our chief is the only one here who stands even a chance of slipping down into the forest unseen and slaying this monstrous leopard.”

  “Ka!” the chief said. “What about you? Do you not have magic at your disposal?”

  The witch doctor shook his head vehemently, causing the long black-and-white monkey fur on his headdress to float in the breeze. “Even I tormented Never Stops Crying as a youth, calling him a girl-boy, and telling him that he was incapable of fathering a child. If I were to descend into the canyon where the leopard lives, not only would he kill me, but most probably his spirit would then forsake the leopard guise and crawl into my body. Then I would return to the village with this evil leopard’s spirit inside me, which none of you would see, and I would begin to unleash horrible curses on all of you with my knowledge of sorcery.”

  “Not so,” the man called Stubborn as Head Lice called in a loud voice. “Now that you have warned us, we will simply kill you.”

  “Eh! Eh!” the people chorused. Yes, yes!

  “Simpleton,” the witch doctor snarled. “You cannot kill a leopard-man. Even a white man’s gun cannot kill such a creature.”

  No one laughed then. “I see,” said the chief. “I suppose then that it is up to me to venture down into the forest to kill this giant beast. Tell me, how do you propose that I do that? With my bow and arrows?”

  No one laughed.

  “Did you not make a copy of the white man’s musket for yourself after you were released from conscription?”

  “Yes,” the chief said. “However, it will only shoot one bullet, and then it takes much time to reload.”

  “I will put a spell on that bullet,” the witch doctor said, “so that it will find its mark. But you must aim for the left eye.”

  “Or perhaps you will get lucky,” the village fool said, “and the leopard will kill and eat you while you are still walking through the elephant grass that lies between here and the canyon’s edge.”

  The chief did not reply to that; instead he returned to his compound where he said his good-byes to his six wives. Although it was not customary at this time and place for a man to make a show of affection to a woman—even one to whom he was wed—the chief lingered when delivering his parting words to his oldest wife. This was the woman he had married first, and who after twenty long dry seasons, and forty short wet seasons, had yet to bear him a child—although any day that would no longer hold true. As of late, Born Crouching’s womb had taken on the shape of a musa ball, and her breasts rested atop this sphere like large black papayas. Had it not been for the man-eating leopard, the chief would have taken his first wife into the tall grass for lovemaking, not to bid her farewell.

  It has been said that only a man who knows fear and faces it can be called “brave.” The chief of this Bapende village was terrified of following the narrowing path, ever descending, through the head-high grass that led to the canyon’s rim. Continuing down the steep path that hugged the canyon wall, leaving him utterly exposed, caused his gut to cramp. When at last he reached the place where the forest rose up to meet him, he had so much nervous sweat pouring into his eyes that he could no longer see. To compound his troubles, he’d been leading a large female goat who was herself frightened out of what little wits she possessed. Not only did she bleat incessantly, but along the most treacherous part of the trail, she repeatedly butted the chief from behind. Finally, unable to get him out of her way, she placed her front hooves on his shoulders and shuffled behind him on her hind feet like a deranged human being. Had there been another option, he would have killed her as soon as the trail widened, and cooked her up for supper.

  Thankfully, there was no other option. The chief kept walking until he came to a tree of the type known as Tshimaya, which has a coarse grain. This particular specimen was about only thirty meters tall—no more—but it did not begin to branch until a point at least six meters above the ground. The chief scanned the canopy to see if the leopard might already be hiding in there. When he was finally satisfied this was not the case, he tied the goat securely to a nearby shrub. Then using the point of his machete, he made a small wound in her left flank so that she should bleed, but only a small amount.

  “I am sorry, friend,” he said. Then after tying his ankles together, he looped a rope around his waist and the Tshimaya tree and climbed up to first branch. There he hurriedly fashioned a sling of sorts from some lianas, in order that he might sit while he safely discharged his homemade musket. Guns such as these were capable of knocking a man flat on his backside, if he was not careful.

  Meanwhile the goat continued bleating and thrashing in the bushes. The chief, who was a kind man, cursed the animal softly. Of course he would do his best to save the stupid beast from the big cat, although that was extremely unlikely—suddenly there it was! It was the largest leopard that the chief had ever seen. At the shoulder it stood a palm’s width taller than any other, and from nose to tail tip, it was a third again as long as any he had ever seen.

  But there was something else about it too, something that he couldn’t place until later when he had time to think. It was this: the leopard with the extra toes on both front paws was sick. Only a crazed, diseased animal would place itself so directly in harm’s way so many times. This leopard was not in possession of magic. Instead, it had lost the instinct to fear man.

  “Look at me, nkashama,” the chief commanded. “Look up here.”

  The leopard looked. The chief squeezed off one shot, which passed through the leopard’s left eye—an amber jewel of an eye—and the metal slug exploded in its brain. The leopard appeared to shrink like a gourd from the drought. It was a shot chosen because of the opportunity presented and not because of anything the witch doctor had said.

  Satisfied that the great beast was dead, the chief untied himself and climbed calmly down from the tree. By this point the goat had fainted from fear, as goats are sometimes prone to do, so the chief gave it a sound kick, which brought it back to life with a bleat. Putting his machete to good use again, the chief hacked off one of the leopard’s front paws. After that he used a smaller knife to skin the animal. He worked quickly, but with great difficulty, because the sun was beginning to dip below the canyon walls, and at the level of the forest floor it was already so dark that the fireflies had emerged. And so had the hyenas.

  The chief persevered, and when he was done, he dragged the heavy pelt, and the confused and reluctant goat, back up the trail a short way to where there was a small cave high up on a rock face. This was a place to which no man dared to go, on account of its association with snakes. With adrenaline powering both his physical and emotional states, the chief managed to lift the leopard skin above his head and cram it far enough into the recess so that it would not be seen by the casual observer, not even in broad daylight. Then the chief caught the rope tied to his goat and made haste to return to his village.

  While they were still a long ways off, the chief’s ears were assaulted by the wails of keening women. Someone
in the village had died. Or perhaps even some woman had given birth to twins—although only two women were anywhere close to that stage. The chief released the goat and began to run. The goat, eager to be back within the safe confines of the village, needed no encouragement to do likewise. When the chief neared the hut of his first wife and saw the cluster of women outside, and others lying on the ground covering themselves with dirt, his temper knew no bounds.

  “Get away, you stupid fools!” he bellowed. “What is the matter that you should behave thus?”

  It was then that the witch doctor emerged from the hut, parting the women like clumps of elephant grass. “Your wife has invited evil spirits to inhabit her womb,” he said. The witch doctor held aloft his staff, on which was mounted a monkey skull, and also from which hung several small, stone-filled gourds, and a few guinea feathers. “She has given birth to demon twins—boys, both of them. I would have already begun the process of punishing the demon, but out of respect to you, we have waited until you returned from your fruitless attempt to kill the leopard with the extra claws.”

  As tired as he was, the great chief of the Bapende people raised himself to his full regal height. In one hand he held his homemade musket, but he in the other he gripped a cord of leather, from which hung a blood-soaked object: the leopard’s front paw. Even drenched, this paw was of a size never before seen. The chief held it aloft for all to see.

  “E,” he said, in a loud voice for all to hear. “It is true that I did not kill the leopard, but listen closely, my people, and believe me when I tell you that it was one of my twin sons who killed the giant beast. Come look at the paw, which was presented to me by the leopard himself before his spirit was vanquished into the netherworld.”