Free A Girl Named Disaster by Nancy Farmer

school and borrowed money from the nuns—told them it was for his wife. He went to Mtoroshanga to work in a chrome mine.”
    So much for thinking her father would return to arrange a marriage for her! Nhamo clenched her teeth to keep from crying out loud. Her mother had had no roora paid for her. She was one of those women Vatete meant who wasn’t even worth a mangy goat. Everyone in the village had known about it except her. Nhamo wanted to tear out her hair with shame. She crouched next to Grandmother’s stool, hugging her stomach.
    “ Va-Ambuya , we were so worried about you,” came Uncle Kufa’s voice. Nhamo squinted at the market area in front of the trading post. She could just make out his figure in the shadows, and that of Aunt Chipo beside him.
    “We thought you had fallen into the stream,” Aunt Chipo called.
    “As if I would do such a foolish thing,” Grandmother said. She rose unsteadily, and Nhamo rushed to support her. “Thank you, my friend,” she told the Portuguese trader, clapping her hands respectfully.
    “You always welcome, Va-ambuya. You got sense in that old head. Not like these buggers.” The trader scowled at the beer drinkers.
    “ Now can we have the radio?” someone called plaintively.
    Grandmother leaned heavily on Nhamo as they made their way back to camp. “You—you’ve been drinking,” murmured Aunt Chipo.
    “What of it?” Ambuya said belligerently.
    When they were well away from the trading post, Uncle Kufa said quietly, “I thought we agreed never to talk about Runako’s husband.”
    “Am I to fill my mouth with clay? Am I to be lectured by one who was wetting his loincloth when I was out buying cattle for my family?”
    “Mother…,” faltered Aunt Chipo.
    “Yes! I am your mother, and you would do well to remember it!”
    No one said anything for a while as they felt their wayalong the dark trail. Nhamo was too disturbed to pay much attention, but gradually she began to sense that something was very wrong. It wasn’t common for women to drink, of course, but it wasn’t unheard of. Grandmother had always been independent. She smoked a pipe. She sometimes sat in the men’s dare. She maintained far more control of her wealth and affairs than any woman Nhamo knew. That was Grandmother, and no one expected her to behave any differently. Uncle Kufa and Aunt Chipo were too quiet, however. Nhamo sensed a current of disapproval; for once it wasn’t directed at her.
    “There’s nothing wrong with visiting people,” Ambuya said suddenly.
    “You don’t know who was in that crowd,” Uncle Kufa replied in a tight voice that told Nhamo he was struggling not to get angry.
    Grandmother thought for a moment. “The whole business was laid to rest years ago.”
    “Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t.”
    More silence. More unspoken disapproval.
    Nhamo couldn’t make sense out of the argument, but she knew better than to ask questions. When they at last arrived in camp, Nhamo helped Grandmother to bed. Then she presented herself at the makeshift cooking area to clean dishes. Her mind was whirling with what had happened. She barely heard the other girls’ voices, and as soon as possible she stretched out on a sleeping mat. She pretended not to notice when Masvita lay down beside her.
    Father was a murderer. He ran away before he could be punished, and that meant Goré Mtoko’s family hadn’t got revenge on him. A crime like that cried out for punishment. Nhamo remembered Ambuya telling a story about a man who murdered his wife in Zimbabwe. He was sent to a whiteman’s prison. That was all very well, Grandmother said, but everyone knew the wife’s spirit wouldn’t be satisfied. When the murderer was finally set free, he began to act very strangely. He dressed in women’s clothes and spoke in a high-pitched voice. He shouted at his sisters and said, “Why did yourbrother kill me?” Then everyone knew he was possessed by the spirit of the dead wife. He wandered around,