The Child

The Child

Sister Maria Theresa put down her pen.

She pulled herself out of her chair and hobbled gingerly to her weather beaten door. She eased herself down to the floor, her knees cracking as she bent. She picked up a scrap of paper that had just been pushed under the door.

Unscrambling the tatty note she saw two words had been written onto it in shaky, childish writing:

“Help Mariella.”

Grabbing her walking stick and limping across the room, the nun threw her door and watched as a tall, skinny boy scampered away. She took a few steps in pursuit of the boy whilst shouting, “Come back,” but her old, tired legs were no match for the young lad.

All of a sudden a gaggle of small children surrounded Sister Maria Theresa. “Madam! Madam!” Their cries echoed around her.

“Not now, my children, not now,” she called to them, patting their heads as she watched the gangly, awkward youth disappear into the distance.

Just before he was completely out of sight, he turned and looked at her; his eyes solemn and desperate.

Sister Maria Theresa knew that face. If only she could remember where she had seen him before.

She looked again at the crumpled note in her hand. Who was Mariella? Where was she?

Shivers ran up her spine. She knew why she needed help. It was always the same.

Her mind turned to a different child. A nameless boy who she couldn’t save.  It had been over 15 years ago when she had first arrived in Angola. But there still wasn’t a day that passed by when the image of his lifeless face didn’t haunt her thoughts, her dreams.

“I can’t let Mariella suffer the same fate,” she cried out, surprising the ragged collection of young children still gathered expectantly around her.

She turned to them. “Did anybody see that boy just now?”

They nodded in unison like a yo-yo.

“Does anyone know who he is?”

The children moved their heads from side to side.

Sister Maria Theresa began to lose hope, believing Mariella would become another lost soul. Just another statistic. Another nameless face. If only someone knew the boy.

As if reading her mind a small voice called out, “I do.”

Did you say that, Catalina?” The nun looked at a small child with brightly coloured beads in her hair moving her head up and down whilst sucking on her little finger.

“Do you know who is he?” the nun gently coaxed

Catalina’s gaze circled the group, taking in eight pairs of eyes trained solely on her; her shoulders straightened, her chin lifted and her eyes sparkled like an actress in the spotlight of centre stage.

“Yes, I do,” she stated boldly, hands on her hips. “He comes sometimes to visit Mrs. Ramirez.”

Of course. The boy’s eyes instantly appeared in Sister Maria Theresa’s mind. He was Mrs. Ramirez’s nephew.

“Thank you, Catalina,” the nun said, kissing her gently on the forehead. The child beamed.

Sister Maria Theresa shuffled as quickly as could to her battered Land Cruiser, jumped in and started the engine as she closed the door.  The nun was soon caught in the dreadful traffic that cluttered the streets of Lubango.  Blue and white minibuses played dodgems around her. They swerved dangerously to avoid potholes, stopped abruptly to entice more passengers into their lair and switched lanes without even a glance at the other cars on the road.

Her Land Cruiser spluttered past the provincial hospital, the 1970s style high rise apartments and the town hall to enter a temporary neighbourhood on the edge of Lubango. Houses had been constructed out of Africa’s rich red mud and whatever materials the residents had to hand. Large stones held tin roofs in place and dustbin liners served as doors.

In front of one of the shacks she noticed the boy who, upon seeing her, began to run. She drove slowly after him and called out of the window, “I want to help Mariella but I don’t know where to find her. Will you help me?”

The boy scurried down a lane. The nun swung her car around and followed him. Panic spread over his face; he had run down a dead end.

“Don’t talk to me,” he yelled at the Sister.

“I have to,” she replied through her open window, “I don’t know where Mariella is.”

The boy looked at the ground. “If they see me with you, they will hurt me.”

“I won’t let them hurt you.” Looking deep into his desperate eyes, the nun realised he was only about 9 years old. “Please take me to where Mariella is. I will help her.”

“Pira. We live there.” The boy looked at the ground and swept his foot through the red dirt in a circular moment.

“Pira?” the nun questioned. “Where is that?”

“After Quilengues.”

Sister Maria Theresa gasped, “But that is over a 100 kilometres away. How did you get here?”

“Lorry.”

“How will you get back? Won’t your mother miss you?”  the Sister questioned studying the boy intently for clues.

“D … d... don't know.” Small, silent tears began to trickle down the boy’s face. He flung himself into the dirt. “They are wrong about Mariella. She no bruxa.”

“There, there.” The nun cooed. I will take you back with me if you would like.”

“No,” he screeched, “they will be so angry if they see me with you. You of all people.”

Used to people thinking unfavourably of her, the Sister asked the child, “why don’t I drop you off before Pira?  You can walk the rest of the way. Then they will never know you helped me.”

The child sobbed even louder. He looked at the Sister, defeated. He nodded slowly and got into the car.

“What is your name?” Sister Theresa asked whilst indicating that he should put his seatbelt on.

“Flavio.”

Sister Theresa knew better than to question the child further. She let silence engulf them as she competently drove through the streets of Lubango dodging women carrying children on their backs and bowls of fruit on their heads.

As they reached the edge of town, the paved, tarmac road gave way to a bumpy, dirt track that was in fact the main road to Benguela, Angola’s second biggest city, 600 kilometres away.  Sister Maria Theresa’s speed slowed to only 20 kilometres an hour as she delicately coaxed the car up and down the holes in the road.

After a while, the silence between them became so thick they could almost see it and draw shapes in it. Unable to stand it any longer, Sister Maria Theresa took a knife to it. “How old is Mariella?” she murmured.

Flavio shrugged his shoulders.

“And she is your friend?” the nun continued unperturbed.

“Best friend,” the boy declared, moving his head vigorously up and down.

Sister Maria Theresa bit her lips and furrowed her brows. “Why do you think she is in danger?”

“I heard them talking. They said she a bruxa … that she ... must die, that she... bad luck.” Flavio began to cry while rocking his body to and fro in the seat. “Please don’t let her die. Promise me you won’t.”

Sister Theresa glanced sideways at the boy and strummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Could she promise something that she might not be able to keep?  She had made a similar promise before and that promise now lay shattered in the gutter. And the child she made it to was long dead. Nameless. Lifeless. Lost.

Gulping back a lump that had arisen in her throat and looking into the deep wells of the boy’s eyes, she knew she had no choice. “I promise I won’t let her die,” she stated flatly, “but please help me keep this promise. I need to know about Mariella. Who are they? Why do they think she is a bruxa?”

A small smile of relief spread across the boy’s face but his tears continued falling. “They … my dad and Mariella's aunt. They angry. They say Mariella killed her mum and her dad. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t.”

“Of course, she didn’t”, the sister replied, patting his arm gently. “What happened to her parents?”

“Last week fever killed her Mummy. Did Mariella bring malaria like my Daddy said?”

“No. No one can give person malaria. Only mosquitoes can.”

Flavio's eyes brightened slightly. “She definitely couldn’t have killed her father. She never even met him. He died the night she was born.”  Momentarily, Flavio flashed his brilliant white teeth. “I knew she wasn’t a bruxa. I was right. I was right.”

Sister Maria Theresa took a deep gulp of air. She thought about her promise. Could she keep it? Would they get to the village in time? Poor Mariella. She was a very unlucky child. Two parents dead and a superstitious aunt. It was a dangerous combination.

Silence reclaimed its space as the pair drove pensively through the town of Quilengues and onto Pira.

The boy clutched the handle of the car. His knuckles turned white. “Let me out here. I go no further.”

Sister Maria Theresa brought the car to a halt and Flavio hastily got out of the car. He cried out to the nun, “Go straight, you find Pira. Only town here.”

The sister felt desperately alone as silence filled his space. To summon up courage she repeated: Be brave, don’t let them down, keep your promise, over and over to herself.

After a few kilometres, she came to circle of huts. Pigs, chickens and playing children moved freely between the wooden shacks.  In the distance, a small boy with a stick watched over a scrawny herd of cattle.

“Pira,” she thought getting out of the car and hobbling up to the huts using her walking stick as support. A lady approached her; eyes full of mistrust.

“Hello, my name is Sister Maria Theresa and I am looking for Mariella.” Her words echoed around the huts and then fell dead. The children stopped playing and watched.

“I know who you are,” the lady spat, “You’re too late.”

Whiteness climbed up Sister Maria Theresa’s face.

“Mariella is gone. She won’t harm anybody else now,”  the woman continued.

The sister covered her face with her hands as a slow, silent tear rolled down her face. Another promise broken. What would she say to Flavio? Why did she promise something she couldn’t keep?

As she turned to walk away, she saw the shepherd boy slyly pointing west, towards a river. Ignoring the woman, the sister propelled herself forward with her stick and trundled past the lady in the direction of out his outstretched stick.

“Leave that bruxa. The little witch deserves everything she gets. She killed my brother. Do you hear … she killed my brother?” the lady shrieked after her.

Incensed at being ignored, the irate woman continued, “He didn’t even fire a bullet. He had just gone but was going to return straight home. The war was ending. He wasn’t needed. And then, the day she was born, he dropped dead. Shot by one of his own men while he was cleaning his rifle. But it was her. She made him pull the trigger.”

“Only God can take away life,” the sister murmured over her shoulder whilst making steady progress towards the river.

She reached the bank. Nothing. Where was Mariella? Had she been fooled? She looked up.

“No …. It’s happening again,” she cried out, sinking to the ground. She knelt below a tree, her arms raised upwards, defiantly. 

A body was swinging in the tree above her. A body of a nine year old girl. An innocent girl. Her arms were tied to a branch and suspended above her head. Her legs flapped uselessly in the wind. She looked limp like a child’s puppet. History was replaying itself. Sister Maria Theresa, in horror, thought of another body, another tree, fifteen years ago.

Then, the wind blew in a whimper. A small sound, almost inaudible.

“She is alive. She is alive.” Sister Maria Theresa waved her walking stick and arms in the air excitedly.

She called up to the child, “Mariella, Mariella, I’ll get you down.”

The problem was how. She dragged herself up and looked around her for a useful tool. Nothing. Just trees and the rocky river bed below. What could she do? Would they help her if she went back to the village? Probably not. How weak was the child?

Looking upwards she shouted out, “Please God, don’t let me get this far, only to let me down.”

As if answering her prayer, Flavio came hurtling down the hillside towards the river calling, “Mariella, Mariella, I’ll save you,” as his little legs propelled him along.

Clambering up the tree like a monkey, he soon had the wrist ropes undone while Sister Maria Theresa delicately lowered the girl from the tree. They collapsed on the ground, panting for breath. Sister Maria Theresa stroked the girl’s red wrists as she lay motionless on the floor. Slowly, the girl began to stir and sat up in a daze. Flavio shyly took her hand to help her to stand and then turned around to help the nun. But he was too late. Sister Maria Theresa was standing tall.

The three of them ambled back to the car. Sister Maria Theresa walked upright with her arms around the two children.

“You will live with me and my children now,” she told Mariella.

History had wiped her slate clean.

………………………………………………………………………………………………..........................................................................................
Witchcraft is similar a common practice and belief in Angola. It is not unusual for young unwanted children to be accused of being witches and tormented, tortured and abused. This story is fictional but is inspired by the children at an orphanage I visit for children abandoned due to superstitions and customs that defy belief.