The Headhunter's Daughter by Tamar Myers

the Congo. But tell me, Amanda, you were perhaps hoping that she was American?”
    “Pierre! I was hoping no such thing! Okay, so maybe just a little.”
    “But don’t worry, Amanda; you speak French very well, and your accent is not so, so terrible. In addition, you always seem to have an extra room or two available at your rest house. Therefore, on behalf of His Majesty’s Government—given that we have no hotel in Belle Vue, and my house would be inappropriate—I am requesting the use of one of your rooms. I would be renting it, of course.”
    Amanda’s heart raced. How exciting! Who back home was going to believe this? An actual headhunter’s daughter staying under her roof—well, sort of. The fact that the girl was white, and not really the headhunter’s daughter, made the story all the more exciting. No doubt the Rock Hill Herald would love to do a feature story on this .
    “There’s plenty of room,” she said breathlessly. “Isn’t this supposed to be the suicide month?”
    He laughed. “ Oui . So hot and sticky that the only people who move are the ones who jump over the falls.”
    “Maybe it’s because of the weather, but when the current guests leave, I don’t have any other guests booked until November, when the rains are said to be here to stay. I would be glad to help you in any way I can—you know, show her how to be a modern young lady.”
    “Good. Now observe, Amanda; watch how this girl walks. What do you see?”
    “A beautiful young woman—Pierre! She walks like an African!”
    “ Exactement! It is not just that filthy didiba that she wears, or those braids in her hair that set her apart. This girl is more African than you think. Did you notice the scarification patterns on her back?”
    “Excuse me,” Amanda said. “What kind of patterns?”
    “The scars—the marks. From wounds that have healed. They are all over her back. And her cheeks. And she is missing her two front teeth.”
    Amanda gasped softly. “I noticed the teeth—not the marks.”
    “Scars,” Pierre said, so that she would learn the new word.
    “Yes, scars. And look, Pierre, her heels are just as cracked as those of anyone else here not wearing shoes.”
    “Which is everyone else, since even my soldiers prefer to go barefoot when it is this hot.”
    Suddenly the enormity of the task hit her. “It might not work, Pierre. What if she doesn’t want to be white? It would be wrong to force her. In my country the Indians took a number of white children captive and then later had to release them. Some of the children refused to return to the families of their origin because they had new families now.”
    “ Mon Dieu! They chose to remain with the savages?”
    “But that’s the point I’m trying to make; after a while the Indians ceased to be savages in the eyes of the captives.”
    Pierre whistled softly. “I assure you, mademoiselle, that I am not your typical colonial racist. I was born right here in the Congo and was raised by a baba —an African nanny. But she was a Muluba, not a Mushilele. You have been to the workers’ village at Belle Vue many times, where most—admittedly, not all—of the people are Baluba. And now you have been here. Can you not see the difference?”
    “ Oui, monsieur. Forgive me, but what exactly is your point?”
    “Simply that there is no option for failure here, Amanda. The OP will have my head if I return a white teenage girl to live among the Bashilele warriors. Belgium is a very small country—not like the United States. It is possible that eventually even the king will have to be involved.”
    Amanda stopped walking, precipitating yelps of distress from some otherwise aggressive boys who had been showing off by slowly creeping closer to the Bula Matadi . They fell back now, and virtually everyone, including Amanda and Pierre, had a good laugh at their dismay. But the youths were soon at it again, acting out with even more bravado than before.
    Good little