A Girl Named Disaster by Nancy Farmer

beer into stream.”
    Nhamo knew Frelimo was opposed to alcohol, but they had reached a truce with the Portuguese trader. Him they could control. They knew where he operated and could round up the shake-shake drinkers if they became too rowdy. Any other beer seller might hide in the forest and cause more trouble. Joao took a lantern and set off down the trail.
    Nhamo and Rosa bathed Grandmother and fed her chicken broth and thin porridge. They arranged her again on the bed.
    “How far is the army camp?” asked Nhamo.
    “About an hour’s walk, on the other side of the trading post.”
    “Isn’t that dangerous?”
    “Joao won’t go alone. He’ll pick up his assistant.”
    The conversation lapsed. Nhamo’s nerves were strung as tightly as a bowstring. She didn’t know what to hope for. She wanted to stay with Rosa—but she didn’t want her family hurt. What would happen when Frelimo showed up with their guns? And if she didn’t marry Goré Mtoko’s brother, wouldn’t the ngozi kill the rest of her family?
    Nhamo sat on the floor next to Grandmother’s bed and held the old woman’s cold hand. “What should I do, Ambuya ?” she pleaded. “If you want me to stay with Rosaand Joao, please move your fingers.” But Grandmother did nothing, either because she hadn’t understood or because she, too, couldn’t make up her mind.
    In the distance, Nhamo heard voices and saw lights moving among the trees. They were coming from the direction of the trading post. “Rosa!” she cried.
    “That can’t be the soldiers yet,” Rosa said. Very quickly a crowd poured into the trader’s garden, trampling the plants and forming a semicircle in front of the house. Nhamo was startled to glimpse Joao’s pale face. The crowd consisted of Uncle Kufa and the villagers, the muvuki , and his son and servants. They carried blazing torches.
    “Ah!” cried Rosa as Joao and his assistant were thrown to the ground. Their hands were tied behind their backs.
    “By what authority do you challenge me?” roared the muvuki. He drew a small gun from his belt and pointed it at the trader. Rosa screamed. “You can’t tell me what to do!” the muvuki went on. “You are not my father, and I am not your child. You will not be permitted to interfere.”
    “I only go for check store,” Joao protested.
    “You liar! You were on your way to the Frelimo camp. I heard you talking to your assistant,” Uncle Kufa shouted.
    “If the Catholics want war, then war it shall be,” the muvuki screamed. “We’ll see who wins, your dead man on a stick or the living spirits of Africa!” He fired the gun into the air. Nhamo gasped with terror.
    “I go for take brandy to soldiers,” said Joao, suddenly inspired. The muvuki stopped and considered his captive. The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Something about their expressions seemed odd to Nhamo. In spite of his threatening words, the muvuki didn’t look particularly angry, nor did the trader appear frightened.
    “Frelimo is against alcohol,” the doctor pointed out.
    “Big boys on top no like,” Joao said craftily. “Little guys on bottom drink, drink. Chase women, too.”
    “That’s so,” agreed one of the villagers. “You can tell Frelimo women are trashy. They wear pants like men.”
    “Is this true? You were taking brandy to the soldiers and not asking them to rescue the girl?” the doctor said.
    “Delivering drinks in the middle of the night? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Uncle Kufa.
    “If I go in daytime, the big boys shoot me.”
    “It makes sense.” The muvuki put the gun away. Suddenly, Nhamo understood that an agreement had been reached between the doctor and the trader. They had to live together in this community. They might dislike each other, but they were both businessmen, with the same customers. As long as the muvuki maintained his supremacy, he was quite willing to let a Catholic trader operate in the same area. Joao, for his part, had to protect