A Drop of Curse
My dear reader, to truly grasp the weight of the tears that will later fall within these stone walls, you must first set foot on the cold earth of Gare, nestled high in the Usambara Mountains of Tanga, in the year of our Lord 1934.
This land was like the Garden of Eden. A thick morning fog draped over the lush pine and coconut forests, while a crisp, cool breeze blew gently through the valley. Standing serenely in that peaceful vale was a grand structure built of red stone bricks—the Monastery of the Immaculate Virgin Mary.
Inside lived a young maiden with a smile capable of melting even the coldest heart. Her name was Clara.
Before wearing the white veil and taking her solemn vows of religious life, Clara was the daughter of Mzee Kibena, the first catechist in the entire region of Lushoto. Clara possessed extraordinary beauty. Her wide, dark eyes radiated warmth and compassion, and her bronze skin gleamed as if polished with pure castor oil. Many wealthy young men from the village, including the Chief's son who owned hundreds of cattle, knocked on Mzee Kibena's door seeking Clara’s hand in marriage.
Yet, Clara held steadfast to a single conviction ever since she was a young girl of twelve: Her heart belonged to Jesus Christ.
"Father," Clara told Mzee Kibena on her eighteenth birthday, "the world offers many temptations, but I find my true peace in serving God. I want to become a nun."
Mzee Kibena, though secretly wishing for in-laws and grandchildren, knelt down and gave his blessing to his only daughter.
On the day she entered the convent to begin her novitiate training, Clara was not alone. She was accompanied by her childhood soulmate, a spirited girl named Bernadette—or 'Berny,' as Clara fondly called her in secret.
Bernadette was the polar opposite of Clara. While Clara was quiet, gentle, and devoted to long hours of prayer, Bernadette was like a wildfire—expressive, humorous, and gifted with an innate ability to make even the stone walls of the monastery laugh!
"Clara, my dear," Bernadette whispered on their very first day, kneeling in the small chapel while the senior nuns kept their eyes tightly shut in deep devotion. "Will we really survive this life? Look at my knees... they're already turning as black as a bean pot from kneeling at noon every single day!"
Clara struggled to hold back her laughter, but Bernadette’s humor was irresistibly contagious.
"Hush, Berny! The senior Sisters will hear us!" Clara whispered back, attempting to stare straight ahead with utmost solemnity.
"Listen, Clara," Bernadette continued in a hushed whisper, sneakily pulling out a piece of roasted cassava she had hidden in the pocket of her habit. "I am joining the sisterhood for two reasons only: First, I refuse to marry those men back in our village with beards like old goats. Second, I absolutely adore this white veil! But waking up at four in the morning in this freezing Usambara cold... God Himself knows I'm relying on extra faith!"
Clara couldn't contain herself and let out a quiet giggle. The Mother Superior, Sister Celina—a European woman whose face bore an unyielding sternness and German discipline—turned and glared at them with a sharp look that instantly made both novices freeze, quickly feigning deep prayer.
Bernadette was Clara’s joy and spark of strength. Through grueling chores like gardening, scrubbing dishes, or cleaning the monastery grounds, it was Bernadette’s endless humor that kept their spirits high, helping them endure the physically demanding life meant to purify the soul.
Three years of formation flew by quickly. Clara proved to be an exemplary novice—humble, full of love for everyone, and obedient to every rule of the Church without complaint.
At last, the grand day arrived: The Day of Final Vows.
The main chapel of the monastery was adorned with white mountain blossoms. The sweet aroma of frankincense filled the air. The Archbishop of the Diocese of Tanga stood before the altar, presiding over the Holy Mass. Clara—now officially named Sister Maria Clare—lay prostrate before the altar, symbolizing death to the world and resurrection into the life of Christ.
When she stood up, a white veil was placed upon her head and a silver ring on her finger. Her heart overflowed with unimaginable peace. She felt as though she had reached the pinnacle of her life's happiness.
"My God," Sister Clare whispered in the quiet depth of her soul, kneeling before the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. "From this day forth, I am Yours. My body, my soul, and my entire life belong to You. Protect me in this purity until the day I meet You in Heaven."
Beside her, Bernadette—who was now Sister Bernadette—winked at her joyfully, even as she fanned herself with a handkerchief from the warmth of the altar candles.
Everyone believed Sister Clare was an angel sent to earth. Every nun cherished her, and all could see purity and holiness radiating from her face.
Yet not a single soul—neither Sister Clare herself, nor Sister Bernadette, nor Mother Superior Sister Celina—could have ever imagined that beneath those serene Usambara mountains, a devastating storm was silently gathering.
A storm that would come to shake not only the Monastery of Gare, but the very foundations of the Catholic Church in Tanganyika. And the origin of that storm was brewing in the most unexpected corner of the monastery grounds... the pigsty!