Uvana could not have gotten to the slope at a better time -for the lion cub that is- for the lioness, roused from her slumber by the gnawing hunger that usually accompanies childbirth, had just left her rocky perch with her chosen cubs in tow. The hyena waited patiently until she had disappeared into the undergrowth. Then, like the cowardly dogs his specie are, he had started approaching the cub in a roundabout way, still wary of the mother. So intent was he in his would be meal that he did not hear Uvana as he silently crept up hill, his lame legs more of an advantage than not with his tight crouch-like walk.
The hyena had then abandoned all pretensions and was looping towards his target, the advent of a juicy meal conquering even his inborn fear of man and dulling the significance of the strange scent the noon breeze has just blown his way. There was a brief hesitation as he appeared to sniff the wind, but by then the scent of blood and urine coming from the little cub was so overwhelming he just shook of his misgivings and lounge forward once more.
The hyena’s powerful jaws was only a few finger lengths from the cubs succulent neck when a well aimed arrow pierced through his brain to exit between his red rimmed eyes.
There was no outcry from the hyena, he only stretched once or twice and lay still where he fell, his head brushing the cub’s fore legs.
Uvana smiled merrily, singing a silent praise to his father who had laboured for years teaching Uvana how to shoot the single kill arrow, believing it a remedy to his lameness. In those days, Uvana had silently fumed at having to cradle a bow and arrow all day long while his peers wrestled, learnt combat skills and partook in gruelling endurance races across the length of the seven hills and beyond. Uvana does not begrudge his father much now, his training had being relatively easy, for his keen eyes and long arms, made extra strong and steady by years of having to move around with them, made him a natural. It did not take long for people to notice his steady hands. He was known to shoot straight with the stone, straight enough for people to fear his wrath and mind not to call him the lame one, so calling him only when they are sure he is out of ear shoot.
Now, Uvana stood before the slain hyena looking beyond its bloodied head at the strangest sight he had even seen or had spoken off, a hairless lion cub. He was scared out of his wits and would have hurried down the slope and taken the shorter route to the hill that bore his kin had not the little cub open her eyes then and looked straight at him. He stood there, watching as the little cub, still layered with dried blood and whatnot slime, lifted herself on shaky legs and took the few gingerly steps it took to reach where he stood.
As she sniffed his legs he felt it then, fate. Strange but true, fate it was that brought them together. For how come it happened that it was today that he had agreed to bring along a skin of milk given to him by his doting mother, that he will meet a hungry, even if strange looking cub.
Sitting on the same rocky outcrop that the lioness had just vacated, Uvana proceeded to feed the hungry cub. Though the milk was not that plentiful, he was surprised when the cub drain it to the last drops. Exhausted by hours of crying and hunger now sated, the cub feel asleep in his arms and he gently wrapped it with an extra leopard skin he carried for his lame leg with on cold weather – it usually gets very sore on cold days and wrapping provides some sort of relief.
As he made his way slowly down the slope, careful not to jar the cub, he did not spar the dead hyena even a brief glance. Hyenas are a foul creatures, too cowardly to be considered honour kills and oily for human consumption. Even their skin, the only thing they posses useful to man, take too much time and care to cure. Logging it home will be a waste of time, better to leave it here for the buzzards to claim.
He had just picked his deer skin bag and long spear and was about turning towards the well trod path that leads home when a movement up ahead caught his eye. He was still trying to shift the cub to his right arm to free his stronger left, when a blurry gold and grey figure burst from the undergrowth and he found himself face to face with a huge lion, bearing all the signs that marks him out to be an elder lion of the hills.
The lion growled at him sniffing towards the sleeping cub as if inquiring. Though Uvana was scared enough to wet his pants, he decided to play it by the rules. Being a child of the hills, he knew the lion will not attack him, it knows his smell.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
The taming of the plains lion
The taming of the plains lion
The lion was born without fur; her white skin glittered in the morning light, as naked as a human baby. The sun had not yet risen and the cold wind that travelled across the night still blew from down the valley making her shiver and her vocal cords opened up wide to allow for the passage of a shrill cry that rents the morning’s ambiance. It was a cry that conveyed distress enough to break many a heart, filled with longings and pleading for care, but it moved not the birth mother.
That great lioness was deaf to her child’s call. She only managed, once, to pad over and sniff at her like she had done before, right after the cub was born, before rejecting her all over again, choosing rather to pay heed to her other cubs who appear whole.
Rejected by her mother and seeming to know it, the little cub cried all the more, her tiny voice carrying across the valley only to be thrown back as faint echoes that appeared to mock her efforts.
Time past somewhat slowly, the cold morning gave way to a hazy, Cloudy afternoon. Still the cub's cry could be heard, though intermittently, across the valley. It was inevitable that her cries will attract other attentions, and it did. It reached the ears of a hungry hyena that crept surreptitiously closer, wary of the lioness who eyed him balefully from the corner of her eyes as she reclined on a nearby rocky outcrop. Though she was not concerned about the cub’s welfare, she was not inclined to allow the hyena easy picking. More so when her other cubs are sunning themselves on her belly. Her warning growl sent the hyena scampering back to hide behind a fallen tree trunk, from where he sneaks looks at his prey where she lay amongst the short grasses, still covered in birth fluids and blood –which already was attracting ants whose bite may also be adding to her distress.
The cry was also heard in the opposite slope where a young lame trapper from the hunter’s clan of UmuEze, a hamlet in the seven hills, was sitting squat beside a little brook, bemoaning his ill luck while taking sips of the cool mountain water. The trapper’s name is Uvana and he was on his way back from checking his traps. He had hoped for a big kill today, having placed traps across the well beaten track of a large antelope. For days he had read the antelope’s tracks and was very sure that it will pass through where he laid his trap on its way to drink from the same brook he is sipping from now. He had even boasted to his friend, the ill tempered hunter Anyari, that he will bring the biggest Antelope to the two markets today. Only for him to get to the trap and meet only gnawed bones and mangled tendons, amongst which a pack of hyenas and vultures were making merry.
Overcome by anger, he had scattered them, the hyenas looping away with their mocking laughs and the vultures fouling the air with their greasy wings and dirty ways as they took to the skies only to return when he moved a little way off. He had continued this aimless pursuit of the birds – the hyenas had chosen to watch his antic bemusedly from a safe distance, patient as ever, knowing he will go away sooner or later- until he grew tired and left them to their devices, sure that they were not the culprits in this blind robbery. No, they are only partakers of this great wrong that has been visited him.
He guessed that it is probably an old hill lion, too weak to catch his own game or a pregnant female, very near birth that stole his catch and that made him madder than ever, surely he heard a lioness growl sometime earlier. If it had being a leopard or tiger, he would have had the pleasure of tracking it down to exert his revenge, but the lions are taboo and he is forbidden to cause them pain.
So he was squatting by the brook fuming and gnashing his teeth and cussing intermittently, when the cry reached his ear. He instantly knew it to be the cry of a lion cub and wondered aloud ‘how come?’ a lioness will never leave her pup even in the face of danger to herself. Something about the cry told him that it is a new born cub and he wondered if the mother is the same one that stole his catch.
He was of the mind to go about his business, not that he had anymore today, thanks to the thieving lioness, but the cry came again this time punctuated by a hyena’s long drawn crackle. Wonders! He mouthed, a hyena close by where a lioness just birthed. Shaking his head slowly he straightened up and started the short walk down first, then up, towards where the sounds are coming from. Not that it was his wish to investigate things like this but because his oral tradition demands he help out whenever a lion of the hills is in trouble, as this one obviously is.
The lion was born without fur; her white skin glittered in the morning light, as naked as a human baby. The sun had not yet risen and the cold wind that travelled across the night still blew from down the valley making her shiver and her vocal cords opened up wide to allow for the passage of a shrill cry that rents the morning’s ambiance. It was a cry that conveyed distress enough to break many a heart, filled with longings and pleading for care, but it moved not the birth mother.
That great lioness was deaf to her child’s call. She only managed, once, to pad over and sniff at her like she had done before, right after the cub was born, before rejecting her all over again, choosing rather to pay heed to her other cubs who appear whole.
Rejected by her mother and seeming to know it, the little cub cried all the more, her tiny voice carrying across the valley only to be thrown back as faint echoes that appeared to mock her efforts.
Time past somewhat slowly, the cold morning gave way to a hazy, Cloudy afternoon. Still the cub's cry could be heard, though intermittently, across the valley. It was inevitable that her cries will attract other attentions, and it did. It reached the ears of a hungry hyena that crept surreptitiously closer, wary of the lioness who eyed him balefully from the corner of her eyes as she reclined on a nearby rocky outcrop. Though she was not concerned about the cub’s welfare, she was not inclined to allow the hyena easy picking. More so when her other cubs are sunning themselves on her belly. Her warning growl sent the hyena scampering back to hide behind a fallen tree trunk, from where he sneaks looks at his prey where she lay amongst the short grasses, still covered in birth fluids and blood –which already was attracting ants whose bite may also be adding to her distress.
The cry was also heard in the opposite slope where a young lame trapper from the hunter’s clan of UmuEze, a hamlet in the seven hills, was sitting squat beside a little brook, bemoaning his ill luck while taking sips of the cool mountain water. The trapper’s name is Uvana and he was on his way back from checking his traps. He had hoped for a big kill today, having placed traps across the well beaten track of a large antelope. For days he had read the antelope’s tracks and was very sure that it will pass through where he laid his trap on its way to drink from the same brook he is sipping from now. He had even boasted to his friend, the ill tempered hunter Anyari, that he will bring the biggest Antelope to the two markets today. Only for him to get to the trap and meet only gnawed bones and mangled tendons, amongst which a pack of hyenas and vultures were making merry.
Overcome by anger, he had scattered them, the hyenas looping away with their mocking laughs and the vultures fouling the air with their greasy wings and dirty ways as they took to the skies only to return when he moved a little way off. He had continued this aimless pursuit of the birds – the hyenas had chosen to watch his antic bemusedly from a safe distance, patient as ever, knowing he will go away sooner or later- until he grew tired and left them to their devices, sure that they were not the culprits in this blind robbery. No, they are only partakers of this great wrong that has been visited him.
He guessed that it is probably an old hill lion, too weak to catch his own game or a pregnant female, very near birth that stole his catch and that made him madder than ever, surely he heard a lioness growl sometime earlier. If it had being a leopard or tiger, he would have had the pleasure of tracking it down to exert his revenge, but the lions are taboo and he is forbidden to cause them pain.
So he was squatting by the brook fuming and gnashing his teeth and cussing intermittently, when the cry reached his ear. He instantly knew it to be the cry of a lion cub and wondered aloud ‘how come?’ a lioness will never leave her pup even in the face of danger to herself. Something about the cry told him that it is a new born cub and he wondered if the mother is the same one that stole his catch.
He was of the mind to go about his business, not that he had anymore today, thanks to the thieving lioness, but the cry came again this time punctuated by a hyena’s long drawn crackle. Wonders! He mouthed, a hyena close by where a lioness just birthed. Shaking his head slowly he straightened up and started the short walk down first, then up, towards where the sounds are coming from. Not that it was his wish to investigate things like this but because his oral tradition demands he help out whenever a lion of the hills is in trouble, as this one obviously is.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Valley Between the Hills
Chapter 1
I was twelve years old when I encountered the raiders from the northlands for the first time. I still remember that very morning as if it is today.
It was a late sunrise and the thin sliver of a last trimester moon still bejewelled the ash-grey sky. The last of the morning cockcrow had echoed across our bowl shaped valley, calling late risers to answer the melody of wakefulness. All appeared drab, without mirth, awaiting the infusion of the crimson rays of the summer sun, which would soon crest the twin peaks of Enu-Ejima to bath this valley with radiance, only then will the hidden beauty of this land, appear in all her glory.
Though I had seen this spectacle a thousand times, I eagerly awaited its coming with awed eyes each day. My young mind was yet to come to terms with the reflection of light off the lush green leaves and the flutter of forest birds as they welcomed the new day with their cries. Today I knew it would come late, just as it had been doing for several weeks now – The old ones said the gods sent it on an errand, I did not argue for it was above my mind’s reach to contemplate the hidden ways of the gods.
I lay back on my raffia mat, spread just inside the door of the round earthen hut I shared with my siblings; looking again towards the distant peaks, I sought that telltale shimmer that would send me running towards the eastern wall of our homestead where my vigil heralded the rising sun. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I tarried, hoping that time spent counting the bamboo poles that held up the thatch and raffia roof would ease the pain of waiting.
I actually heard my name the first time, I did not answer and did not expect a reprimanded for that since it was common knowledge that it was perilous to answer calls from sources unknown, or one might acknowledge a spirit’s call and follow it to the land of the dead within an infant’s heartbeat.
As a result, I was seriously peeved when Adaora, my ill-tempered elder sister, stormed into the hut and upturned a calabash of cold rainwater on me. I jumped up screaming and rushed after her. Being more nimble than I am, she easily kept me at bay, sidestepping my attempts to grab her and sink my teeth into her calf.
She took to running around the thatch kitchen our mothers used in the rainy season. I followed her gamely, though I knew I did not stand a chance of catching up with her but too infuriated to care.
Guessing I was growing weaker, she changed direction and ran towards me, coming close enough for my seeking hands to grasp her waist clothe, barely, then skipped away before I could gain purchase.
Frustration brought quick tears to my eyes and sobs, long held in check, burst fourth with ululations loud enough to bring our mothers running to investigate.
Mama Ukwu, father’s eldest wife, was the first on the scene, her ample bosom jingling in the grip of momentum and gravity.
“Who or what is making that boy cry?” she asked, bearing down on Adaora who was then cowering, her mischievous smile having faded off at her first glimpse of mama Ukwu’s fury.
“I did not do anything to him. I only woke him up with water since he was sleeping like a hyena.” Adaora said, drawing away from Mama Ukwu as much as she could dare without admitting too much guilt.
“And you would know how a hyena sleeps? I sent you to call him to eat not to cause him pain.” Mama Ukwu moved with sudden swiftness that belied her size, grabbed Adaora by the crook of her skinny arm, and pulled her tight against her body. “My husband it is your turn to retaliate.” She said, looking at me.
Adaora glared fiercely at me as I tiptoed towards her, daring me to attempt anything. I placed my hands on her forearm to protect me from any sudden move from her and bent my head, readying my mouth to give her a bite. She winched as my teeth encountered her bare back, but when it only glazed her flesh and left no mark, she smiled triumphantly, knowing even then that I did not have the heart to hurt her, not in this circumstance anyway.
For a bit, Mama Ukwu looked strangely at me, and then struck the grinning Adaora a fierce blow across her woven head, sending her sprawling.
Screaming her lungs out, she ran towards father’s hut at the centre of our homestead. Apparently, she was unaware that father had gone to the Twin Forest with Nkemjika our elder brother, to fetch herbs and the special wood father uses for spirit masks. Father is her usual ally and would have come roaring out in her defence.
Adaora’s mother, father’s youngest wife – my mother is second and Mama Ukwu is the undisputed matriarch of the homestead – who was sweeping the front compound – Amaoge, Nkemjika’s young wife, having taken over the sweeping of the backyard and around the yam barn – looked up with indifference as her daughter ran by. Even if she were inclined to defend her, something she was not inclined to do, she would never dare challenge the authority of Mama Ukwu, who ruled the women and children of our household with a fair, but firm hand.
Of the wives in our homestead, Amaoge was the one closest to us. She was still young enough to join in our games and still impressionistic enough to enjoy the nightly story telling sessions in my mother’s hut. A situation that would soon change judging by the observation of Mama Ukwu’s neighbourhood gossip club, who avowed that soon, when her tummy starts swelling, the child in her would give way to the maternal instinct that was inevitable. Though this piece of gossip was not for my ears, I repeated what I overhead to the hearing of my father and he rewarded me with a few well-placed slaps to straighten my wayward mouth.
I could not resist sticking out my tongue at the sobbing Adaora as I passed her where she was sprawled across father’s threshold, and easily side stepped the missile she sent hurtling my way. It was gratifying to hear her cries intensify as I entered Mama Ukwu’s hut. Surely, this bawling would continue until father returned, by which time the reason for the tears would have faded away and whatever titbit he brought her from the forest would serve to pacify her.
Chapter 2
I was sitting squat under the raffia sunscreen outside Mama Ukwu’s hut, polishing off the tasty burnt under-layer of last night’s meal, yam porridge spiced with pumpkin leaf, when the first whisper of trouble reached my ears –You know that feeling of unease, usually accompanied by goose pimples and rivulets of icy sweat. In this case, an unusual deep silence truncated by a noisy flight of birds followed by a silence that was much deeper than before, was the culprit, or so I thought.
I looked up from my meal to discover that I was not the only one touched by the change. Adaora’s mother had stopped sweeping, long raffia broom held poised in her hands. Close by, my mother was straightening from her labours beside the tripartite stone hearth, a trickle of tears on her cheeks that glistened in the morning light and the faint wisp of smoke from her well-arranged logs attested to the seriousness of her battle with the fire gods. Even Adaora had let off sobbing and was looking towards the northern forest like everyone else.
I Left my erstwhile intriguing pot and walked towards the entrance, feeling the tension generated by the shared unease. Mama Ukwu had come out from the yam barn where she was collecting the yams father had placed there earlier for the day’s meal. Her inquiry met a collective blank stare.
I ignored her call to return and continued walking towards the entrance. I had almost reached the woven bamboo door when a loud boom broke the deep silence. We all looked instinctively skywards. We were not alarmed initially, for it sounded very much like thunder. The sky that greeted our inquiring eyes showed signs of a coming storm, and the scent of rain filtered through the air. Across the length of the village, children picked up the rain song and it echoed across the valley. It appeared that the cause of the feeling of unease did not dwell in the world of the younger children, and whatever it was had passed.
Still, it bothered me when I noticed at second glance that while the rain clouds were to the west, the thunder like noise appeared to have come from the north, towards the northern forests where an ill-used path forked. One route snaking into the Silent Hill on its way to Ugwunasa (the land of the Seven Hills) and the other ran across the hills to the lowlands of the plainsmen and onwards to lands lost in myth.
It was through this path that father and Nkemjika usually pass on their way to the twin forest. Father was the village herbalist and wood carver. On certain days, marked by the phase of the moon, he headed to the edge of the dreaded twin forest to collect herbs and the special wood he used for the spirit masks. Nkemjika, who was expected to take over the reigns after father, usually went with him, to help carry and as part of his education – to familiarize him with the herb lore.
The herb lore makes it imperative that they collect between the deeper points of the night an early morning when the night spirits were heading home to sleep and too tired to prevent taking of plants sacred to them -or so father said.
I had not reached the age when I would have to choose which vocation to follow. Since my father battered his herbs and masks for food, my family really had little need for farming and others did much of the cultivation of our vast farmland as payment for their healings. This was no disadvantage what so ever for only the chief priest’s yam barn was bigger than father’s was. I hated the smell of rotting roots and the sickly sweet scent of freshly pound herbs reminds me too much of illness, which I loathe, so the being an herbalist was way out of the question. Though I inherited father’s knack for carving, I prefer carving out things I see in a piece of wood, animate objects and abstract objects, not the spirit masks that father created – Much to his disappointment, I must say.
My cousin Mbachu, just two seasons older than I, was already in The Land of The Seven Hills, studying the finer points of the four mouthed flute under the tutelage of Obele Okwu The Great, a fact that my uncle, his father, stressed every half chance he got. I could not stop wondering why he thought it a thing of pride that his son was seen carrying the loud mouthed bard’s flute in the two markets of Ugwu-nasa, me, I rather be the bard and others run my errands.
Though I am yet to reach the age when that decision would be taken, I had made it known to father that the lore of the night hunters excited me as much as the chants of the priest-like heralds who carry the tale of our time and the times long gone by in their heads. My admission did not distress my father for the ability to hold two vocations was considered admirable and encouraged. Moreover, the oral historians got almost as much reverence as the priests and herbalists.
Caught up in the throes of daydream, where I floated around an imagined future greatness where I serenade the whole clan with recitations of the great deeds of one hallowed ancestor after another, I barely caught the sound of a second loud boom. I was still shrugging off my reverie, albeit reluctantly, when the rumour of screams and bellows reached us by way of the Northern Forest. Since I was already near the exit, I was the first to reach the bare hard-parked earth outside our homestead. From where a clear view of the Northern forest lay open to the eyes.
Our nearest neighbour, Mazi Odilo the basket weaver, was already standing at the edge of the bare patch where the short hardy grass that began at the forest edge met the taller grasses around the village. Here, the trampling of children at play and the stamping of maidens practicing the latest dance steps for the moonlight dances across the years had rid the oddly circular shaped portion of all but a few hardy grasses – though stunted and off-coloured – that clung stubbornly to a bruised life, no matter how pitiful.
I walked over to them – the sound of our bamboo gate closing telling me that some of my family followed me out – and sidled close to Mazi Odilo who nodded towards the distant tree line.
“I think the noise is coming from there.” He addressed no one in particular, though it was Mama Ukwu who had questioned him, inquiring about the source of the loud noise that we all seem to have understood to be some kind of thunder.
Before she had a chance to answer, we spied a figure running towards the village from the forest.
Since the village was situated on high grounds within a bowl shaped valley, most of the slopes slant towards the village and only the western forest, which led to the Swamp lands, was at the same level with the valley bottom. This advantage of site availed us a clear view of the surrounding hills and the edge of forest that blankets them.
It was Adaora who first remarked that the running man moved somewhat like father, a comment that earned her the ire of Mama Ukwu who scolded her for talking out of turn. But when I peered at the figure that had then gotten closer, I also saw that, apart from running with father’s wide gait, he was of the same built and carriage.
“Adaora is right,” I said, looking across at Mama Ukwu who had her palm across her forehead, blotting out the morning haze as she tried to see the running man better – not that she can ever hope to match the keen eyes of the adolescent. “That man is surely father and he is shouting.”
“Youngman, can you make out what he is saying?” Mazi Odilo inquired.
I cupped my ears and tilted my head towards the northward slope. By trying very hard, I was able sieve through the noise of the coming rain and the howling wind and caught a whiff of what he was shouting continually. Baffled, I removed my hand from my ear and turned askance toward Mazi Odilo.
“What is it my boy?” he asked, searching my face.
“I hear what he is saying but I don’t understand it.” I answered.
“What does he say?”
“He is shouting ‘the Northmen are coming’ over and over.”
At my words, a change came over the older people within ear shoot; they all went silent and exchanged startled looks. Mazi Odilo beckoned to his son and whispered briefly in his ear and he took off towards the village square.
Though he would not answer my questions I could not help but notice the deep fear in his eyes, a fear the made him appear much older than he was. By now there was no argument as to the running man being my father for he had gotten closer, and from the way he moved he appeared to be in serious pain.
I ran towards him as he appeared to falter and grasping his hand I placed my shoulder under his armpit. I tried not to look at the jagged wound on his right rib from which blood flowed in a steady rivulet down to his thigh, coating it red.
We were almost close to the play circle where a now more substantial crowd gathered before father lost his footing and slumped onto the ground bearing me down with him. It was when he did not get up again that two of Mazi Odilo’s sons ran out under their father’s instruction and lifted him up.
Chapter Three
Together with my wailing mothers and siblings, I followed Mazi Odilo and his sons to the chief priest’s lodge which was at the other side of the village. Mama Ukwu and the other children stopped at the entrance. They only allowed me inside because father called for me –woman and male children who have not performed the coming of age rites do not usually enter the chief priest’s lodge.
Though they let me into the expansive compound, they made me wait outside the home shrine and watched from the entrance, through brief openings between jostling bodies, as the chief priest examined father’s injury carefully for several minutes before shaking his head sadly.
Soon several elders hurried into the yard and went into the hut. Their bodies blocked my view and try as much as I did I could not find a chink large enough to see through. They all exited the building together after muttering and exclaiming across several shadow lengths, only then was I allowed entrance into the hut.
Father was lying on his back facing the entrance. Somebody had wiped the blood from his body and a mixture of mashed herbs and clay covered the wound on his side. My eyes reverted from the tightly drawn muscles on his face to the now covered wound, seeing beyond the dressing to the jagged flesh and dark blood I had seen earlier. A faint shudder passed through my body as I noticed how dim his eyes looked.
I took an unconscious step back but he beckoned me closer, grasping my hand when I got within reach.
“Eze,” he began, lifting his head to look at me. “Where are your mothers?”
“They are outside; the men would not let them beyond the gate.”
My father nodded his head in acknowledgement, “I knew they will not let the women and children in, which is why I asked for you. Now listen carefully, the north men are in the forest, they attacked your brother and I as we made our way back from the high pass of Alandu. I got separated from your brother when we ran for our lives, I do not know if he is alive or if he was captured. I managed to escape because I forgot all about myself, my only thought was to get to the village and warn the elders. Now it appears my warning was in vain.”
“Why do you say that father?’ I asked, concerned about the quiver in his voice.
“You saw the elders who just left?” I shook my head affirmatively, “they represent all the kin units in this village. They came to get a firsthand account from me, and funny enough, they claim I must be mistaken, that the north men left these parts sixty seasons ago. They believe that since I was not born them I must have mistaken the slave raiders from Alor as North men. Though I have never seen a North man before, I have heard countless tales about them to be able to identify them when I see one.” He paused to catch his breath; his fore head furrowed with what I understood to be a mixture of anger and pain. Knowing him, I know he will be mightily mad the elders disregarded his warning, even after he had done this much to bring them the news.
Like every child born to these parts I had heard about the Northmen who, during the days of my father’s father, carried out raids throughout the lands bothering the plains, from the great river we hear about in traveller’s tales to the mouth of the Swamp Rivers south of here. It was because of the Northmen that our fathers moved the village from beside the Etekpe River to this place, hoping that its proximity to the land of the Seven Hills and the natural defences provided by the enclosing hills would keep the raiders out. It was a chieftain of the Seven Hills, leading and army of several forest clans that defeated the raiders at the Battle of Souls. The chief of the raiders was killed in battle and most of his men either ran away or were killed by the Hill men, whose lions fought alongside. Strange tales are told about the Northlanders and their home far away across the great river, in a land where the rain was said to fall only sparingly and the women made to hide their faces from men not their husbands least they be stolen away. It was the greatest admonition to tell a troublesome young child that the Northmen would carry him or her away.
My father gathered his strength and resumed talking, bringing me back from my flight of imagination, “The elders refuse to believe that it was the North men that attacked us in the forest, but I know what I saw. I know they will not organize anything more than a conventional defence, a show of strength, for they think my assailants are slavers from Alor, who will not dare attack a village as large as this. I am sure the Northlanders will attack soon. Ezenna, you know the forest paths very well, take your mothers to your sister’s place in the land of the seven hills. They will not want to go but you have to convince them, take the path to the twin forest. I am sure you will meet a hill man there who will lead you into the seven hills.” He closed his eyes as he finished talking, his breath coming in short gasps that seemed to hurt him.
“What about you father?” I asked.
“Do not worry about me, I will be fine. Now get out of here, tell them to not pack anything, you must leave immediately.” He shoved me away with surprising strength.
I took one more look at him and battled with the instinct to stay with him, but when he opened his eyes again and glared at me, attempting to get out of the bed and come after me, I reluctantly left the hut.
Outside, the rain whose scent had been in the air since the break of dawn was pouring down in torrents, clouding visibility. I was crying as I made my way past the cluster of elders and shrine attendants who were huddled under the chief priests Obi, discussing in low tunes.
Grateful that the rain would help mask my tears, I walked up to my family and told them father was okay and wanted us to all go home. Mama Ukwu tried catching my eyes but I kept it downcast, not sure I could withstand her probing gaze.
It was a solemn procession, which walked across the village, buffeted by the fierce rain and howling wind.
We had walked past the circle of bare earth outside our homestead and were filing through the bamboo poles that served as gate pillars for the stone hedges that surrounded our homestead, when Mama Ukwu pulled me back and with flashing eyes demanded to know what transpired in the Chief Priest’s hut.
“The seven hills?” she asked, after listening patiently to my clap fast ranting. “Why would he want us to go to the seven hills? And Nkemjika, what did he tell you about my son? Speak up boy! What did your father say about Nkemjika?”
Fearful, in the face of Mama Ukwu’s legendary fury, rarely directed at me, I started stammering about Nkemjika having been lost in the forest as they tried to get away from the raiders, but she cut me short, clamping her palms over her ears.
“Stop Ezenna,” she begged, “stop before the gods make your words true.” She closed her eyes and appeared to think for some time.
Then she turned and preceded me through the bamboo gate to where the women and children were huddled together under the thatch kitchen trying to gain as much heat as they could from the blazing fire that was been feed by the billowing wind. I watched from a little way off as she drew the women into a tight circle, their whispered voices rising and falling with the wind. I noticed the women’s shoulders fall at her words and marvelled at the speed with which the bowed heads snapped back up and they all headed towards their various huts, calling the older children to them as they went.
Soon, in ones and twos, they exited the huts and gathered again under the thatch kitchen. Mama Ukwu beckoned to me and feeling the urgency of the moment, I jogged across the yard to stand before her smouldering gaze wondering what she meant to do.
“Ezenna,” she began, the harshness of her voice making sure my attention was undivided. “I know you know the paths between here and the twin forests. Do as you father say and lead them through the forest. Make sure you do not stop for anything. I know my husband, if he says the Northmen are here then that must be the case.” She turned to Amaoge, “did you bring the extra yams I asked to get from my hut? Ok, Eze, lead the way, make sure the little ones are kept in the middle.”
All the while she was talking I stood speechless before her, my mind straying a bit but keeping track of her words. It was when she stopped talking that I realised that she had no intention of going with us. “What about you, are you not coming with us?” I asked
“No, I have discussed with my mates,” she nodded towards my mother, Adaora’s mother and Amaoge – who appeared to be the worst hit of all, the windblown water not doing enough to hid the tears that streamed down her eyes. “Somebody will have to stay back with your father, and being the oldest, it falls to me to stay. Enough talk now, I think that is the communal gong. Trouble it says, perhaps the elders have decided to heed your father’s warning.”
And so it was, from the sacred groove deep in the forest of the ancestors near the village, the deep resonance of the Iroko gong boomed out to echo across the village to the hills and beyond, alerting those who are already outside the village, in farms and palm grooves, to be wary.
“Now go and don’t stop. Not even to look back.” Mama Ukwu hollered at us as she ran towards the other side of the village. The urgency of the Iroko gong spurred us into action and we ran toward the opposite direction.
Chapter 4
It turned out to be a mad race for the southern forest, where the dark haze in the distance showed the tree line we aimed to reach unscathed. The little ones who could not hope to match our haste found space on the backs of mothers and older siblings.
I chanced a look back and noticed that several other families had decided to join our life and death race, though they were a little further behind. Behind them on the northern slopes, a sight that chilled my blood greeted my eyes. The ululations we had heard earlier before Mama Ukwu screamed us into running had taken life and I could see the throats from which they emanated.
The northmen poured out of the tree line and raced towards a large flower meadow where women gathered earlier today to wash utensils and gossip about who was betrothed to whom and the other silly going-on that women found so intriguing.
A few brave warriors who heard the summons of the gong and managed to grab ancient machetes and the odd bow and arrow sallied to meet them, screaming battle cries I had until then only heard during initiation festivals when the spirits took physical form.
Even before the two armies clashed, I, thought young and unlearned in the ways of war, could see the futility of my clansmen’s attempt, for they were out numbered ten to one and faced even more odds.
Aside from the flowing headdresses that covered most of their face and the long shinny curved blades and quivers bristling with arrows, many of the Northlanders rode strange four legged beasts that stood taller than the ox the plains herdsmen drove through our valley on their way to the Two Markets two seasons ago.
Though I recalled tales of the legendary enyinya, that the chieftain of the Seven Hills claimed as prize after striking down the leader of the Northmen during the war of souls, I still marvelled at the beauty and raw power visible in the beasts every movement and the dexterity with which the riders mastered them.
I heard my mother’s call behind me and turned to discovered that I was well behind the others and even the families behind us were almost catching up with me. I turned and faced the wind again, using my arms to shield my eyes from most of the rain. I ran, heedless of the grasses that clutched at my ankles and the puddles that splashed muddy water in all directions as I stepped into them.
I almost faltered when loud clash of metals and bloodcurdling screams announced the meeting of defenders and raiders, but fear gave wings to my legs and soon I was within the tree line, crutching the forest floor, my heart beating wildly within my ribs as I fought for air.
I managed to catch my breath and crawled to the forest edge where I lay looking back forlornly at the village, past the other families who were just then reaching the first trees. Right before my eyes, I saw the fate of the last defender sealed as several arrows found painful purchase on his person, and the first wisps of smoke from huts that the riders had set alight. I was about to turn my back on the carnage when I noticed two young women run out from behind a hedge near our homestead and make for us. They had gotten about halfway to where I lay under the yellowish leaves of a young palm tree and I was contemplating moving into the open to call them to us when an all black enyinya, with a raider in all black astride, darted out after them from the village.
The girls were making good time and judging from the distance they had covered and the speed with which they were going I felt they would reach the safety of the forest before the galloping beast and rider. The others had also noticed the running girls and some of the younger ones were shouting out encouragements, forgetting for a brief spell, the peril that hung over us all.
Suddenly the rider, seeing the futility of pursuit, stopped and pulled out a long staff that glittered in the half-light of the storm-ridden sky and pointed it at the girls. What followed was so strange it left me confused and frightened to my bones – It was later that I understood what I saw. There was first a flash of light from the tip of the staff and almost immediately, one of the girls screamed and stumbled, mumbled something to the other girl and collapsed like a sack. Within this period, I heard a loud booming sound, reminiscence of the thunder like sounds we heard earlier. Again, the rider fiddled with his stick and aimed at the other girl who had then resumed running -this time with more urgency. The staff flashed and the loud boom followed the girl’s scream. She stumbled but did not fall. Smoke curled out from the strange stick even as the rider fiddled with it again. Before he could aim it properly, the staggering girl was already within the tree line. All the same, he aimed where she disappeared, which was about an arms length from me, and there was that flash and sharp report again as a tree branch shattered very close to me.
It was then that I understood that the strange stick possessed some sort of power and that the thunder like sounds we heard earlier was reports from whatever force it was that exudes from the stick.
I watched as the rider turned and rode back to the burning village, and followed his progress until he was lost in the smog that was springing up all around the village. Thereafter, I ran to where my mother and another woman were tending the girl who had wounds on her arms that startlingly bore jagged and blackened edges very similar to father’s, only hers appeared not to be as dangerous.
“We have to leave now.” I said to mother, noticing for the first time that there was no older male among the gathered families, “the Northmen will come this way once they are through with the village.”
Mother did not reply, not with words exactly, she nodded her head and resumed tying up the girl’s arm with strips of bark torn from a medicinal sapling abundant in this part of the forest.
We left the forest edge a few moments later and took the mushroom path that cuts through the evil forest--a place women and children would not normally tread alone without one or two adult male escorts. The path is rocky at most with little space enough for two people to walk abreast, so we walked in a single file trying our best to avoid looking at the clay pots and rotten raffia maths that told the sad story of generations of twins and other unfortunate souls the gods decreed unclean. After trudging several shadow lengths, we left the evil forest behind us and continued until we reached the river valley where the great Mmamu River, travelling from the land of the seven hills, met with the seasonal Ota stream. The heavy rain had swollen the river and the surging currents killed our hopes of crossing over immediately. If the rain does not stop soon, we would have no option but to wait until the next day, a very dangerous choice we had no say in what so ever.
Chapter 5
We found shelter under a slight overhang shielded from sight by lush green elephant grasses and tick shrubs. By now, the rain had reduced in intensity and visibility was much better. The need to know the fate of father and Mama Ukwu drew me back to the forest edge and I defied both my mother’s objections and my fear of the evil forest. I made better time since there was no child or sobbing woman to slow me down; in a few moments I was behind the young palm tree under which I lay a few shadow lengths before, my heart pounding with exertion. Of the other villagers who we shared this space before, there was no sign.
Before me was an uninterrupted view of most of the valley bottom that situates my village, communal stream and vegetable patches that the women cultivate in the dry season. Though most of the village was shrouded by dense smoke from burning huts whose flame still defied the rain, I was still able to see through now and then. Straining my eyes, I briefly scanned the knot of villagers gathered in a loose circle in the village square before turning my sights towards the herbalist’s lodge, which is set apart from the village and hidden by the tall ogbu – an evergreen tree – hedge that surrounds it. Though I was crouched on high ground, I could only see the elephant skull on the roof of the herbalists lodge, but even that little I could see bespoke doom. Milky white smoke exuded from the thatch to enshroud the ogbu hedges and, soon, the roof, with tick white smoke within which tongues of flame leaped here and there. My heart faltered, I knew what that meant.
A sudden clamour coming from the village square arrested my interest on the burning hut and its significance. I turned to look and a sight that put a tight seal on the sobs that was welling up in my chest greeted me.
It happened that some bold hearted captives decided to make a dash for it, perhaps hoping the shifting smoke will give cover enough for some to make it into the surrounding forests and safety. Choosing to run in different directions, they confused the raiders who ran, first, after one group, then the other. Frustrated by the antics of the escapes, one of the Northmen lifted his magic staff and just like before, the tip flashed and a running young man screamed and fell, never to get up. The others kept on running and other staffs flashed and boomed while tightly strung long bows sang. Horrified by the killings, the captives left in the village square, as if on queue, attacked the raiders, fighting with bare hands and anything that came to hand.
Death came again to the valley, in form of well-aimed arrows, a slashing sword, or the magic of the deadly staff that strikes a man too far away for an arrow’s reach. The northmen died too, screaming under the onslaught of maddened women, or facing the business end of a knife hastily snatched from the dying hands of a colleague or with broken necks from well-executed throws by the few wrestlers amongst the captives who fought with the knowledge that it is either death or escape. Death came swiftly for some and others had to face the painful wait that all men dreaded.
It ended as suddenly as it had began, some of my clansmen made it into the forest. In the village square, the few that still fought on screamed in anguish as the great hoofs of the giant beasts trampled them under foot.
Though many of my clan’s men ran by, I did not try to call their attention for I reasoned that I was better off not joining in their mad race. But when I noticed that the Northmen, now without captives – which my father said was the main reason they raid this parts – were pointing towards the southern forest, I turned and ran as fast as my legs could carry me, back to where my family awaited news.
I was twelve years old when I encountered the raiders from the northlands for the first time. I still remember that very morning as if it is today.
It was a late sunrise and the thin sliver of a last trimester moon still bejewelled the ash-grey sky. The last of the morning cockcrow had echoed across our bowl shaped valley, calling late risers to answer the melody of wakefulness. All appeared drab, without mirth, awaiting the infusion of the crimson rays of the summer sun, which would soon crest the twin peaks of Enu-Ejima to bath this valley with radiance, only then will the hidden beauty of this land, appear in all her glory.
Though I had seen this spectacle a thousand times, I eagerly awaited its coming with awed eyes each day. My young mind was yet to come to terms with the reflection of light off the lush green leaves and the flutter of forest birds as they welcomed the new day with their cries. Today I knew it would come late, just as it had been doing for several weeks now – The old ones said the gods sent it on an errand, I did not argue for it was above my mind’s reach to contemplate the hidden ways of the gods.
I lay back on my raffia mat, spread just inside the door of the round earthen hut I shared with my siblings; looking again towards the distant peaks, I sought that telltale shimmer that would send me running towards the eastern wall of our homestead where my vigil heralded the rising sun. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I tarried, hoping that time spent counting the bamboo poles that held up the thatch and raffia roof would ease the pain of waiting.
I actually heard my name the first time, I did not answer and did not expect a reprimanded for that since it was common knowledge that it was perilous to answer calls from sources unknown, or one might acknowledge a spirit’s call and follow it to the land of the dead within an infant’s heartbeat.
As a result, I was seriously peeved when Adaora, my ill-tempered elder sister, stormed into the hut and upturned a calabash of cold rainwater on me. I jumped up screaming and rushed after her. Being more nimble than I am, she easily kept me at bay, sidestepping my attempts to grab her and sink my teeth into her calf.
She took to running around the thatch kitchen our mothers used in the rainy season. I followed her gamely, though I knew I did not stand a chance of catching up with her but too infuriated to care.
Guessing I was growing weaker, she changed direction and ran towards me, coming close enough for my seeking hands to grasp her waist clothe, barely, then skipped away before I could gain purchase.
Frustration brought quick tears to my eyes and sobs, long held in check, burst fourth with ululations loud enough to bring our mothers running to investigate.
Mama Ukwu, father’s eldest wife, was the first on the scene, her ample bosom jingling in the grip of momentum and gravity.
“Who or what is making that boy cry?” she asked, bearing down on Adaora who was then cowering, her mischievous smile having faded off at her first glimpse of mama Ukwu’s fury.
“I did not do anything to him. I only woke him up with water since he was sleeping like a hyena.” Adaora said, drawing away from Mama Ukwu as much as she could dare without admitting too much guilt.
“And you would know how a hyena sleeps? I sent you to call him to eat not to cause him pain.” Mama Ukwu moved with sudden swiftness that belied her size, grabbed Adaora by the crook of her skinny arm, and pulled her tight against her body. “My husband it is your turn to retaliate.” She said, looking at me.
Adaora glared fiercely at me as I tiptoed towards her, daring me to attempt anything. I placed my hands on her forearm to protect me from any sudden move from her and bent my head, readying my mouth to give her a bite. She winched as my teeth encountered her bare back, but when it only glazed her flesh and left no mark, she smiled triumphantly, knowing even then that I did not have the heart to hurt her, not in this circumstance anyway.
For a bit, Mama Ukwu looked strangely at me, and then struck the grinning Adaora a fierce blow across her woven head, sending her sprawling.
Screaming her lungs out, she ran towards father’s hut at the centre of our homestead. Apparently, she was unaware that father had gone to the Twin Forest with Nkemjika our elder brother, to fetch herbs and the special wood father uses for spirit masks. Father is her usual ally and would have come roaring out in her defence.
Adaora’s mother, father’s youngest wife – my mother is second and Mama Ukwu is the undisputed matriarch of the homestead – who was sweeping the front compound – Amaoge, Nkemjika’s young wife, having taken over the sweeping of the backyard and around the yam barn – looked up with indifference as her daughter ran by. Even if she were inclined to defend her, something she was not inclined to do, she would never dare challenge the authority of Mama Ukwu, who ruled the women and children of our household with a fair, but firm hand.
Of the wives in our homestead, Amaoge was the one closest to us. She was still young enough to join in our games and still impressionistic enough to enjoy the nightly story telling sessions in my mother’s hut. A situation that would soon change judging by the observation of Mama Ukwu’s neighbourhood gossip club, who avowed that soon, when her tummy starts swelling, the child in her would give way to the maternal instinct that was inevitable. Though this piece of gossip was not for my ears, I repeated what I overhead to the hearing of my father and he rewarded me with a few well-placed slaps to straighten my wayward mouth.
I could not resist sticking out my tongue at the sobbing Adaora as I passed her where she was sprawled across father’s threshold, and easily side stepped the missile she sent hurtling my way. It was gratifying to hear her cries intensify as I entered Mama Ukwu’s hut. Surely, this bawling would continue until father returned, by which time the reason for the tears would have faded away and whatever titbit he brought her from the forest would serve to pacify her.
Chapter 2
I was sitting squat under the raffia sunscreen outside Mama Ukwu’s hut, polishing off the tasty burnt under-layer of last night’s meal, yam porridge spiced with pumpkin leaf, when the first whisper of trouble reached my ears –You know that feeling of unease, usually accompanied by goose pimples and rivulets of icy sweat. In this case, an unusual deep silence truncated by a noisy flight of birds followed by a silence that was much deeper than before, was the culprit, or so I thought.
I looked up from my meal to discover that I was not the only one touched by the change. Adaora’s mother had stopped sweeping, long raffia broom held poised in her hands. Close by, my mother was straightening from her labours beside the tripartite stone hearth, a trickle of tears on her cheeks that glistened in the morning light and the faint wisp of smoke from her well-arranged logs attested to the seriousness of her battle with the fire gods. Even Adaora had let off sobbing and was looking towards the northern forest like everyone else.
I Left my erstwhile intriguing pot and walked towards the entrance, feeling the tension generated by the shared unease. Mama Ukwu had come out from the yam barn where she was collecting the yams father had placed there earlier for the day’s meal. Her inquiry met a collective blank stare.
I ignored her call to return and continued walking towards the entrance. I had almost reached the woven bamboo door when a loud boom broke the deep silence. We all looked instinctively skywards. We were not alarmed initially, for it sounded very much like thunder. The sky that greeted our inquiring eyes showed signs of a coming storm, and the scent of rain filtered through the air. Across the length of the village, children picked up the rain song and it echoed across the valley. It appeared that the cause of the feeling of unease did not dwell in the world of the younger children, and whatever it was had passed.
Still, it bothered me when I noticed at second glance that while the rain clouds were to the west, the thunder like noise appeared to have come from the north, towards the northern forests where an ill-used path forked. One route snaking into the Silent Hill on its way to Ugwunasa (the land of the Seven Hills) and the other ran across the hills to the lowlands of the plainsmen and onwards to lands lost in myth.
It was through this path that father and Nkemjika usually pass on their way to the twin forest. Father was the village herbalist and wood carver. On certain days, marked by the phase of the moon, he headed to the edge of the dreaded twin forest to collect herbs and the special wood he used for the spirit masks. Nkemjika, who was expected to take over the reigns after father, usually went with him, to help carry and as part of his education – to familiarize him with the herb lore.
The herb lore makes it imperative that they collect between the deeper points of the night an early morning when the night spirits were heading home to sleep and too tired to prevent taking of plants sacred to them -or so father said.
I had not reached the age when I would have to choose which vocation to follow. Since my father battered his herbs and masks for food, my family really had little need for farming and others did much of the cultivation of our vast farmland as payment for their healings. This was no disadvantage what so ever for only the chief priest’s yam barn was bigger than father’s was. I hated the smell of rotting roots and the sickly sweet scent of freshly pound herbs reminds me too much of illness, which I loathe, so the being an herbalist was way out of the question. Though I inherited father’s knack for carving, I prefer carving out things I see in a piece of wood, animate objects and abstract objects, not the spirit masks that father created – Much to his disappointment, I must say.
My cousin Mbachu, just two seasons older than I, was already in The Land of The Seven Hills, studying the finer points of the four mouthed flute under the tutelage of Obele Okwu The Great, a fact that my uncle, his father, stressed every half chance he got. I could not stop wondering why he thought it a thing of pride that his son was seen carrying the loud mouthed bard’s flute in the two markets of Ugwu-nasa, me, I rather be the bard and others run my errands.
Though I am yet to reach the age when that decision would be taken, I had made it known to father that the lore of the night hunters excited me as much as the chants of the priest-like heralds who carry the tale of our time and the times long gone by in their heads. My admission did not distress my father for the ability to hold two vocations was considered admirable and encouraged. Moreover, the oral historians got almost as much reverence as the priests and herbalists.
Caught up in the throes of daydream, where I floated around an imagined future greatness where I serenade the whole clan with recitations of the great deeds of one hallowed ancestor after another, I barely caught the sound of a second loud boom. I was still shrugging off my reverie, albeit reluctantly, when the rumour of screams and bellows reached us by way of the Northern Forest. Since I was already near the exit, I was the first to reach the bare hard-parked earth outside our homestead. From where a clear view of the Northern forest lay open to the eyes.
Our nearest neighbour, Mazi Odilo the basket weaver, was already standing at the edge of the bare patch where the short hardy grass that began at the forest edge met the taller grasses around the village. Here, the trampling of children at play and the stamping of maidens practicing the latest dance steps for the moonlight dances across the years had rid the oddly circular shaped portion of all but a few hardy grasses – though stunted and off-coloured – that clung stubbornly to a bruised life, no matter how pitiful.
I walked over to them – the sound of our bamboo gate closing telling me that some of my family followed me out – and sidled close to Mazi Odilo who nodded towards the distant tree line.
“I think the noise is coming from there.” He addressed no one in particular, though it was Mama Ukwu who had questioned him, inquiring about the source of the loud noise that we all seem to have understood to be some kind of thunder.
Before she had a chance to answer, we spied a figure running towards the village from the forest.
Since the village was situated on high grounds within a bowl shaped valley, most of the slopes slant towards the village and only the western forest, which led to the Swamp lands, was at the same level with the valley bottom. This advantage of site availed us a clear view of the surrounding hills and the edge of forest that blankets them.
It was Adaora who first remarked that the running man moved somewhat like father, a comment that earned her the ire of Mama Ukwu who scolded her for talking out of turn. But when I peered at the figure that had then gotten closer, I also saw that, apart from running with father’s wide gait, he was of the same built and carriage.
“Adaora is right,” I said, looking across at Mama Ukwu who had her palm across her forehead, blotting out the morning haze as she tried to see the running man better – not that she can ever hope to match the keen eyes of the adolescent. “That man is surely father and he is shouting.”
“Youngman, can you make out what he is saying?” Mazi Odilo inquired.
I cupped my ears and tilted my head towards the northward slope. By trying very hard, I was able sieve through the noise of the coming rain and the howling wind and caught a whiff of what he was shouting continually. Baffled, I removed my hand from my ear and turned askance toward Mazi Odilo.
“What is it my boy?” he asked, searching my face.
“I hear what he is saying but I don’t understand it.” I answered.
“What does he say?”
“He is shouting ‘the Northmen are coming’ over and over.”
At my words, a change came over the older people within ear shoot; they all went silent and exchanged startled looks. Mazi Odilo beckoned to his son and whispered briefly in his ear and he took off towards the village square.
Though he would not answer my questions I could not help but notice the deep fear in his eyes, a fear the made him appear much older than he was. By now there was no argument as to the running man being my father for he had gotten closer, and from the way he moved he appeared to be in serious pain.
I ran towards him as he appeared to falter and grasping his hand I placed my shoulder under his armpit. I tried not to look at the jagged wound on his right rib from which blood flowed in a steady rivulet down to his thigh, coating it red.
We were almost close to the play circle where a now more substantial crowd gathered before father lost his footing and slumped onto the ground bearing me down with him. It was when he did not get up again that two of Mazi Odilo’s sons ran out under their father’s instruction and lifted him up.
Chapter Three
Together with my wailing mothers and siblings, I followed Mazi Odilo and his sons to the chief priest’s lodge which was at the other side of the village. Mama Ukwu and the other children stopped at the entrance. They only allowed me inside because father called for me –woman and male children who have not performed the coming of age rites do not usually enter the chief priest’s lodge.
Though they let me into the expansive compound, they made me wait outside the home shrine and watched from the entrance, through brief openings between jostling bodies, as the chief priest examined father’s injury carefully for several minutes before shaking his head sadly.
Soon several elders hurried into the yard and went into the hut. Their bodies blocked my view and try as much as I did I could not find a chink large enough to see through. They all exited the building together after muttering and exclaiming across several shadow lengths, only then was I allowed entrance into the hut.
Father was lying on his back facing the entrance. Somebody had wiped the blood from his body and a mixture of mashed herbs and clay covered the wound on his side. My eyes reverted from the tightly drawn muscles on his face to the now covered wound, seeing beyond the dressing to the jagged flesh and dark blood I had seen earlier. A faint shudder passed through my body as I noticed how dim his eyes looked.
I took an unconscious step back but he beckoned me closer, grasping my hand when I got within reach.
“Eze,” he began, lifting his head to look at me. “Where are your mothers?”
“They are outside; the men would not let them beyond the gate.”
My father nodded his head in acknowledgement, “I knew they will not let the women and children in, which is why I asked for you. Now listen carefully, the north men are in the forest, they attacked your brother and I as we made our way back from the high pass of Alandu. I got separated from your brother when we ran for our lives, I do not know if he is alive or if he was captured. I managed to escape because I forgot all about myself, my only thought was to get to the village and warn the elders. Now it appears my warning was in vain.”
“Why do you say that father?’ I asked, concerned about the quiver in his voice.
“You saw the elders who just left?” I shook my head affirmatively, “they represent all the kin units in this village. They came to get a firsthand account from me, and funny enough, they claim I must be mistaken, that the north men left these parts sixty seasons ago. They believe that since I was not born them I must have mistaken the slave raiders from Alor as North men. Though I have never seen a North man before, I have heard countless tales about them to be able to identify them when I see one.” He paused to catch his breath; his fore head furrowed with what I understood to be a mixture of anger and pain. Knowing him, I know he will be mightily mad the elders disregarded his warning, even after he had done this much to bring them the news.
Like every child born to these parts I had heard about the Northmen who, during the days of my father’s father, carried out raids throughout the lands bothering the plains, from the great river we hear about in traveller’s tales to the mouth of the Swamp Rivers south of here. It was because of the Northmen that our fathers moved the village from beside the Etekpe River to this place, hoping that its proximity to the land of the Seven Hills and the natural defences provided by the enclosing hills would keep the raiders out. It was a chieftain of the Seven Hills, leading and army of several forest clans that defeated the raiders at the Battle of Souls. The chief of the raiders was killed in battle and most of his men either ran away or were killed by the Hill men, whose lions fought alongside. Strange tales are told about the Northlanders and their home far away across the great river, in a land where the rain was said to fall only sparingly and the women made to hide their faces from men not their husbands least they be stolen away. It was the greatest admonition to tell a troublesome young child that the Northmen would carry him or her away.
My father gathered his strength and resumed talking, bringing me back from my flight of imagination, “The elders refuse to believe that it was the North men that attacked us in the forest, but I know what I saw. I know they will not organize anything more than a conventional defence, a show of strength, for they think my assailants are slavers from Alor, who will not dare attack a village as large as this. I am sure the Northlanders will attack soon. Ezenna, you know the forest paths very well, take your mothers to your sister’s place in the land of the seven hills. They will not want to go but you have to convince them, take the path to the twin forest. I am sure you will meet a hill man there who will lead you into the seven hills.” He closed his eyes as he finished talking, his breath coming in short gasps that seemed to hurt him.
“What about you father?” I asked.
“Do not worry about me, I will be fine. Now get out of here, tell them to not pack anything, you must leave immediately.” He shoved me away with surprising strength.
I took one more look at him and battled with the instinct to stay with him, but when he opened his eyes again and glared at me, attempting to get out of the bed and come after me, I reluctantly left the hut.
Outside, the rain whose scent had been in the air since the break of dawn was pouring down in torrents, clouding visibility. I was crying as I made my way past the cluster of elders and shrine attendants who were huddled under the chief priests Obi, discussing in low tunes.
Grateful that the rain would help mask my tears, I walked up to my family and told them father was okay and wanted us to all go home. Mama Ukwu tried catching my eyes but I kept it downcast, not sure I could withstand her probing gaze.
It was a solemn procession, which walked across the village, buffeted by the fierce rain and howling wind.
We had walked past the circle of bare earth outside our homestead and were filing through the bamboo poles that served as gate pillars for the stone hedges that surrounded our homestead, when Mama Ukwu pulled me back and with flashing eyes demanded to know what transpired in the Chief Priest’s hut.
“The seven hills?” she asked, after listening patiently to my clap fast ranting. “Why would he want us to go to the seven hills? And Nkemjika, what did he tell you about my son? Speak up boy! What did your father say about Nkemjika?”
Fearful, in the face of Mama Ukwu’s legendary fury, rarely directed at me, I started stammering about Nkemjika having been lost in the forest as they tried to get away from the raiders, but she cut me short, clamping her palms over her ears.
“Stop Ezenna,” she begged, “stop before the gods make your words true.” She closed her eyes and appeared to think for some time.
Then she turned and preceded me through the bamboo gate to where the women and children were huddled together under the thatch kitchen trying to gain as much heat as they could from the blazing fire that was been feed by the billowing wind. I watched from a little way off as she drew the women into a tight circle, their whispered voices rising and falling with the wind. I noticed the women’s shoulders fall at her words and marvelled at the speed with which the bowed heads snapped back up and they all headed towards their various huts, calling the older children to them as they went.
Soon, in ones and twos, they exited the huts and gathered again under the thatch kitchen. Mama Ukwu beckoned to me and feeling the urgency of the moment, I jogged across the yard to stand before her smouldering gaze wondering what she meant to do.
“Ezenna,” she began, the harshness of her voice making sure my attention was undivided. “I know you know the paths between here and the twin forests. Do as you father say and lead them through the forest. Make sure you do not stop for anything. I know my husband, if he says the Northmen are here then that must be the case.” She turned to Amaoge, “did you bring the extra yams I asked to get from my hut? Ok, Eze, lead the way, make sure the little ones are kept in the middle.”
All the while she was talking I stood speechless before her, my mind straying a bit but keeping track of her words. It was when she stopped talking that I realised that she had no intention of going with us. “What about you, are you not coming with us?” I asked
“No, I have discussed with my mates,” she nodded towards my mother, Adaora’s mother and Amaoge – who appeared to be the worst hit of all, the windblown water not doing enough to hid the tears that streamed down her eyes. “Somebody will have to stay back with your father, and being the oldest, it falls to me to stay. Enough talk now, I think that is the communal gong. Trouble it says, perhaps the elders have decided to heed your father’s warning.”
And so it was, from the sacred groove deep in the forest of the ancestors near the village, the deep resonance of the Iroko gong boomed out to echo across the village to the hills and beyond, alerting those who are already outside the village, in farms and palm grooves, to be wary.
“Now go and don’t stop. Not even to look back.” Mama Ukwu hollered at us as she ran towards the other side of the village. The urgency of the Iroko gong spurred us into action and we ran toward the opposite direction.
Chapter 4
It turned out to be a mad race for the southern forest, where the dark haze in the distance showed the tree line we aimed to reach unscathed. The little ones who could not hope to match our haste found space on the backs of mothers and older siblings.
I chanced a look back and noticed that several other families had decided to join our life and death race, though they were a little further behind. Behind them on the northern slopes, a sight that chilled my blood greeted my eyes. The ululations we had heard earlier before Mama Ukwu screamed us into running had taken life and I could see the throats from which they emanated.
The northmen poured out of the tree line and raced towards a large flower meadow where women gathered earlier today to wash utensils and gossip about who was betrothed to whom and the other silly going-on that women found so intriguing.
A few brave warriors who heard the summons of the gong and managed to grab ancient machetes and the odd bow and arrow sallied to meet them, screaming battle cries I had until then only heard during initiation festivals when the spirits took physical form.
Even before the two armies clashed, I, thought young and unlearned in the ways of war, could see the futility of my clansmen’s attempt, for they were out numbered ten to one and faced even more odds.
Aside from the flowing headdresses that covered most of their face and the long shinny curved blades and quivers bristling with arrows, many of the Northlanders rode strange four legged beasts that stood taller than the ox the plains herdsmen drove through our valley on their way to the Two Markets two seasons ago.
Though I recalled tales of the legendary enyinya, that the chieftain of the Seven Hills claimed as prize after striking down the leader of the Northmen during the war of souls, I still marvelled at the beauty and raw power visible in the beasts every movement and the dexterity with which the riders mastered them.
I heard my mother’s call behind me and turned to discovered that I was well behind the others and even the families behind us were almost catching up with me. I turned and faced the wind again, using my arms to shield my eyes from most of the rain. I ran, heedless of the grasses that clutched at my ankles and the puddles that splashed muddy water in all directions as I stepped into them.
I almost faltered when loud clash of metals and bloodcurdling screams announced the meeting of defenders and raiders, but fear gave wings to my legs and soon I was within the tree line, crutching the forest floor, my heart beating wildly within my ribs as I fought for air.
I managed to catch my breath and crawled to the forest edge where I lay looking back forlornly at the village, past the other families who were just then reaching the first trees. Right before my eyes, I saw the fate of the last defender sealed as several arrows found painful purchase on his person, and the first wisps of smoke from huts that the riders had set alight. I was about to turn my back on the carnage when I noticed two young women run out from behind a hedge near our homestead and make for us. They had gotten about halfway to where I lay under the yellowish leaves of a young palm tree and I was contemplating moving into the open to call them to us when an all black enyinya, with a raider in all black astride, darted out after them from the village.
The girls were making good time and judging from the distance they had covered and the speed with which they were going I felt they would reach the safety of the forest before the galloping beast and rider. The others had also noticed the running girls and some of the younger ones were shouting out encouragements, forgetting for a brief spell, the peril that hung over us all.
Suddenly the rider, seeing the futility of pursuit, stopped and pulled out a long staff that glittered in the half-light of the storm-ridden sky and pointed it at the girls. What followed was so strange it left me confused and frightened to my bones – It was later that I understood what I saw. There was first a flash of light from the tip of the staff and almost immediately, one of the girls screamed and stumbled, mumbled something to the other girl and collapsed like a sack. Within this period, I heard a loud booming sound, reminiscence of the thunder like sounds we heard earlier. Again, the rider fiddled with his stick and aimed at the other girl who had then resumed running -this time with more urgency. The staff flashed and the loud boom followed the girl’s scream. She stumbled but did not fall. Smoke curled out from the strange stick even as the rider fiddled with it again. Before he could aim it properly, the staggering girl was already within the tree line. All the same, he aimed where she disappeared, which was about an arms length from me, and there was that flash and sharp report again as a tree branch shattered very close to me.
It was then that I understood that the strange stick possessed some sort of power and that the thunder like sounds we heard earlier was reports from whatever force it was that exudes from the stick.
I watched as the rider turned and rode back to the burning village, and followed his progress until he was lost in the smog that was springing up all around the village. Thereafter, I ran to where my mother and another woman were tending the girl who had wounds on her arms that startlingly bore jagged and blackened edges very similar to father’s, only hers appeared not to be as dangerous.
“We have to leave now.” I said to mother, noticing for the first time that there was no older male among the gathered families, “the Northmen will come this way once they are through with the village.”
Mother did not reply, not with words exactly, she nodded her head and resumed tying up the girl’s arm with strips of bark torn from a medicinal sapling abundant in this part of the forest.
We left the forest edge a few moments later and took the mushroom path that cuts through the evil forest--a place women and children would not normally tread alone without one or two adult male escorts. The path is rocky at most with little space enough for two people to walk abreast, so we walked in a single file trying our best to avoid looking at the clay pots and rotten raffia maths that told the sad story of generations of twins and other unfortunate souls the gods decreed unclean. After trudging several shadow lengths, we left the evil forest behind us and continued until we reached the river valley where the great Mmamu River, travelling from the land of the seven hills, met with the seasonal Ota stream. The heavy rain had swollen the river and the surging currents killed our hopes of crossing over immediately. If the rain does not stop soon, we would have no option but to wait until the next day, a very dangerous choice we had no say in what so ever.
Chapter 5
We found shelter under a slight overhang shielded from sight by lush green elephant grasses and tick shrubs. By now, the rain had reduced in intensity and visibility was much better. The need to know the fate of father and Mama Ukwu drew me back to the forest edge and I defied both my mother’s objections and my fear of the evil forest. I made better time since there was no child or sobbing woman to slow me down; in a few moments I was behind the young palm tree under which I lay a few shadow lengths before, my heart pounding with exertion. Of the other villagers who we shared this space before, there was no sign.
Before me was an uninterrupted view of most of the valley bottom that situates my village, communal stream and vegetable patches that the women cultivate in the dry season. Though most of the village was shrouded by dense smoke from burning huts whose flame still defied the rain, I was still able to see through now and then. Straining my eyes, I briefly scanned the knot of villagers gathered in a loose circle in the village square before turning my sights towards the herbalist’s lodge, which is set apart from the village and hidden by the tall ogbu – an evergreen tree – hedge that surrounds it. Though I was crouched on high ground, I could only see the elephant skull on the roof of the herbalists lodge, but even that little I could see bespoke doom. Milky white smoke exuded from the thatch to enshroud the ogbu hedges and, soon, the roof, with tick white smoke within which tongues of flame leaped here and there. My heart faltered, I knew what that meant.
A sudden clamour coming from the village square arrested my interest on the burning hut and its significance. I turned to look and a sight that put a tight seal on the sobs that was welling up in my chest greeted me.
It happened that some bold hearted captives decided to make a dash for it, perhaps hoping the shifting smoke will give cover enough for some to make it into the surrounding forests and safety. Choosing to run in different directions, they confused the raiders who ran, first, after one group, then the other. Frustrated by the antics of the escapes, one of the Northmen lifted his magic staff and just like before, the tip flashed and a running young man screamed and fell, never to get up. The others kept on running and other staffs flashed and boomed while tightly strung long bows sang. Horrified by the killings, the captives left in the village square, as if on queue, attacked the raiders, fighting with bare hands and anything that came to hand.
Death came again to the valley, in form of well-aimed arrows, a slashing sword, or the magic of the deadly staff that strikes a man too far away for an arrow’s reach. The northmen died too, screaming under the onslaught of maddened women, or facing the business end of a knife hastily snatched from the dying hands of a colleague or with broken necks from well-executed throws by the few wrestlers amongst the captives who fought with the knowledge that it is either death or escape. Death came swiftly for some and others had to face the painful wait that all men dreaded.
It ended as suddenly as it had began, some of my clansmen made it into the forest. In the village square, the few that still fought on screamed in anguish as the great hoofs of the giant beasts trampled them under foot.
Though many of my clan’s men ran by, I did not try to call their attention for I reasoned that I was better off not joining in their mad race. But when I noticed that the Northmen, now without captives – which my father said was the main reason they raid this parts – were pointing towards the southern forest, I turned and ran as fast as my legs could carry me, back to where my family awaited news.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Sunny morning at the hills foot
I was ten years old when I encountered the raiders from the north-lands for first time.
It was a late sunrise and the thin sliver of a last trimester moon still bejeweled the ash-grey sky. The last of the morning cockcrows had echoed across this valley, calling late risers to answer the melody of wakefulness. Across the length of an enchanted valley all appear drab, without mirth, awaiting the infusion of the crimson ray of the summer sun which will soon crest the twin peaks of Enu-ejima to bath this valley with her radiance, then will the hidden beauty of this land be seen in all her glory.
Though, I have seen this spectacle a thousand times, yet I eagerly await its coming with awed eyes each day. My young mind is yet to come to terms with the reflections of light off the lush green leaves and the flutter of forest birds as they welcome the new day with their cries. Today I knew it will come late, just like it had been doing for several weeks now –the old ones say it is the doing of the gods who sent it on an errand. I do not argue for it is above my minds reach to contemplate the hidden ways of the gods.
Lying back on my raffia mat, spread just inside the door of the round earthen hut I share with my siblings, I looked again towards the distant peaks, seeking for that tell-tale shimmer that will send me running towards the eastern wall of our homestead where my vigil heralds the rising sun. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I tarried, hoping that counting the bamboo poles holding up the thatch and raffia roof will ease the pain of waiting.
I actually heard my name the first time it was called. I did not answer and did not expect to be reprimanded for that since it is dangerous to answer calls from sources unknown, or one might acknowledge a spirits call and follow it to the land of the dead within an infant’s heartbeat.
I was seriously peeved when Adaora my ill tempered elder sister barged into the hut and emptied a bucketful of cold rain water on me. I jumped up screaming and rushed after her. Being more nimble than me, she easily kept me at bay, sidestepping my attempts to grab her and sink my teeth into her calf.
She took to running around the thatch kitchen our mothers use in the rainy season. I followed her gamely, knowing I did not stand a chance of catching up with her but too infuriated to care.
Guessing I was growing weaker, she changed direction and ran towards me, coming close enough for my seeking hands to grasp her waist clothe, barely, then skipping away before I could gain purchase.
Frustration brought quick tears to my eyes and sobs, long held in check, burst fourth with ululations loud enough to bring our mothers running to investigate.
Mama Ukwu, my father’s eldest wife was the first on the scene, her ample bosom jingling in the grip of momentum and gravity.
“Who or what is making that boy cry?” she inquired with vengeance, bearing down on Adaora who was then cowering, her mischievous smile having faded off at her first glimpse of mama Ukwu’s fury.
“I did not do anything to him I only woke him up with water since he was sleeping like a hyena.” Adaora said, drawing away from Mama Ukwu as much as he cold dare without admitting too much guilt.
“And you would know how a hyena sleeps? I sent you to call him to eat not to cause him pain.” Mama Ukwu moved with a sudden swiftness that belied her age, grabbing Adaora by the crook of her skinny arm she pulled her against her body. “My husband it is your turn to retaliate.” She said to me.
Adaora glared fiercely at me as I tiptoed towards her. Placing my hands on her forearm to protect me from any sudden moves from her, I bent my head, readily my mouth to give her a bite. She winched as my teeth came into contact with her bare back, but my teeth only glazed her flesh and left no mark. She smiled triumphantly, knowing even then that I did not have the heart to hurt, not in this circumstance anyway.
For a bit, Mama Ukwu looked strangely at me. Then she struck the grinning Adaora a fierce blow across her woven head sending her sprawling. Screaming her lungs out like she is want to, she ran towards fathers hut at the centre of the homestead. Apparently she was unaware that father had gone to the twin forest with Nkemjika our eldest brother to fetch herbs and wood for spirit masks. Father is her usual ally and would have come roaring out in her defence.
Adaora’s mother, father’s youngest wife,(my mother is second and Mama Ukwu is the undisputed matriarch of the homestead) who was sweeping the front compound-Amaoge, Nkemjika’s young wife, having taken over the sweeping of the backyard and around the yam barn-looked up with non indifference as her daughter ran by. Even if she was inclined to defend her, something she is not inclined to doing, she will never dare challenge the authority of Mama Ukwu who ruled the women and children of our family with a fair but firm hand.
Of the wives in our homestead Amaoge, is the one closest to us. She is still young enough to join us in our games and still impressionistic enough to enjoy the nightly story telling sessions in my mothers hut, a situation that is soon to change, judging by the observation of Mama Ukwu’s neighbourhood gossip club, who avowed that soon when her tummy starts swelling, the child in her will give way to the maternal instinct that is inevitable. Though this piece of gossip was not meant for my ears, I repeated what I overhead to the hearing of my father and was rewarded with a few well placed slaps to straighten my wayward mouth.
I could not resist sticking out my tongue at the sobbing Adaora as I passed her where she was sprawled across father’s threshold, side stepping the missile she sent hurtling my way. It was gratifying to here her cries intensify as I entered Mama Ukwu’s hut. Surely this bawling will continue until father returns, by which time the reason for the tears would have been long forgotten and whatever titbit he brought for her from the forest will serve to pacify her.
I was sitting squat under the raffia sunscreen outside Mama Ukwu’s hut, polishing off the tasty burnt under layer of last night’s meal of yam porridge spiced with pumpkin leaf when the first whisper of trouble reached my ears. You know that feeling of unease accompanied by goose pimples or/and rivulets of icy sweat. In this case it was brought about by an unusual deep silence that was truncated by a noisy flight of birds followed by a silence that was much deeper than before.
I looked up from my meal to discover that I was not the only one who was touched by the change. Adaora’s mother had stopped sweeping, bloom still held poised in her hands; close by my mother was straightening from her labours beside the tripartite stone hearth, a trickle of tears on her cheeks sparkling in the morning light and the faint wisp of smoke from her well arranged logs attested to the seriousness of her battle with the fire gods. Even Adaora had left off sobbing and was looking towards the northern forest like everyone else.
Leaving my erstwhile intriguing pot, I walked towards the entrance, feeling the tension generated by the shared unease. Mama Ukwu had come out from the yam barn where she was collecting the yams father had already selected for this day’s meal. Her inquiry as to what was amiss was met by a collective blank stare.
Ignoring her call to return, I continued walking towards the gate. I had almost reached the woven bamboo gate door when a loud boom broke the deep silence. We all looked instinctively skywards. We were not alarmed initially, for it sounded very much like thunder and the sky that greet our eyes showed signs of a coming storm and the sent of rain was actually in the air. Across the length of the village, children picked up the rain song and it echoed across the valley. It appeared that whatever it was that caused that feeling of unease, it did not dwell in the world of the younger children and, whatever it was, it has passed.
Still, it bothered me when I noticed at second glance that while the rain clouds were to the west, the thunder like noise appeared to have come from the north, towards the northern forests where an ill-used path curved into the silent hill on its way to Ugwunasa-the land of the seven hills.
It was through this path that father and Nkemjika usually walk on their way to the twin forest. Father is the village herbalist and wood carver, on certain days, marked by the phase of the moon, he heads to the edge of the dreaded twin forest to collect herbs and the special wood he uses for the spirit masks. Nkemjika, who is expected to take over reigns after father, usually goes with him, to help carry and as part of his education-to familiarize him with the herb lore.
The herb lore makes it imperative that they collect between the deeper point of the night an early morning when the night spirits are heading home to sleep and too tired to prevent the taking of plants sacred to them, or so father says.
I had not reached the age when I would have to choose which vocation I will follow. Since my father batters his herbs and masks for food, my family really have little need for farming and much of the cultivation of our vast farm land are done by people as payment for their healings. This is no disadvantage what-so-ever for only the chief priest’s yam barn is bigger than my father’s. I hate the smell of rotting roots and the sickle sweet scent of freshly pound herbs reminds me too much of illness, which I loathe. Though I have knack for carving, I rather prefer carving out things I see in a piece o wood, personal things like animals and abstract object not the spirit masks that father creates-to his great disappointment, I must say.
My cousin Mbachu, who is only two seasons older than me, is already at the land of the seven hills studying the finer points of the four mouthed flute under the tutelage of Obele Okwu the great, a fact that my uncle, his father, stresses every half chance he gets. I can not stop wondering why he thinks it’s a thing of pride for his son to be seen carrying the loud mouthed bards flute in the two markets of ugwu nasa, me I rather be the bard while others run my errands.
Though I am yet to reach the age when that decision will be taken, I have made it known to my father that the lore of the night hunters excites me as much as the chanting of the priest-like heralds who carries the tale of our time and the times long gone by in their heads. My admission did not distress my father for the ability to hold two vocations is admired and encouraged. Moreover, the oral historians get almost as much reverence as the priests and herbalists.
Caught up in the throes of daydreaming, floating around my imagined future greatness where I serenade the whole clan with recitations of the great deeds of one hallowed ancestor after another, I barely caught the sound of a second loud boom. I was still shrugging off my reverie, albeit reluctantly, when the rumour of screams and bellows reached us by way of the silent forest. Since I was already near the exit, I was the first to reach the bare hard parked earth outside our homestead. From where a clear view of the northern lay open to the eyes.
Our nearest neighbour, Mazi Odilo the basket weaver, was already standing at the edge of the bare patched where the short hardy grass that began at the forest edge met the taller grasses around the village. Here, the trampling of children at play and the stamping of maidens practicing the latest dance steps for the moonlight dances across the years had rid the oddly circular shaped position of all but a few hardy grasses – though stunted and of coloured - clung to a bruised life, no matter how pitiful it is.
I walked over to them; the sound of our bamboo gate closing told me that some of my family followed me out, and sidled close to Mazi Odilo who nodded towards the distant tree line.
“I think the noise is coming from there.” He said, addressing no one in particular, though it was Mama Ukwu who answered him, inquiring about the source of the loud noise that all seemed to have understood to not be thunder. Before he had a chance to answer, we spied a figure running towards the villages from the forest.
Since the village is situated within a bowl shaped valley on a small hillock, most of the slopes slant towards the village and only the southern forest that leads towards the seven hills is at the same level with the valley bottom. This advantage of site availed us a clear view the surrounding hills and the edge of the forests that blankets them.
It was who first remarked that the running man moves somewhat like father, a comment that earned her the ire of Mama Ukwu who scolded her for talking out of turn. But when I peered at the figure that had gotten closer, I also saw that, apart from running with father’s wide gait, he was of the same built and carriage.
“Adaora is right,” I said, looking across at Mama Ukwu who had her palm across her forehead, blotting out the morning haze as she tried to see the running man better – not that she can ever hope to match the keen eyes of the adolescent. “That man is surely father and he is shouting something.”
“Youngman, can you make out what he is saying?” Mazi Odilo inquired.
I cupped my ears and tilted my head towards the northward slope. By trying very hard, I was able sieve through the noise of the coming rain and the howling wind and caught a bit of what he was shouting continually. Baffled, I removed my hand from my ear and turned askance toward Mazi Odilo.
“What is it my boy?” he asked, searching my face.
“I hear what he is saying but I don’t understand it.” I answered.
“What does he say?”
“He is shouting ‘the northmen are coming’ over and over again.”
At my words, a change came over the older people within ear shoot; they all went silent and exchanged startled looks. Mazi Odilo beckoned to his son and whispered briefly in his ear and he took off towards the village square.
Though he would not answer my questions I could not help but notice the deep fear in his eyes, a fear the made him appear much older than he is. By now there was no argument as to the running man is my father for he has gotten closer and from the way he moved it appeared like he is in serious pain.
I ran towards him as he appeared to falter and grasping his hand I placed my shoulder under his armpit. I tried not to look at the jagged wound on his right rib from which blood flowed in a steady rivulet down to his thigh, coating it with red.
We were almost close to play circle where a now more substantial crowd were gathered before father lost his footing and slumped onto the ground drowning me down with him. It was when he did not get up again that two of Mazi Odilo’s son’s ran out under their father’s instruction and lifted him up.
Together with my wailing mothers and siblings, I followed Mazi Odilo and his son’s to the chief priests lodge which was at the other side of the village. Mama Ukwu and the other children were made to wait at the entrance, I was only allowed inside because father called for me –woman and male children who have not performed the coming of age rites are usually not allowed inside the chief priest’s compound.
Though I was allowed into the expansive compound, I was made to wait outside the home shrine and watched from the entrance as the chief priest who examined father’s injury carefully for several minutes before shaking his head sadly.
Soon several elders hurried into the yard and were admitted to the hut. Their bodies blocked my view and try as much as I did I could not find a chink large enough to see through. They all exited the building together after shadow length mutterings and exclamations. Only then was I allowed to enter the hut.
Father was lying on his back facing the entrance when I entered. The blood has been wiped from his body and mixture of mashed herbs and clay covered the wound on his side. I my eyes reverted from the tightly drawn muscles on his face to the now covered wound, seeing beyond the dressing to the jagged flesh and dark blood I had seen earlier. I faint shudder passed through my body as I noticed how dim his eyes looked.
I took an unconscious step back but he beckoned me closer, grasping my hand when I got within reach.
“Nnamdi,” he began, lifting his head to look at me. “Where are your mothers?”
“They are outside; the men would not let them beyond the gate.”
My father shook his head affirmatively “I knew they will not let the women and children in that is why I asked for you. Now listen carefully, the north men are in the forest, I lost contact with your brother when we were attacked, I do not know if he is alive or if he was captured. I managed to escape because I forgot all about myself, my only thought was to get to the village and warn the elders. Now it appears my warning was in vain.”
“Why do you say that father?’ I asked, concerned about the quiver in his voice.
“You saw the elders who just left?” I shook my head affirmatively, “they represent all the family heads in this village. They came to get a first hand account of my story, and funny enough, they claim I must be mistaken that the north men left this parts sixty seasons ago. They believe that since I was not born them I must have mistaken the slave raiders from Alor as North men. Though I have never seen a North man before, I have heard countless tales about them to be able to identify them when I see one.” He paused to catch his breath; his fore head was furrowed with what I understood to be a mixture of anger and pain. Knowing him, I know he will be mightily mad the elder’s disregarded his warning, even after he had done this much to bring them the news.
Like every child born to these parts I have heard about the North men who several seasons before, during the day of my father’s father, were carrying out raids throughout the lands bothering the plains, from the great river we hear about in traveller’s tales to the mouth of the Swamp Rivers south of here. It was because of the North men that our fathers moved the village from beside the Etekpe River to this present site, hoping that its proximity to the land of the seven hills and the natural defences provided by the enclosing hills will keep the raiders out. It was a chieftain of the seven hills, leading and army of several forest clans that defeated the raiders at the battle of hearts. The chief of the raiders was killed in battle and most of his men either died in battle or ran away. Strange tales as told about the north men and the home far away across the great river, In a land where the rain is said to fall only sparingly and the women are made to hide their faces from men not their husbands least they be stolen away. It was the greatest admonition to tell a troublesome young child that he or she will be borne away by the North men never to return.
My father gathered his strength and continued talking “The elders refused to believe that it was the North men who attacked us in the forest but I know what I saw. I am sure they will attack the village soon. Nnamdi, you are now the man of the house, take your mothers to your sister’s place in the land of the seven hills. They will not want to go but you have to convince them, take the path to the twin forest. I am sure you will meet a hill man there who will lead you into the seven hills.” He closed his eyes as he finished talking, his breath coming in short gasps the seemed to hurt him.
“What about you father?” I asked.
“Do not worry about me, I will be fine. Now get out of here, tell them to not pack anything, you must leave immediately.” He shoved me away with surprising strength.
I took one more look at him and battled with the instinct to stay with him but when he opened his eyes again and glared at me, attempting to get out of the bed and come after me, I reluctantly left the hut.
Outside, the rain whose scent has been in the air since the break of dawn was pouring down in torrents, clouding visibility. I was crying as I made my way past the cluster of elders and shrine attendants who where huddled under the chief priests Obi, discussing in low tunes.
Grateful that the rain will help mask my tears I walked up to my family and told them father is okay and want us to all go home. Mama Ukwu tried catching my eyes but I kept it downcast, not sure I can withstand her gaze. It was a solemn procession that walked across the village, buffeted by the fierce rain and howling wind.
We had walked past the circle of bare earth outside our homestead and were filling through the bamboo poles that served as gate pillars for the earthen wall that borders our huts, when Mama Ukwu pulled me back and with flashing eyes demanded to know what transpired in the Chief Priest’s hut.
“The seven hills?” she asked, after listening patiently to my clap fast ranting. “Why would he want us to go to the seven hills? And Nkemjika, what did he tell you about my son? Speak up boy! What did your father say about Nkemjika?”
Fearful, in the face of Mama Ukwu’s legendary fury which is rarely directed at me, I started stammering about him having been lost in the forest as they tried to get away from the raiders, but she cut me short by clamping her hand’s over her ears.
“Stop Nnamdi,” she begged, “stop before the gods make your words true.” She closed her eyes and appeared to think for some time.
She turned and preceded me into the
It was a late sunrise and the thin sliver of a last trimester moon still bejeweled the ash-grey sky. The last of the morning cockcrows had echoed across this valley, calling late risers to answer the melody of wakefulness. Across the length of an enchanted valley all appear drab, without mirth, awaiting the infusion of the crimson ray of the summer sun which will soon crest the twin peaks of Enu-ejima to bath this valley with her radiance, then will the hidden beauty of this land be seen in all her glory.
Though, I have seen this spectacle a thousand times, yet I eagerly await its coming with awed eyes each day. My young mind is yet to come to terms with the reflections of light off the lush green leaves and the flutter of forest birds as they welcome the new day with their cries. Today I knew it will come late, just like it had been doing for several weeks now –the old ones say it is the doing of the gods who sent it on an errand. I do not argue for it is above my minds reach to contemplate the hidden ways of the gods.
Lying back on my raffia mat, spread just inside the door of the round earthen hut I share with my siblings, I looked again towards the distant peaks, seeking for that tell-tale shimmer that will send me running towards the eastern wall of our homestead where my vigil heralds the rising sun. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I tarried, hoping that counting the bamboo poles holding up the thatch and raffia roof will ease the pain of waiting.
I actually heard my name the first time it was called. I did not answer and did not expect to be reprimanded for that since it is dangerous to answer calls from sources unknown, or one might acknowledge a spirits call and follow it to the land of the dead within an infant’s heartbeat.
I was seriously peeved when Adaora my ill tempered elder sister barged into the hut and emptied a bucketful of cold rain water on me. I jumped up screaming and rushed after her. Being more nimble than me, she easily kept me at bay, sidestepping my attempts to grab her and sink my teeth into her calf.
She took to running around the thatch kitchen our mothers use in the rainy season. I followed her gamely, knowing I did not stand a chance of catching up with her but too infuriated to care.
Guessing I was growing weaker, she changed direction and ran towards me, coming close enough for my seeking hands to grasp her waist clothe, barely, then skipping away before I could gain purchase.
Frustration brought quick tears to my eyes and sobs, long held in check, burst fourth with ululations loud enough to bring our mothers running to investigate.
Mama Ukwu, my father’s eldest wife was the first on the scene, her ample bosom jingling in the grip of momentum and gravity.
“Who or what is making that boy cry?” she inquired with vengeance, bearing down on Adaora who was then cowering, her mischievous smile having faded off at her first glimpse of mama Ukwu’s fury.
“I did not do anything to him I only woke him up with water since he was sleeping like a hyena.” Adaora said, drawing away from Mama Ukwu as much as he cold dare without admitting too much guilt.
“And you would know how a hyena sleeps? I sent you to call him to eat not to cause him pain.” Mama Ukwu moved with a sudden swiftness that belied her age, grabbing Adaora by the crook of her skinny arm she pulled her against her body. “My husband it is your turn to retaliate.” She said to me.
Adaora glared fiercely at me as I tiptoed towards her. Placing my hands on her forearm to protect me from any sudden moves from her, I bent my head, readily my mouth to give her a bite. She winched as my teeth came into contact with her bare back, but my teeth only glazed her flesh and left no mark. She smiled triumphantly, knowing even then that I did not have the heart to hurt, not in this circumstance anyway.
For a bit, Mama Ukwu looked strangely at me. Then she struck the grinning Adaora a fierce blow across her woven head sending her sprawling. Screaming her lungs out like she is want to, she ran towards fathers hut at the centre of the homestead. Apparently she was unaware that father had gone to the twin forest with Nkemjika our eldest brother to fetch herbs and wood for spirit masks. Father is her usual ally and would have come roaring out in her defence.
Adaora’s mother, father’s youngest wife,(my mother is second and Mama Ukwu is the undisputed matriarch of the homestead) who was sweeping the front compound-Amaoge, Nkemjika’s young wife, having taken over the sweeping of the backyard and around the yam barn-looked up with non indifference as her daughter ran by. Even if she was inclined to defend her, something she is not inclined to doing, she will never dare challenge the authority of Mama Ukwu who ruled the women and children of our family with a fair but firm hand.
Of the wives in our homestead Amaoge, is the one closest to us. She is still young enough to join us in our games and still impressionistic enough to enjoy the nightly story telling sessions in my mothers hut, a situation that is soon to change, judging by the observation of Mama Ukwu’s neighbourhood gossip club, who avowed that soon when her tummy starts swelling, the child in her will give way to the maternal instinct that is inevitable. Though this piece of gossip was not meant for my ears, I repeated what I overhead to the hearing of my father and was rewarded with a few well placed slaps to straighten my wayward mouth.
I could not resist sticking out my tongue at the sobbing Adaora as I passed her where she was sprawled across father’s threshold, side stepping the missile she sent hurtling my way. It was gratifying to here her cries intensify as I entered Mama Ukwu’s hut. Surely this bawling will continue until father returns, by which time the reason for the tears would have been long forgotten and whatever titbit he brought for her from the forest will serve to pacify her.
I was sitting squat under the raffia sunscreen outside Mama Ukwu’s hut, polishing off the tasty burnt under layer of last night’s meal of yam porridge spiced with pumpkin leaf when the first whisper of trouble reached my ears. You know that feeling of unease accompanied by goose pimples or/and rivulets of icy sweat. In this case it was brought about by an unusual deep silence that was truncated by a noisy flight of birds followed by a silence that was much deeper than before.
I looked up from my meal to discover that I was not the only one who was touched by the change. Adaora’s mother had stopped sweeping, bloom still held poised in her hands; close by my mother was straightening from her labours beside the tripartite stone hearth, a trickle of tears on her cheeks sparkling in the morning light and the faint wisp of smoke from her well arranged logs attested to the seriousness of her battle with the fire gods. Even Adaora had left off sobbing and was looking towards the northern forest like everyone else.
Leaving my erstwhile intriguing pot, I walked towards the entrance, feeling the tension generated by the shared unease. Mama Ukwu had come out from the yam barn where she was collecting the yams father had already selected for this day’s meal. Her inquiry as to what was amiss was met by a collective blank stare.
Ignoring her call to return, I continued walking towards the gate. I had almost reached the woven bamboo gate door when a loud boom broke the deep silence. We all looked instinctively skywards. We were not alarmed initially, for it sounded very much like thunder and the sky that greet our eyes showed signs of a coming storm and the sent of rain was actually in the air. Across the length of the village, children picked up the rain song and it echoed across the valley. It appeared that whatever it was that caused that feeling of unease, it did not dwell in the world of the younger children and, whatever it was, it has passed.
Still, it bothered me when I noticed at second glance that while the rain clouds were to the west, the thunder like noise appeared to have come from the north, towards the northern forests where an ill-used path curved into the silent hill on its way to Ugwunasa-the land of the seven hills.
It was through this path that father and Nkemjika usually walk on their way to the twin forest. Father is the village herbalist and wood carver, on certain days, marked by the phase of the moon, he heads to the edge of the dreaded twin forest to collect herbs and the special wood he uses for the spirit masks. Nkemjika, who is expected to take over reigns after father, usually goes with him, to help carry and as part of his education-to familiarize him with the herb lore.
The herb lore makes it imperative that they collect between the deeper point of the night an early morning when the night spirits are heading home to sleep and too tired to prevent the taking of plants sacred to them, or so father says.
I had not reached the age when I would have to choose which vocation I will follow. Since my father batters his herbs and masks for food, my family really have little need for farming and much of the cultivation of our vast farm land are done by people as payment for their healings. This is no disadvantage what-so-ever for only the chief priest’s yam barn is bigger than my father’s. I hate the smell of rotting roots and the sickle sweet scent of freshly pound herbs reminds me too much of illness, which I loathe. Though I have knack for carving, I rather prefer carving out things I see in a piece o wood, personal things like animals and abstract object not the spirit masks that father creates-to his great disappointment, I must say.
My cousin Mbachu, who is only two seasons older than me, is already at the land of the seven hills studying the finer points of the four mouthed flute under the tutelage of Obele Okwu the great, a fact that my uncle, his father, stresses every half chance he gets. I can not stop wondering why he thinks it’s a thing of pride for his son to be seen carrying the loud mouthed bards flute in the two markets of ugwu nasa, me I rather be the bard while others run my errands.
Though I am yet to reach the age when that decision will be taken, I have made it known to my father that the lore of the night hunters excites me as much as the chanting of the priest-like heralds who carries the tale of our time and the times long gone by in their heads. My admission did not distress my father for the ability to hold two vocations is admired and encouraged. Moreover, the oral historians get almost as much reverence as the priests and herbalists.
Caught up in the throes of daydreaming, floating around my imagined future greatness where I serenade the whole clan with recitations of the great deeds of one hallowed ancestor after another, I barely caught the sound of a second loud boom. I was still shrugging off my reverie, albeit reluctantly, when the rumour of screams and bellows reached us by way of the silent forest. Since I was already near the exit, I was the first to reach the bare hard parked earth outside our homestead. From where a clear view of the northern lay open to the eyes.
Our nearest neighbour, Mazi Odilo the basket weaver, was already standing at the edge of the bare patched where the short hardy grass that began at the forest edge met the taller grasses around the village. Here, the trampling of children at play and the stamping of maidens practicing the latest dance steps for the moonlight dances across the years had rid the oddly circular shaped position of all but a few hardy grasses – though stunted and of coloured - clung to a bruised life, no matter how pitiful it is.
I walked over to them; the sound of our bamboo gate closing told me that some of my family followed me out, and sidled close to Mazi Odilo who nodded towards the distant tree line.
“I think the noise is coming from there.” He said, addressing no one in particular, though it was Mama Ukwu who answered him, inquiring about the source of the loud noise that all seemed to have understood to not be thunder. Before he had a chance to answer, we spied a figure running towards the villages from the forest.
Since the village is situated within a bowl shaped valley on a small hillock, most of the slopes slant towards the village and only the southern forest that leads towards the seven hills is at the same level with the valley bottom. This advantage of site availed us a clear view the surrounding hills and the edge of the forests that blankets them.
It was who first remarked that the running man moves somewhat like father, a comment that earned her the ire of Mama Ukwu who scolded her for talking out of turn. But when I peered at the figure that had gotten closer, I also saw that, apart from running with father’s wide gait, he was of the same built and carriage.
“Adaora is right,” I said, looking across at Mama Ukwu who had her palm across her forehead, blotting out the morning haze as she tried to see the running man better – not that she can ever hope to match the keen eyes of the adolescent. “That man is surely father and he is shouting something.”
“Youngman, can you make out what he is saying?” Mazi Odilo inquired.
I cupped my ears and tilted my head towards the northward slope. By trying very hard, I was able sieve through the noise of the coming rain and the howling wind and caught a bit of what he was shouting continually. Baffled, I removed my hand from my ear and turned askance toward Mazi Odilo.
“What is it my boy?” he asked, searching my face.
“I hear what he is saying but I don’t understand it.” I answered.
“What does he say?”
“He is shouting ‘the northmen are coming’ over and over again.”
At my words, a change came over the older people within ear shoot; they all went silent and exchanged startled looks. Mazi Odilo beckoned to his son and whispered briefly in his ear and he took off towards the village square.
Though he would not answer my questions I could not help but notice the deep fear in his eyes, a fear the made him appear much older than he is. By now there was no argument as to the running man is my father for he has gotten closer and from the way he moved it appeared like he is in serious pain.
I ran towards him as he appeared to falter and grasping his hand I placed my shoulder under his armpit. I tried not to look at the jagged wound on his right rib from which blood flowed in a steady rivulet down to his thigh, coating it with red.
We were almost close to play circle where a now more substantial crowd were gathered before father lost his footing and slumped onto the ground drowning me down with him. It was when he did not get up again that two of Mazi Odilo’s son’s ran out under their father’s instruction and lifted him up.
Together with my wailing mothers and siblings, I followed Mazi Odilo and his son’s to the chief priests lodge which was at the other side of the village. Mama Ukwu and the other children were made to wait at the entrance, I was only allowed inside because father called for me –woman and male children who have not performed the coming of age rites are usually not allowed inside the chief priest’s compound.
Though I was allowed into the expansive compound, I was made to wait outside the home shrine and watched from the entrance as the chief priest who examined father’s injury carefully for several minutes before shaking his head sadly.
Soon several elders hurried into the yard and were admitted to the hut. Their bodies blocked my view and try as much as I did I could not find a chink large enough to see through. They all exited the building together after shadow length mutterings and exclamations. Only then was I allowed to enter the hut.
Father was lying on his back facing the entrance when I entered. The blood has been wiped from his body and mixture of mashed herbs and clay covered the wound on his side. I my eyes reverted from the tightly drawn muscles on his face to the now covered wound, seeing beyond the dressing to the jagged flesh and dark blood I had seen earlier. I faint shudder passed through my body as I noticed how dim his eyes looked.
I took an unconscious step back but he beckoned me closer, grasping my hand when I got within reach.
“Nnamdi,” he began, lifting his head to look at me. “Where are your mothers?”
“They are outside; the men would not let them beyond the gate.”
My father shook his head affirmatively “I knew they will not let the women and children in that is why I asked for you. Now listen carefully, the north men are in the forest, I lost contact with your brother when we were attacked, I do not know if he is alive or if he was captured. I managed to escape because I forgot all about myself, my only thought was to get to the village and warn the elders. Now it appears my warning was in vain.”
“Why do you say that father?’ I asked, concerned about the quiver in his voice.
“You saw the elders who just left?” I shook my head affirmatively, “they represent all the family heads in this village. They came to get a first hand account of my story, and funny enough, they claim I must be mistaken that the north men left this parts sixty seasons ago. They believe that since I was not born them I must have mistaken the slave raiders from Alor as North men. Though I have never seen a North man before, I have heard countless tales about them to be able to identify them when I see one.” He paused to catch his breath; his fore head was furrowed with what I understood to be a mixture of anger and pain. Knowing him, I know he will be mightily mad the elder’s disregarded his warning, even after he had done this much to bring them the news.
Like every child born to these parts I have heard about the North men who several seasons before, during the day of my father’s father, were carrying out raids throughout the lands bothering the plains, from the great river we hear about in traveller’s tales to the mouth of the Swamp Rivers south of here. It was because of the North men that our fathers moved the village from beside the Etekpe River to this present site, hoping that its proximity to the land of the seven hills and the natural defences provided by the enclosing hills will keep the raiders out. It was a chieftain of the seven hills, leading and army of several forest clans that defeated the raiders at the battle of hearts. The chief of the raiders was killed in battle and most of his men either died in battle or ran away. Strange tales as told about the north men and the home far away across the great river, In a land where the rain is said to fall only sparingly and the women are made to hide their faces from men not their husbands least they be stolen away. It was the greatest admonition to tell a troublesome young child that he or she will be borne away by the North men never to return.
My father gathered his strength and continued talking “The elders refused to believe that it was the North men who attacked us in the forest but I know what I saw. I am sure they will attack the village soon. Nnamdi, you are now the man of the house, take your mothers to your sister’s place in the land of the seven hills. They will not want to go but you have to convince them, take the path to the twin forest. I am sure you will meet a hill man there who will lead you into the seven hills.” He closed his eyes as he finished talking, his breath coming in short gasps the seemed to hurt him.
“What about you father?” I asked.
“Do not worry about me, I will be fine. Now get out of here, tell them to not pack anything, you must leave immediately.” He shoved me away with surprising strength.
I took one more look at him and battled with the instinct to stay with him but when he opened his eyes again and glared at me, attempting to get out of the bed and come after me, I reluctantly left the hut.
Outside, the rain whose scent has been in the air since the break of dawn was pouring down in torrents, clouding visibility. I was crying as I made my way past the cluster of elders and shrine attendants who where huddled under the chief priests Obi, discussing in low tunes.
Grateful that the rain will help mask my tears I walked up to my family and told them father is okay and want us to all go home. Mama Ukwu tried catching my eyes but I kept it downcast, not sure I can withstand her gaze. It was a solemn procession that walked across the village, buffeted by the fierce rain and howling wind.
We had walked past the circle of bare earth outside our homestead and were filling through the bamboo poles that served as gate pillars for the earthen wall that borders our huts, when Mama Ukwu pulled me back and with flashing eyes demanded to know what transpired in the Chief Priest’s hut.
“The seven hills?” she asked, after listening patiently to my clap fast ranting. “Why would he want us to go to the seven hills? And Nkemjika, what did he tell you about my son? Speak up boy! What did your father say about Nkemjika?”
Fearful, in the face of Mama Ukwu’s legendary fury which is rarely directed at me, I started stammering about him having been lost in the forest as they tried to get away from the raiders, but she cut me short by clamping her hand’s over her ears.
“Stop Nnamdi,” she begged, “stop before the gods make your words true.” She closed her eyes and appeared to think for some time.
She turned and preceded me into the
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Tales from the hills; shadow of the hill
Errand
Mazi Okolo knew that trouble was brewing in the air when he saw the cluster of vultures circling in the morning sky a great distance away. His suspicion increased when he spied the figure running up the winding trail that led to his farm lodge. He had noted the runner’s gangly gait and knew him to be Nta the head man’s swift second son.
Then it must be a missive from Meze, he thought.
He had heard from his brother’s son that Nta, who was known as the fastest long distance runner in the whole of the seven hills, had pledged his service to the lion Guardian after Meze rescued him from drowning in the twin forest.
Mazi Okolo smiled admiringly at the young man’s steady phase. Youth, he muttered, one can’t beat that vigour. He paid heed to Nta’s progress a while longer then turned his attention to the heap of burning fire wood upon which a large tuber of yam smouldered.
Unsheathing his hunting knife he pushed the point gently into the yam, testing the texture. Withdrawing the knife, he gave a little shake of his head and turned the yam over. A sudden gust of wind blew smoke and char into his eyes.
He coughed hoarsely pressing thumb and fore finger to his eyelids as tears streamed down his face and cussed good naturedly while fanning the air with his free palm. After a while, he pried the smouldering yam from the fire and repeated the test with the hunting knife again, pushing deeper this time. Pulling it out, he nodded with smug satisfaction as the fluffy white particles that stuck to it indicating that it is well cooked.
Satisfied, he bent low and started scrapping away the soot, his right hand moving in a swift up and down motion while the left turned the yam slowly. Soon he had all the soot off and lifted the yam up, the morning sun reflected of the almost glossy, golden brown streaked surface. His eyes shone proudly at his handiwork. That is how everything is with Mazi Okolo, perfection at it highest, he always found ways to turn even the most mundane act into a work of art.
Whistling merrily, he rummaged inside a large clay pot nearby and pulled out a flattish calabash and a smaller, more rounded, variety.
By the time Nta called out greetings from the base of the twin palm trees at the outskirts of the shelter, Mazi Okolo was already seated before a meal of roasted yam and salted palm oil mixed with fresh ground pepper.
“Your legs are good Nwanna-son of my father.” Mazi Okolo began, his voice muffled by the food in his mouth. “There is water by the side wall over there, hurry up boy or there will soon be very little for you to eat.”
“Mazi Okolo, Ekenemgi. While not rejecting your offer, permit me to say that my mouth is heavy with the missive it bears and I rather not delay its delivery.”
Mazi Okolo paused, his hands caught somewhere between the calabash and his mouth. He looked at the boy strangely, his beady eyes conveying more than a mild form of annoyance, briefly though, and then he smiled and laughed out loud.
“Son of my father,” he said when he had gotten hold of himself, which took awhile. “Wash your hands and seat down. The yam will not stay your mouth from telling its tale, will it?” his eyes shone with a mischievous light.
“No Mazi Okolo it will not.”
After Nta had eaten a few slices Mazi Okolo looked up. Why does the lion guardian seek me? He asked
Nta started at the question, wondering how Mazi Okolo could have known who sent him, but he recovered quickly enough to answer.
“The swamp dwellers are on the war path. Meze asks that you return to your kindred and moderate the deliberations. The Ikolo will sound before this sun goes to the land of the spirits and he wants you home before then.”
“Asks or needs?”
The boy jerked with surprise “he said you will ask that, but begs you remember who your father was.”
“He would, the silly boy.” Mazi Okolo laughed, startling the young boy who wondered at the man’s audacity to call the lion guardian a ‘silly boy’.
“He would,” Mazi Okolo continued, his eyes going dreaming with fond reminiscence “forgetting that he was still a boy, who only knows about my fathers exploits from the songs of the hill maidens. No, even his father and I were yet toddlers when my father led the seven hills to the great victory over the swamp people.”
“Will you come?” Nta asked, pulling the old man from his sudden reverie.
“Will I came,” Mazi Okolo said, favouring the young man with an amused expression, “and who will lead the seven hills to war if I don’t? Surely not that runt Akidi, His father never brought back any human head from all the wars he went to, and Akidi is trying to make up that omission. He forgets that a battle is not won by bravery alone. No I will return, that rabble roaster shouldn’t be allowed to lead the seven hills.” He paused to accord Nta a sly wink, “don’t tell anyone, but it gets lonely up here and I have being seeking for an excuse to leave my yams for awhile now. I think this is as good as any, no?”
Nta nodded his head affirmatively, he knew the old man is known to be loquacious when he is happy and that is most of the time. It is said in the hills that though he loved his wife dearly, he only cried out twice when he learnt of her demise and by the time he reached his home stead he was laughing with his friends who accompanied him home from the twin forests where his farm stead was then. That he refused to remarry, even when he had no male child to bequeath his vast farmlands, attests to how deep he loved her. This was way before his daughters came off age and the younger of the two; to her father’s initial chagrin, decided to stay back home, rejecting the institution of marriage, and bear children for her father. She has two boys breaking calabashes in her father’s homestead now and the village rumour has it that she is still the most sought after bride in the seven hills.
Nta looks up to find the old man still talking and cocked his ear to catch the tail end of it.
“... We will go after this meal digests and the sun behind the devils rock, the rock’s shadow will provide shade enough from the sunrays.” Mazi Okolo slurred, closed his eyes and leaned back on the large tree they were sitting under, apparently awaiting the digestive process to run its course.
Nta had wanted to head back to the village immediately after delivering his message, but he guessed he can not disobey the old man and it will be impolite to take his leave now.
He washed and packed away the calabash and settled down to await the sun’s turning.
They got to the obodo-communal meeting place- much later in the day than Nta had hoped, for Mazi Okolo insisted on branching to his homestead to see his grandchildren. Though slightly annoyed; Nta could only watch with an impatient air as the old man squatted on his haunches before the two boys, who though lacked his dark coloration have the same hawkish features, who were engrossed in admiring several giant grasshoppers he had just unwrapped for them.
“Father,” the elder one began, has the forelegs been broken? They will escape if they are not,”
“I did the next best thing. I tied them with strings, this way you can allow them fly a little way, the strings will make sure the don’t fly further than you want.”
The younger one immediately pried a sturdy looking grasshopper from Mazi Okolo’s hands, clutching the string tight, he threw it up and ran happily after it, drawing a steadily growing crowd of children.
As they walked away from the homestead, Nta looked across at Mazi Okolo and noticed that he was smiling broadly; the years appeared to have falling of him, giving him the features of one ten years younger.
Nta shook his head sadly, probably, he thought. It was all worth it.
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The war with the swamp dwellers was a forgone conclusion. The question of whether a warning should be given was negated since most of the gathered warriors agreed that it was not necessary. A greyed out old-timer who was carried into the crowded Obodo by his grandchildren said mischievously “why warn the swamp frogs that have already struck the first blow?”
Though Mazi Okolo had no expected his war like tribesmen to seek a peaceful settlement, he still felt it his duty to remind them that though the stretch of hillocks and sandy grass land the swamp dwellers had encroached on – as they always do when a new crop of warriors raise up in their villages with the brave notion that they can face the wrath of the hills – Ugwunasa had never had cost to farm it and may never do so since its great distance from any of the villages of the seven hills is prohibitive.
Mazi Ude, whose village of Amaorji owns the land in question, stood up slowly as was his nature.
“Mazi Okolo,” he began, drawing his words out slowly, “I have great respect for you and we all know who our father was. I know you are not suggesting we carve out a piece of Ugwunasa and make it a present to those swamp scum who have being so befuddled by inbreeding they all look alike. No! We can’t give them an inch of the seven hills.” Here he paused briefly to look around the gathering, his eyes laughing, “at least not for free.”
“ and we know those thieving mud crawlers will gladly accept and after one or two season will run away with the harvest without paying any tribute, after that continue their surreptitious thieving.” Meze offered, prompting a general laughter.
As if he knew the conclusion will be to go to war, the chief priest Utu who alone is allowed to wield the dreaded Ikenga of Amisi, made his entrance at about this point followed closely by the war god impersonation.
The sight of the war god’s fearsome face and full battle dress which consists of several human skulls hanging in a bone and string necklace across his bull neck and stuck to various parts of the leopard skin vestment he wore, caused a mild stir among the younger warriors who still bore healing scares, a token from the most recent initiation a few market days ago.
Their unabashed dread for the personified war god brought quick smile and quickly controlled chuckles from the old timers who recalled their own first encounter with the fierce god with more snickers.
With the god seated on the blood stained stone throne at the entrance, the real preparation for the coming battle began.
The approach of the hill dwellers to war and conflict is mostly elaborate and full of ceremony. Their weapon of choice is the machete since they all prefer close combat, the bow and arrow is usually seen as a weapon for defence rather than assault and it is carried by the new initiates who act as rear guards, and even they are all itching to drop that and take up the cutlass when the battle heats up, to claim their a human head or two which invariably elevates their status.
The warriors of Umueze, who probably on account of being first born of the hill clans – a point some other clans debate in private – are allowed the privilege of being the first to bow before the war god and receive the ritual sprinkling of blood. The other clans follow in their wake, each accepting the purifying blood with dignity that befits the occasion.
The war gong had already announced the war gods retreat and the older warriors had already left for the place of leave taking. The young warriors who were supposed to wait for them to conclude the ritual were all set to leave when a young warrior of Umumba remarked that Alika the giant and his bard friend Obele Okwu were not amongst the gathering.
Meze who is friend and consort to the two rascals remarked that Obele was around earlier and had gone back to the cross roads to coax Alika to come for the battle. This explanation brought scattered laughter and bright smiles to the assembly, for if anyone can convince Alika to come, it is his loquacious friend Obele Okwu the bard who can out talk a fish wife.
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At this very moment the two friends in question where weeding a small patch of cocoyam that belongs to Alika’s mother. Beyond them Alika’s sister Chinwendu blew expertly unto a smouldering kinder as she prepares to cook the midday meal.
Obele Okwu who had long grown weary of the back bending labour excused himself and headed to the pathway, to ease his bloated bladder, He said. A few moments later the sweet melody of his flute floated back to a sweaty Alika who shook his head sadly, wondering when his friend will stop seeking ways to dodge work. This being the fourth time in half a shadow’s pass that he is heading to the bushes. The funniest thing being that he is usually the first to offer his help.
His heart lifted as Obele threw in his praise name as his flute called to mind the heroes of the seven hills. Lifting his hoe, he danced a little jig that made his sister laugh out loud.
Then the music changed, suddenly becoming more melancholy though retaining its sweetness, digging deep into his heart to unearth sadness that he only feels when Obele played this particular tune. It talked about death and how it eats up heroes in the end.
Before Alika could stop it, a wayward tear ran down his chin, evading his hastily raised palm before he could stop it flight. He looked across his shoulder at Chinwendu and noticed that she too was affected by the song; her half peeled yam lay in front of her forgotten in her desire to capture the songs essence.
It is a song they all know, all too well, for it is a song for funerals, sang when a great man is being put to rest or when a great battle is coming and warriors are sure to die, a song of farewell. Alika wondered why Obele will choose that particular song this sunny evening. It is also not a song to be interrupted, so Alika allowed the song to run its lengthy course.
Obele stared into the greyish blue clouds as the echoes of the last note of his flute receded into the surrounding forest, his flute still poised on his parted lips.
Slowly he dropped his arm and turned to face his friend.
“Obele,” Alika said. “You have out done your self again, but why that particular choice of music?”
“I can see why you are at the crossroads weeding your mother’s cocoyam patch. You must not have heard of the impending war with the swamp people, right now warriors gathered at the Obodo receiving blessing from the war god of Amisi.” Obele said, looking quite serious.
“You mean the rumours we heard yesterday is true?” Alika asked, incredulous.
“You mean you even heard a rumour? And I was swearing your ignorance at the meeting of elders,” Obele complained, eyes blazing.
“Is it the first time we have heard rumours of war that never came?” Alika rid the last ridge of its clinging weeds and walked with his springy stride towards the oil bean tree under which his sisters was preparing dinner.
Behind him Obele blew an angry blast from his flute and followed, as usual not allowing anger to keep him away from a meal.
“Alika, this is for real. The swamp people have encroached on Ugwunasa land and even you will admit that that slap must be answered,” Obele smiled up at Chinwendu, as he squatted down beside his friend. She turned her face away, but not before favouring him with a quick smile in return.
“It maybe so, but I do not think it is my duty to seek out if all rumours I hear is true.”
“No, but you should have stayed at home like most grown men did. You would have heard the Ikolo and I would not have had to come wading through dew drops to fetch you.”
“To fetch me, am I a child that Obele Okwu will be sent to fetch me?” Alika bellowed, his quick temper getting the better of him.
Shifting back a little, Obele tried to make himself smaller. As usual Alika’s temper is a thing to fear. “Who said anything about being sent?” a smile spread across his face. “I left the gathering of the elder ones to bring my friend news of a battle the maidens of the hills will sing about for eons to come. I did not want you to miss out in the fun.”
Alika appears to relax visibly. He looked towards his sister, shame flowed through him as he realised he had broken another recent promise to her. He shrugged, every one knows he has a short temper, they also know he is working hard to control it. “Obele, you know I hate the spilling of blood and gore that characterizes the wars you are apt to sing praises to.”
“I know Alika the great, but we did not invent the laws and one must not run away from the taunts of another just because he wants peace to reign. If you do that, the weak and cowardly will size even the very wife at your loins. We fight not because we like it but because we have to defend our family and clan, and at times it is better to teach someone a lesson in other for others to learn from it.”
“Are you still talking about the war with the swamp dwellers?”
“What? Oh, not necessarily. I am talking about you and your pacifist views on conflict resolution.” Obele said pointedly, producing a small wooden ladle from the deep pockets of his travelling cloak, he dug into the herb encrusted yam porridge Chinwendu offered him.
“What is wrong with seeking ways to resolve a knotty issue without resorting to bloodshed?” Alika challenged.
“Everything, like I said before, seeking for settlement leaves you vulnerable. Your enemies will think you cowardly and attack with greater force, and while you are seeking for more humane resolutions, they will be eating your first yam in your own hearth.”
“Obele, I hope you are not trying to play tricks with my mind? You of all people know I am not slow of wit. I choose not to fight people who are not worth the effort just because they wake up thinking they can test their strength against Alika.” He slowly accepted a bowl from Chinwendu wondering why she had served Obele first, but kept his feeling to himself.
“About these swamp people, I do not agree that we should go to war with them, if I remember right, the land in question belongs to Amaorji and they have never farmed it.”
“I do not understand your reasoning Alika, should we allow strangers to take over our birthright just because we have more than we need. Should we not protect what we have for our children’s sake?”
Alika laughed long and hard, his antic causing his sister to look to Obele in askance. “What’s wrong with him?” she mouthed.
“Nothing, I think.” Obele said, looking worried, “probably a piece of locust in his food tickled him somewhat.”
Alika stopped laughing and his face became serious. “I am tickled actually, but not by your delicious locust spiced yam, dear sister, like my canary friend will have you believe. I am laughing at his presumption of wit. Suddenly Obele Okwu the bard thinks him self a philosopher.” He gave in to more laughter, doubling over.
Obele, trying hard to keep a straight face in the midst of Alika’s infectious laughter, turned to face his friend fully. “Does this mean you are not coming to war with the seven hills.”
“Obele, my mother is ill, her vegetable patch, the one behind the river oracle, has taken to weed, and her cassava farm is reeling from an invasion of nchi. I believe that is enough battle for one man this moon.”
“And your mother will be the last person to buy that excuse,”
The argument would have continued had Chinwendu not interjected that the long shadow of dusk was upon them.
They quickly cleared up the used utensils and started towards home. Though they both acted like the issue was done with, Chinwendu knew that as soon as they reached the village, the argument will start again only this time more people will join them.
Obele’s flute soon kicked in, creating a raunchy matching beat that gave strength to their legs and lifted their hearts.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Kalu the jackal, the war chief of the river brotherhood who are known as the swamp dwellers by the people of the seven hills and elsewhere, reclined in a dyed crocodile skin mat in his newly built stilt house, deep in the mashes, looking out at a pair of seagulls performing a mating dance.
If only the females of our species can be impressed by a simple thing like plumage and dancing abilities, he thought. Things will be much more different.
He had just returned from a heated meeting of leader of the twelve swamp clans. Though he knew that the outcome of their deliberations will be favourable, he still felt it is right to savour the pleasure of that small victory.
It’s been five years now since he became the war chief. In his eyes and in the eyes of his clans men -he is sure- he reign have being insignificant. There is no song about his exploits during the annual boat festival, the human teeth necklace he wore even now around his neck is his father’s –his by right as the only male heir, though he is renown for his skills in the arts of war, he is yet to put this skills into much practice –he refused to count the occasional raids into the territory of the nomadic herders as practice.
The coming war is more of an ego thing for him, he needed a reason to be seen and the complaint by the hill dwellers gave him an excuse.
It is not like his people have not being farming the slopes of the hills, they have for years now, though not at the scale he initiated. Knowing the hill men seldom come as far as the palm forest of Amaorji, he had used to closure of the sea market as a reason and gathered all the young warriors he could summon on short notice and matched to the hills. They cleared as much land as they could in tree weeks and planted it with yam and cassava.
A scout, left in the hills to report any movement of the hill men around the fields, returned yesterday to report that a small contingent of hill men had been around the slopes, inspecting the cultivated fields.
He had immediately called a war council and with the help of the younger warriors shouted down the little opposition to his plans.
That was a small victory, he mused again. Wait until they behold how swift and sure my victory will be against the hill men. People fear the hill men, believing them to be fearless and brutal, but he knows that is not true. No man is born without fear, not the hill men not the plain nomads, no one.
He has heard stories of the lion guardians that protect the hills. Lies! He suddenly exclaimed, Lies that are sold to cowards to feed the natural fear. He, Kalu the jackal, will not fall for such trickeries. And even if they turn out to be true, does he not have a serious surprise awaiting them.
Suddenly he laughed out loud. A harsh sharp edged laughter that broke across the surface of the mud coloured river and startled a group of young maidens gutting catfish on the banks.
On the river, the mating seagulls took to flight. Their sudden flight whipping up a mass panic the affected all the water birds in the immediate vicinity, sending crisscrossing ripples across the river.
Before the troubled water had settled, Kalu was already half way to the large stilt platform that is used as the village meeting place, the ripples from his paddle adding to the general confusion as he pointed his canoe towards the waiting warriors.
Obele Okwu hates hurrying and the pace that Alika set is sapping his strength. Alika had insisted on being the point man, something that he rarely does when they are walking along a dew covered bush path like this one. Obele had happily given him the point, which entails wading through the dew first and soaking up most of the water, leaving the person behind relatively dryer. It was after a little while that he understood Alika’s reason for wanting to be in front, he wanted to hurry and set this murderous pace expecting him to keep up.
That is the problem with Alika, Obele mused. He always forgets that being the strongest man in the hills as well as the tallest, most people can not match him stride for stride.
Not that Obele was averse to speed, he too knows that they need to reach the warriors before they cross the Nmamu River, but Alika does not believe in rest and that is the one thing he needed now.
They sprinted across the grassy plateau of Eziagu and skirted round the south peak of Enu-Ejima hoping to cut their journey by half by following the banks of Nmamu to the place of crossing.
It was Obele’s insistence that they stop at the devil’s brook for a rest that actually save them. Alika had stopped to argue and as he was waiting to catch his breath a faint jingling reached their ears. It was coming from the direction of the stream ahead of them.
Suddenly wary, the keen eared Obele had frantically motioned Alika silent, bidding him listen. They crept closer to each other.
“What do you hear? I can barely make out any sound other than the jingling of loose metals.” Alika whispered, long association had thought him to trust Obele’s Hearing.
Obele cupped his ears and leaned into the wind, which thankfully was blowing back towards them. “I hear more than the jingles, which I believe is from ornaments, I hear guttural murmurings, and the language is strange but I can make out some words,” he paused and glanced up at Alika who was watching him attentively. “I think we should take a closer look.”
Alika nodded his agreement and they left the bush path, creeping into the undergrowth, as silent as night. Alika was in front and Obele wondered again, like he always does, how someone this big can move with such supple grace.
Making their way carefully, they arrived at a slight overhang that overlooked the devil’s brook. Alika slowly parted some branches and they found themselves faced with a shocking scene.
Below them were about two dozen swamp warriors, clustered around the deeper part of the brook. While some were apparently on guard and alert, the majority were watching the three that were immersing a root like vine into the water. The vine had being beating to a pulp and as it made contact with the water; it started oozing a greenish pigment that immediately spread downstream.
Alika and Obele exchanged shocked looks.
“Is that not the poison vine that fishermen use in the marshes?” Obele asked, his voice a fierce whisper.
“It is,” Alika agreed. “I wonder what they are doing with it, there are no fishes in the devils brook, and only the lions come here to drink.”
“The lions!” they both exclaimed, still mindful enough to keep their voices low.
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