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.

**********************************************************

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.

***********************************************************

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.