Very unromantic me

I have been accused severally over the years of being hopelessly unromantic, mostly by people who are not opportune to know me on a personal level, but I tend to think them wrong especially since I know myself better than they do.

Being a very private person, who tends to be talkative around people he knows, but very shy around strangers, I won’t say it’s their fault because people tend to get impressions of me from what they hear me say, which might be very little, much or nothing at all – depends on who I am talking to.

I am a romantic, very romantic – even if I say so. I just do not ascribe to those seemingly universal notions of romance; flowers, candle light dinners, teary movies, kneeling before her to propose and what not. No, I am not suggesting there is anything wrong with the overtly dramatic impulses that movies have made us believe romantic nature is. Na, I just feel that those of us that ascribe to the African notions of romance (which is not old fashioned, mind you, especially if you agree that the flower culture is much more than five centuries old) that best suites our environment and temperament.

I am an African male, very much attuned to his traditions, and for this I give no apologies

I love eating at home and I love my woman’s cooking. I love what she does with bitterleaf and cocoyam and I rather sit opposite her, eating her food, than in a cold (they all are) eatery munching expensive pastries and over-cooked chicken, prepared by who knows who (or what).

Call me old-school if you like, but I didn’t buy a ring when I proposed, neither did I get to go on my knees to do it. It just happened; I didn’t even plan to do it that day, though it had been on my mind for months. I just finished eating her special egusi and semovita and though ‘what the heck’ this babe has been too good to me and I suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of not being with her forever.

What I am saying in a nutshell is this, if anyone thinks I am not romantic because my nature prefers me spending ‘secluded’ time with my woman and not exaggerating my affection just for people to see this love I know I feel deeply, then that person is obviously blind to what romance is.

True, I do not begrudge anyone their candle light dinners, flowers and cards, but I rather cradle her as she munches her favourite suya, help her peel the yam and then pound the heck of it – the yam I mean – and play catch-me-if you-can with her spoon as I surreptitiously steal bits of meat from her frying pan. I even feel more at home picking the beans together with her than strolling through the shopping mall, window shopping what I can’t afford. I even get the bonus of stealing kisses whenever I want without the stares of strangers boring into my back.

As for that aforementioned candle light dinner, there is nothing romantic about it. No thanks to NEPA, it is as normal as sunrise, or how do you eat dinner when the power fails?

raid on the two Market

Raid on Two Market

Adl el-Hasm was said to be more adventurous than his contemporaries, which was why he chose to make his own path, ignoring the usual bargaining in the slave market of Alor, He chose instead to do his own raiding in the unclaimed interiors where he heard slaves waited to be herded into pens.

Adl el-Hasm, also, a practical man, brought along a formidable army of ex-slaves who are fiercely royal to him, having been made to believe that he was instrumental to their freedom, a belief that was not all that unfounded since he bought them out from back bending toil amongst the sand dunes, and having the choice to keep them as bond men he had instead set them free with the option of either staying to work with him for wage or to take their fate into their own hands – an option many could not bear to think of in a strange land with strange customs. Most decided to stay with him – even after he told them his plan for their homelands in the forest belt.

Some of the ex-slaves Adl el-Hasm hired spoke dialects mutually intelligible to those of the deeper forest he intended to raid and retained the native immunity to disease to a large extent, and as such greatly reduced the problem of communication and disease to a minimum. Adl el-Hasm, having endeavoured to learn the native lingua en-route, also had the advantage of doing his own talking without resorting to an interpreter, albeit in a highly accented version of swamp river speak, which, fortunately, was mutually intelligible to hinterland dialects.


This band of royal ex-slaves, it was, that raided the Land of the Seven Hills on that bright morning, a market day, when the air held scant scent of the trouble that was to come. Had it occurred on a different day, perhaps, the outcome would have been different for the people of the Seven Hills do not go to war on the Two Market day.

Tul, a large man with the charcoal black compression of the Swamp dwellers lead Adl el-Hasm’s raiding team. Adl el-Hasm trusted him on account of his sound judgments and his extensive combat experience from his days as a Swamp River warrior.

He was sold to the Alor slavers by his uncle who wanted to lay claim on his inheritance – a wrong he swore to right sooner than later – and the Alor sold him to the Blue skinned Slavers who somehow he somehow managed to find favour with. They set him free after just four years of bondage, something that is as rare as the battle between the sun and the moon since the Blue slavers are known to be exceptionally brutal.

Adl el-Hasm had found him loitering in Hamdan city port awaiting a slave caravan headed for the forest lands; he had befriended him and offered him a part in his enterprise. An offer Tul grabbed with both hands.


Now Tul stood hidden behind leafy bushes, flexing his massive fingers on the hilt of a wicked looking sword hanging from a tiger skin belt on his waist, watching the market intensely through the few cracks in the foliage.

He and his men had been in position since the second cockcrow, knowing from experience that it was usually women and teenage boys that would be in the market that early, the men would still be at home putting off till the last minute the necessity of selling their yams.

He could see from his vintage point that only a small number of the youths, gathered around the market square talking loudly – obviously bragging about one wrestling conquest or the other – were old enough to strap the customary long cutlass on dainty waists. He mentally marked the position of these armed ones while signaling to his men hidden behind him to commence the attack.

The raiders attacked as a body, having silently encircled the market. It was their bloodcurdling battle cry that attracted the attention of the young men by the square, who, momentary confused, rushed to see what was afoot, believing it to be a plank, for war are not fought in the market place and no clan had sent a war monger to the Seven Hills of late.

They came face to face with the raiders and knew instinctively that this was for real.

For a tense moment they stood rock still, horrified, as the first line of raiders crossed the market boundary heading straight for the women and young maidens, while a second line whooped behind them. Then a battle cry from behind told them that they are effectively hemmed in.

It was at this point that Tul, who was then walking leisurely towards the youths believing them subdued, learnt the new meaning of respect. Not soon had he opened his mouth to tell his boys not to harm the youths but to disarm them, than loud feminine ululations broke out from the other side of the market where the women were. All hell broke loose, the boys, who were until then passively awaiting their fate, seemed to suddenly animate as they too took up the cry and before Tul could make head of this sudden development, they attacked, and fiercely too.

One, who appeared to be the eldest, rushed an oncoming raider and deftly severed his head from his body before he could raise the battle axe he carried.

The battle was joined, and Tul discovered too late that the previously unarmed youths were not as helpless as he had thought; they easily picked up woods, pestles, a discarded hoes and even the base of an incomplete gong and wielded them with a dexterity that perplexed him.



From atop a nearby hill, Adl el-Hasm marvelled at the scene unfolding before him, it appeared as if the youths, who were outnumbered ten to two, had the upper hand. Then he noticed a remarkable thing, they were not fighting to get away from the raiders but steadily pushing back towards the market square where a knot of people were already assembled, apparently encircling a women cradling a young boy.

He watched without emotion; as two of his men were cut down under the savage cutlass of the youthful warriors, while wondering how they acquired their skill in hand to hand combat.

It would have been instructive if he had paid a little more attention to the tales about the Hill Tribes, then he would have known their fame as skilled warriors and how hand to hand combat was thought to children as young as two years who grew up acquiring the skill as deftly as they do dance routines.

Though most of his crew had guns he had made them leave them behind, he didn't want to take the risk of a trigger happy hombre taking pot shots at the would be slaves just for the heck of it; he thought it would be a clean sweep, in and out before their presence was felt. Yes, he was told about their ancient bravery, especially in front of their women folk, but he never bargained for this.



Below, it was becoming, more apparent that the raiders were more confused than the villagers who were all heading towards the market square. Some, especially the young warriors, fought furiously through the raiders to get there. Once there, they turned to stand at the periphery of the cluster and appeared to wait.

"But for what?" Tul wanted very much to know.

He did not mind the cluster for it will make his job a whole lot easier. Instead of chasing after wild eyed women and kids; he will get to pick out the ones he wanted from an already gathered circle. He called out to his men to stop forcing the remaining women to a different direction. Those ones were also fighting as hard as the youths to get to the circle, with sharp fingers nails and well placed kicks that dropped many of the men.

He was not surprised when the fight stopped as soon as it had started.

The natives gathered together in a tight circle, silently watching.

The sudden silence bothered him. No one, not even the children made any kind of noise or movement, none appeared scared, the only noise that broke the silence briefly was made by his men as they barked orders to each other.


Fali, a young raider originally from the nomadic sheep herder tribe of the Fall, was disturbed by the silence of the tribesmen too. Earlier he had seen a fierce youth, not past his fourteenth season, chase two raiders down the market road with a large pestle, howling like a mad man, only to break one's leg before smashing the other's nose in. these were men he had crossed the desert and swamp forest with, men who fought the warlike river people by his side, men he feared and respected as superior soldiers running from an adolescent youth. Turning to Tul he said, "Efendi, I do not like this at all" his face looked like that of one who suckled sour grape when he had expected orange.

Tul, on another occasion, would have tried to douse Fali’s fears or even say something funny to ease the general tension, but this was not one of those days. Anyway, any statement he would have made was cut off by a loud roar that seemed to emanate from the bowel of the earth itself.

The raiders turned around as a man, head reverting in all directions trying to pin point the direction the horrifying sound came from, had they not, they would have noticed that the villagers did not pay any special attention to it, the only significant thing that happened within the circle, was the child that slide down from his mother’s arm and walked with a big smile to stand at the very front of the circle.


From his vintage point on the hill, Adl el-Hasm was the first to see the lions, two fierce adults, male and female, bigger than he had imagined any lion could be.

They charged in from opposite directions, one heading straight for the knot of raiders while the other went straight towards the hurdled hill men, only to halt in front of the young child and nuzzled his outstretched palms – Adl el-Hasm did not see that for his attention was focused on the male, that rushed the band of raiders and tore out the throat of the nearest one with a swift sidelong jerk of his massive head.

Pandemonium reigned supreme; the hunters became the hunted as survival became a race for the swiftest and the luckiest. Adl el-Hasm was transfixed as he stared open mouthed as his men were slaughtered.

He still had the presence of mind though, to note that the female lion did not attack the raiders directly but only seem to act as a guard, attacking only those who had the bad luck of running towards the market square and the now hurdled villagers. Together, the lions brought swift death to the market square.

On his part, Tul had seen lions before and has even hunted them but he has never seen or heard of specie this big or fierce. He still had the presence of mind to call out to his fleeing men, even as he too tried to keep out of the rampaging lion's way. He tried to gather the few of them who were close by and then slowly guided them away from the market, knowing that lions will never attack a closely packed group – which appeared to be the Hill people’s defense – for lions, once they taste blood, rarely know foe from friend.

His scheme worked as he had hoped it would for the lion left their immediate vicinity to chase down the stragglers and wounded who couldn't make it to the circle or were too scared to even try.

The lions circled them, constantly charging but always stopping a few paces away. Tul chanced a look back and counted about thirty dead and dying of his elite raiding band. Surely, he thought, this has being the worst campaign he has had the privilege of been in. not even the bloody revolt of the river dwellers had been this costly.

They were harried by the lions till they reached the foot of the hill where Adl el-Hasm waited with the reserves that never came to their rescue. Not that Tul begrudged them, for who could withstand those lions from Fradry – the land of shadows beyond the sea.



Adl el-Hasm watched his weary men climb up the short hill, each running as swift as tired legs could carry, looking back constantly to see if the lions are still in pursuit. The lions had returned to the cluster of hill men, to sprawl in the dusty earth in front of the mysterious boy; but not before tearing into the throats of the wounded raisers with dagger like canines.

Adl el-Hasm was more intrigued than afraid, though he had heard about the Hill Men and their lions; he did not believe that any unknown force was in play, he just believed that the hill men have found a way to tame the lions while keeping their wild fierceness.

He looked once more beyond his retreating men to the market square and noticed the young child had his hands outstretched and the lions, tail swishing, stepped forward to nuzzle them.

Tul noticed where he was looking and turned towards him.

‘Yes Efendi, that boy is not ordinary; it was to him that the hill people ran when we attacked.’ He said, battling to catch his breath.

‘I think not Tul, It might just be that the lions belong to the boy.’ He said over his shoulder as he moved towards the path that will take them back to his encampment in low lands, two days march away.

Tul did not follow immediately; he stood still for awhile watching the boy play with the lions. He saw now that the hill people had began to move about, though not far away from their cluster. Yes, he thought, that child is special.

Unromantic Fred

Before I start this, I must let you know that I am an African male, very much attuned to his traditions, and for this I have no apologies. My assertion today is that no matter what people say, I am romantic.

I have been accused severally over the years of being hopelessly unromantic. Mostly by people who are not opportune to know me at that level. I won’t say it is their fault because I am a very private person, who though talkative around people he knows, is very shy around strangers. So people tend to get their impressions of me from what they hear me say, which might be very little, much or nothing at all, depending on who I am talking to.

Like I have said before I am a romantic, I just do not ascribe to those seemingly universal notions of romance; flowers, candle light dinners, teary movies, kneeling before her to propose and what not. No, I am not suggesting there is anything wrong with the overtly dramatic impulses that movies have made us believe is romantic nature. Na, I just feel that those of us that ascribe to the African notions of romance (which is not old, mind you, especially if you agree that the flower culture is much more than five centuries old) that best suites our environment and temperament.

I love eating at home and I love my woman’s cooking, I love what she does with bitterleaf and cocoyam and I rather sit across her eating her food than in a cold (they all are) eatery munching expensive pastries and over cooked chickens prepared by who knows who (or what). Call me old school if you like, but I didn’t buy a ring when I proposed, neither did I get to go on my knees to do it. It just happened; I didn’t plan to do it that day, even though it had been on my mind for months. I just finished eating her special egusi and semovita and though ‘what the heck’ this babe has been too good to me and I suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of not being with her forever.

What I am saying in a nutshell is this, if anyone thinks I am not romantic because my nature prefers me spending ‘secluded’ time with my woman and not exaggerating my affection just for people to see the love I know I feel deeply, then that person is obviously blind to what romance is.

Taming of the Plains Lion 2

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.

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 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.