African Short Stories Vol. 1

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A Project of the Literary Society International (LSi)

21

Murder

Chin Ce


*

IT was a day to the final ordainment. News of it was everywhere in the papers, on radio and television. Pictures of Baba, patron of the saints, filled the pages and screens. The entire priesthood was in a frenzy. Everything must be ready for the coming of the lord and master of heaven to consecrate the holy initiation of his new ministers and priests. No member of the salvation should be caught napping on that day even if it meant the Baptist walking from house to house to prepare the way and wake up the sleeping. That was Maloo's job, I guessed, as he pushed open and bashed into my mental chamber that morning.
�How now,� he grinned evilly, �how�s the rebel making out?�
I appraised the invader who pretended to be my guide and liked to be called man of God after his forebears from the barren land of Judah. I regarded the familiar tunic he wore around his neck so perpetually it was obvious he slept in it. It was the only semblance of brightness around him, a thin mud white band. All else from head to toe was the black hood that was the trademark of his calling.
�By the way, I am now His Most Reverend Mayor Maloo -Special Deputy of our Father by His Grace,� he introduced garrulously. �Well, the great Bull will be presenting me publicly to the congregation,� he winked proudly.
�What do you want?� I asked him, my tone neither hostile nor too particularly friendly. The lord had been called by every name from the animal world to the mineral kingdom as far as I could remember. It mattered no longer from whose lips every blasphemy proceeded against the deity.
Maloo looked startled, or pretended to be. �I will be working again with you as your Father Superior, don�t forget. The favourite chicks are not allowed to wander far from the mother hen,� he pacified a proverb, pulling a seat closer and sitting down his backside gingerly. �How did you like my talk at the conference?� he asked patronisingly.
�I was late,� I replied. �It was the interpreter who had the day.�
�Not so fast,� the reverend mayor countered, �I had the day. I led the opening and closing prayers to the almighty Father. At those moments, I was the most important personage in the whole nation. All the tribes and their rulers, wherever they were, said 'Amen' to my prayers and invocations.�
�I can imagine,� I sneered, �how you thoroughly enjoy that sordid world of prostitution.�
Mayor shrugged. �If you must put it so uncharitably, religions are mere prostitutes in the form of institutions,� he conceded, but on a grudging note added, �so is everything else.
�What of the interpreter?� he continued. �He is a scribbler, remember? And they are the worst of prostitutes, scuttling after dictators with their writing papers. My God, have they debased the sacredness of writing! That's why we keep them off scripture,� muttered the man of God in his righteous sense of indignation.
�Scripture,� I gave a short derisive laughter. �The one you wrote?�
�Well, the flock is not complaining,� the preacher countered, shrugging his dark hooded shoulders. �You don�t blame us when we say scripture was written with the finger of God. Otherwise, I tell you, we won�t have one member of the fold remaining. Tell them God is at the north pole of the equator and you have them in their hundreds nodding in that direction. It tames their animal natures. But say God is everywhere and... well,� he shrugged again, �we�d sooner have dissenters like you who'd start to think us hardly relevant in this world anymore.�
�They should be told the truth, and you must honour the freedom of choice in Creator�s universes,� I retorted.
�But we've not come to that stage of human development yet,� he countered furiously. �Neither truth nor freedom but massive loyalty and grouping, that�s the business we're here for,� Mayor insisted.
�You take away our right like you tether a herd,� I was hating this man now more than ever.
The Prophet threw up his hands angrily. �We take our doctrine from His Holiness, the Father. You are not His Holiness!
�And I tell you,� he reminded me, �the Conquering Lion is still a rampaging Bull even now. And he has the whole world in his hands forever.� Throwing a conspiratorial glance, he continued the robotic repetition of sham and doctrine. �So you may know this, we are one body in a mass... and these sects you find here and there are all sons of the same old man. Many years ago, he told me, rousers like you made so much noise that he commissioned another son to constitute the commie doctrine to preach the might of the masses...
�That tamed the craze for some time. Now you are here talking about truth, freedom, which is impossible to define... Baba will not let this happen; otherwise we will have all converts fleeing into the green fields. That kind of thing upsets business, you know... It happened before and we wiped them off the four corners with the Inquisitions.
�Where do you think we will be with all these talk about truth and freedom?� The prophet was getting worked up now, but he managed to calm down after a while and was soon giving me his deceptively broad smile. �You see, what took you so long to come into the service of the Lord is this unending dissent...�
�I like to think I�ve come a long way,� I interrupted -the same reply I gave waB when he led the hounds after me. The circle had come full round again and the same prospect now faced me. What was I to do next? The preacher�s smile turned a grimace.
�You keep saying those words every time. That was how you stormed out of the ceremony, your own induction. You were an embarrassment to everyone.
�Imagine how our great father presented himself that day. He did not send a representative, mind you but... he manifested his very presence, like he will do tomorrow, to consecrate your induction himself,� Mayor shook his head sadly.
�But you stormed away, embarrassing us before the lord. That was when everything turned personal, became an ego thing, you know. Let me tell you, Baba was very angry. And waB and the hounds went after you. It was the worst example to set before the congregation...just the way you walked out of the conference yesterday. You don't assert your dissent against a powerful body like that, but that is what you do, you and that stupid story teller they call teacher.�
�Teacher is a visionary, truer to his mission than all of us put together -all of us who kept sealed lips about your murders and deceit for years,� I said.
�A sealed lip is better for you,� the prophet uttered callously. �This teacher, he makes trouble for us with his whistle tales. He speaks a load of rubbish and angers the faith a lot. We may have to take him out over time, as we did to other dreamers who claimed to be sons of God too. O, Blasphemy,� he blocked his ears with his fingers exactly in the manner of Babul.
�You take out only the body and not the soul, what use? Zahara and her mother, they live. Their ideas live in the seeds of the earth; they grow, bloom and add more force to the gathering of enlightened souls.�
�That too we don�t preach,� Mayor Maloo insisted. �The soul that sinneth shall die. That is what we teach... But let's not go into scripture now. Young man, you must stop all this rebellion if you must grow in the fold.� Maloo was the complete ape of Babul and his mannerisms. Between both of them I could not tell who detested me more. That�s the problem with brainwashing, I was thinking to myself. The flock aped the priests, the priests aped their high lords, and before you knew it, every member you met was an ape of some other in the hierarchy, and you could trace the same talk and act way back to their great lord and master -Babul.
�You have a strong spirit, father has told me, great power of leadership and the lord has called you to net in the fishes in the sea. What more could you want? I tell you, the reward in cash and kind...� Mayor shook his head. �It's a mistake to quit the flock. I came to warn you. Never do that again. You invite the Inquisition on your head.
�Luckily there's atonement for heretics today. We may not burn them at the stake anymore. Secular laws have scored a cheap point there,� he acceded as an afterthought, folding his black garments in his laps and adjusting his seat. �But remember,� he glowered at me with a dangerous gleam in his eyes, �we still pass the death bill underhand. The teacher shall have it tomorrow.� The last threat was a whisper that was meant for me as well as his supposed victim, Nagua.
I replied that I was not too shocked that the lone, undaunted voice telling it to them exactly as it was, without fear or favour, would be marked for elimination by the cabal that controlled the mind of the masses through the CPS and himself reverend Maloo. Nagua's voice would still talk without fear even if his head were severed from his body, I told him.
�A talking head?� Mayor sneered. �We shall see then.� His tone was final. His plan was made.
Then I recalled the great eagle's appearance to me and Ima the very first time in that land of the golden sun and ochre rich soil...

We had hugged and greeted each other. I was full of respect for the good fellow and I felt the teacher held us in equal high esteem too. I had mentioned his brave utterances at the conference, but he had brushed it aside as really of little significance. It was a ploy, he said, to control the awakening among the people. The interpreter and his network -pawns of the darkness- had sworn to glorify every fool from the military barracks and civilian gutters. The plan was to make lap dogs of the people -weak ones like themselves, tethered to their gifts and licking power boots on radio waves and news pages. Then Nagua said: �Never forget you are Kusunku of the Eagle clan; your voice and deed must carry far and boldly into the very recesses of the world's heartbeat, so that a few that are ready will hear and awaken...�
I recalled those very words now as clearly as it was in the realm of vision.
And presently looking at Prophet Mayor as he talked, I felt a beastly urge to grab him by the neck and tear him to pieces. This was the man who murdered Zahara and her mother after having used and abused them both in his church. This was the most insensitive pawn of the evil creature that men worshipped for power and dominion over their fellows. Yet alone, he was only a vegetable, an empty fleshly vessel that dreaded his mortality as fervently as he impressed it upon the ignorant and exploited the weak in his fold.
Oblivious of his danger, the mayor was still speaking, or rather blowing his fumes of wrath and vengeance. �There must be a limit for those know-alls in this country. I'll call the secret elite to meet and decree that teacher must be assisted to an early exit from this world. I'll sponsor the bill myself,� he smacked his lips; his eyes gleamed evilly. �How could anyone insult God in public glare, calling all of us a monstrous manipulation to bind the world in fear and ignorance? He scored a cheap victory there and the youth dispersed more heretical than before, making nonsense of the whole process. For that, he must pay with his life. And you must learn and beware.�
I sprang at him with a sudden wild hiss; my fingers became barred talons of the eagle race of my clan. So sudden and unexpected was my action that the prophet was sitting duck. My weight crashed down on him. My hands found his neck and gripped like a vice. The prophet�s startled cry was promptly muffled. Gurgling for breath and lashing out with frenzied fists, Mayor thawed and clawed. I held my breath, empowered by wild vicious rage. Maloo�s eyes rounded in terror. He must have realised he was going to die suffocating in my hands and he managed a short gurgle of panic. But his strength failed him rapidly, strength dissipated by years of soft, wasting indulgence on the crooked labours of his followers. I had my iron weight on his chest as I throttled the life out of him. Anger had overpowered my mind. Pushed beyond its limit, only hatred and revulsion for the dark form that sprawled and thrashed under my weight filled my heart.
I did not stop until I had snuffed his breath and heard his ghost shrieking wildly into the yawning abyss of darkness and terror that waited for him in the nether world. Then my grip slackened and quick as a falcon, I sprang. I was up on my feet and leaning against the wall, panting just a little to regain my breath.
For several minutes or thereabout I was motionless, trying to think more clearly. It surprised me how sudden rage had snapped the hair�s thread to a killing. Mere seconds of revolt had brought me down the headlong route with the likes of the man who revolted me.
Not that I had any regrets for what I had done. I watched from an angle of my eyes the sprawled lifeless body among broken wood, a ghastly bruise by the side of his neck. His black garment, crumpled, hung ungracefully from his frame like a useless sack.
Thus lay Reverend Father Mayor, the coward who, even at his old age, had been terrified of the death he decreed and inflicted upon others so mindlessly. He was never to invade my mind again. It was a threat that had ended. Ended too was the power to control the minds of his flock and bring them to harm at will. And as Nagua had told us in the land of the golden sun, whoever showed strength against the minions of Babul on earth was surely the Father Superior of his world anywhere in the universe of myriad lives.
As far as I was concerned I had summoned the first courage in my quest to keep my mind safe and in peace. The next and final step now was to confront Lord Babul face to face.

22

For the Heart of Men (I)

Halima Idris Amali

*

AKOOCHE a farmer in a small village in the lower Benue had turned a farmer after the death of his father. It was one early morning and the village crier�s gong sounded, gong, gong, gong. �What could it be?� people asked in their minds. Then the voice came in, �The chief orders every able bodied man and woman to the village square!� In a few minutes, everybody was gathered at the square. The village chief did not waste time in getting there too. Briskly, he walked into the arena. Everybody rose and greeted him. He then addressed his people. �My people, today we have lost a soul, a man who is a brother, father and friend to all of us. That is elder Akooche. The chief had not concluded his speech before a lot of noise came over the whole arena. People wept and wept. Then the chief�s bodyguard shouted for order. Everybody went mute again for the chief to continue.
�So, my people, let us all put our hands together and give him a befitting burial. Those are my words.�
They began to cry again. Akooche was a man they all liked for he was very kind and helpful. There was wailing everywhere and people sang dirges in Akooche�s name. Some people wondered why death could not spare Akooche, at least for now. Ochoka his son himself was not left out. He joined the other villagers in crying over the death of his father. Initially when people cried, he tried to control himself for he had cried so much in the house before daybreak. Akooche had died very early in the morning. Ochooka also sang dirges to his late father. The way and manner he cried indicated his lost hope in life. He was spotted by the village chief who called him away from the crowd. The chief consoled Ochoka and gave him a lot of encouragement.
�Life is not as simple as you see it my son. Do not lose hope about life because of your father�s death. You still have to live your own life, so dear boy, gather up courage and begin to think of how to help yourself.� These words from the chief had sunk deeply into Ochoka�s heart.
The chief�s bodyguard again shouted for order and everywhere was quiet. They discussed the burial rites for the late Akooche. Specifications were made on what role men, women and children were to play. In a few days, all arrangements were completed.
Back in Ochoka�s house the body was prepared and the burial was to be done behind his room in his compound. At the graveside a lot of orations were delivered. They were quite emotional but since only men were at the graveside there was no crying. The women cried more at burials than men. A lot of dirges were sung, expressing the good life Akooche lived before he died. The dirges recalled the assistance he also rendered to people. He was a kind, respectful and helpful man. Being a great farmer in his days on earth he was a redeemer to many of his neighbours in times of famine. Indeed, he was a man of the people.
�Today, he is no more,� cried the people.

At home mourning was to continue. Relatives, sympathizers as well as well-wishers gathered and mourned. A lot of food was also prepared to feed these people. The late Avoca�s house was filled with people. The village chief�s wives daily sent in basins of cooked food and drinks. Other caring villagers did so too. Avouches brothers came in daily to express their appreciations to the mourners for staying to mourn their late brother. One of them, Ebije, was also a big time farmer in the same village. He had a big farm of yams from which he exported yams to neighbouring states yearly as well as large orchards of varieties of fruits. He was an authority in the farm business. Kuma, another uncle of Ochoka, was a wood carver while Aboje spent his time in the garri making business. They all had their wives and children. Each one of them had the role of providing food for the mourners. Yet they only came in daily to say, �Thank you� with neither food nor drinks brought in by them. This attitude of theirs was surprising to the people. Tongues wagged about what they were up to. They watched on. Ochoka contributed some food too, though he had no source of income. His friends and well wishers helped him with money and food items. He also came in daily to express his appreciation to the mourners. They sympathised with him and encouraged him to accept the death of his father as inevitable. He thanked his people for their kindness.
For seven days after the burial of his father, Ochoka slept on the floor in his father�s room. Sometimes he was unable to sleep. He spent the night thinking about so many things, thinking about his own life, about the attitude of his uncles, about his late father. Life looked like a mirage. From his uncles, he was not receiving any consolation. Their behaviour did not show any sign of sympathy and so he had no hope that they were going to be of use to him.
On the seventh day, after Akooche�s death the usual seventh day after burial ceremony was held. A lot of drinks and food were provided by the chief for people to eat. He spoke to Ochoka and gave him words of encouragement. He was advised to think of how to get something to do and help himself in life. Other people also spoke to him along this line. The chief advised him to take his father�s line of hard work. The elders felt that he should continue from where his father stopped. The father�s farmland was there and his house and other properties were there for him.
Ochoka�s uncles were all present but they were mute. None of them spoke to Ochoka at this ceremony. Only Ebije said briefly �I wish to thank you on behalf of my brothers, myself and our families for giving our late brother a befitting burial.� There were no words of advice for their nephew. The crowd was baffled; they wondered what was up their sleeves.
Day in, day out, and now it was three months past since the death of Akooche. Ochoka thought of what to do. He knew his uncles were not going to help him. After the seventh day ceremony when he went to greet them, he faced antagonism. He thought to himself, �What must be my uncles� plans? Why are they aggressive and hostile to me? What have I done to them?� These thoughts and questions lingered in his mind. He kept them to himself. He still forced his ambition to their hearing. He told each of them that he would want to continue in life with what his father left behind. This meant he was going to take over his father�s house and farmland. None of them gave him any good response. He left them all without getting a piece of advice from any of them. Rather, they were envious as they wished to inherit their brother�s property instead.
A few months late, the uncles met and decided to take over their late brother�s property that should be inherited by Ochoka. Ebije was to take over the farmland. Before Akooche died, he had lots of yams, guinea-corns, millets and groundnuts not yet harvested in the farm. These were essential and fast-selling food items that brought in a lot of money. Kuma was to take all the property in the house. Ochoka was sitting in his late father�s room one early morning praying to God for his life. Suddenly, Kuma walked in. Ochoka greeted him with respect and humility. The response from his uncle was very brief and aggressive. Then he went on to say what had brought him.
�Good morning too. I have come to collect my late brother�s things. That chair you are sitting on will also be collected. I have come with some people and there is a truck outside to load all the items,� said Kuma.
Ochoka was embarrassed but he said nothing. He stood up and gave them way. Then his uncle ordered in the people he had brought. Swiftly they took away everything. Ochoka was left in an empty room. The thought of his father came to him. �Where he alive, I would not face this,� remarked Ochoka to himself. He lay on the floor of the room and wept. He decided to go nowhere to complain. He would bear it and continue to sleep on the floor in an empty room.
Exactly seven days after this experience, another touching incident occurred. His third uncle Akum came in one night and told Ochoka he was taking over his late brother�s house. As such, Ochoka should find an alternative place. Without any hesitation, he collected his few personal belongings, wrapped them in a raffia bag and left the house. Akum got his wife and children to settle there. He then sold his personal house where he was living before. That fetched him a lot of money, part of which he later used to take a second wife.
Deprived of everything his father left behind for him, Ochoka decided to see the village chief. As he walked into the chief�s living room, he knelt down and greeted him. �May you be blessed our chief, and may you live long,� said Ochoka.
�How are you my son? Get seated on the mat and feel at home,� responded the chief.
Both of them discussed freely. The chief ordered some food for Ochoka and he was served a very delicious meal He ate hungrily for it had been some time he had such a dish. Since he was an orphan, he lived on the goodwill of his late father�s well wishers. After he had eaten and relaxed a bit, he spoke to the chief. �Father, I have come to lodge a complaint to you. I believe only you will bail me out of my problem.�
�Go on, go on,� said the chief.
Ochoka continued. �As you are aware has died. Now I am an orphan. My uncles are not caring for me. All the property, including the farmland I should have inherited from my father, have been seized by them. Now I am nothing. I don�t know how to get my life moving.� He sobbed as he narrated how each of the uncles came one after the other to take everything. The chief was deeply touched as he watched cry. After he stopped crying the chief spoke to him like his father. �My son, I feel sad about your predicament. However, everybody knows the laws of inheritance. Do not be discouraged, if your uncles do not know what the gods do to greedy people today, they knew it yesterday. By tradition, we the people of the land do not punish, we call on the gods to teach such lessons. Leave them to the gods of the land.�
The chief continued: �Now all we need do is to rehabilitate you. Take it easy, I will help you.�
Ochoka was consoled and appreciative of what the chief said and thanked him. Then the chief added, �I have a small hut behind this compound of mine. It is within a big farmland of mine. You take the farmland, live in the hut and become a full time farmer. If you work hard, you will succeed.�
This was unbelievable to Ochoka�s ears. What his uncles could not do for him, the village chief was doing. He was happy. In addition, the chief gave him some money to help him in the purchase of farm tools and household things. Ochoka wept for joy. He knelt down and thanked the chief. He went round the village from house to house to express thanks to the villagers for the love they showed him by giving his father a befitting burial and other burial activities. He also told them what the village chief had done for him. In return from each household he went, he received blessings which made him happy and confident about his life. He lived in the new farm house, had a farmland and settled down to a new life.
The rainy season came in earnest. He worked hard and cultivated yam, millet, guinea-corn and groundnut. Day and night he planned his life and prayed to God for help.
Soon it was harvest and indeed it was marvellous. In appreciation of the fatherly assistance from the village chief, Ochoka took one quarter of his total harvest to the chief. This was a traditional gesture and so the chief could not reject it. More and more blessings for further success were showered on him. The other two quarters of the total harvest, he sold, while one quarter was kept for his use. He made a lot of money from this and soon his life changed for the better. Ochoka the poor orphan was now Ochoka the rich farmer. News went round the village about his wealth. Everybody was happy for him. His uncles also heard and now wanted to identify with him. They invited Ochoka and sat to talk with him. Ochoka was very forgiving. He welcomed them and helped them with money and other food items. The villagers also enjoyed such good and kind gesture from Ochoka. Things went on well like this for Ochoka for several years, each year bringing a bigger harvest than the previous. He continued to work hard on his farm without relenting. He was now a very successful farmer so he thought of building his own home too. He also thought of marriage. With this in mind, he decided to meet the village chief to discuss this ambition of his. The chief had always acted as a father to him since the death of Akooche. On this beautiful evening, Ochoka walked to the village chief.
�Your highness,� Ochoka greeted. The chief was happy to see him and gave Ochoka a very warm reception. After the usual greetings and conversations they went to the real business and purpose of the visit. He declared to the chief his intention to get married and begin a family of his own. Chief Ondaje was pleasantly surprised.
�Thank you my son, I am happy that you have continued to grow and develop well. I am happy for you. If that is what you want, why not? We must ensure you achieve your good desire,� said the chief. The chief recalled Ochoka�s hard work and determination. He admired how sensible and well-behaved this poor orphan had been. In view of the fact that he has been such a good person, Chief Ondaje thought of giving his daughter�s hand in marriage to Ochoka. He thought for a while and spoke, �Ochoka my boy, you have always worked hard. Your behaviour also shows you�ll make a wonderful husband. I therefore offer you my daughter�s hand in marriage. Her name is Adda. You have actually come to the right place. I will give you my daughter�s hand in marriage.�
Ochoka was very happy, but little did he expect this gesture from the chief. He knelt down and thanked Chief Ondaje who now called out, �Adda! Adda!� The girl came in and knelt down before her father. �Father, here I am,� she said. The father instructed Adda to get some water for Ochoka. The idea was to get Ochoka have a good view of her. She looked very beautiful. As she walked briskly away, Ochoka admired her. He felt really satisfied that a beautiful daughter of the chief was being offered to him to marry. He cleared his throat and tried to talk when Adda walked in again, with water in a drinking jug. She knelt down before Ochoka and placed the cup of water in front of him. When she walked away, Ochoka looked at her again and admired the qualities of an ideal housewife already being displayed by Adda. He spoke: �Father, I lack the words to thank you. I am very happy, if Adda will be my wife; I will marry her.� The chief responded that he trusted him very well hence the offer to give his own daughter�s hand in marriage to Ochoka. He again emphasized that Ochoka must uphold that trust by taking care of the girl.
So Ochoka left the village chief�s palace in joy. He immediately set in motion to get the marriage done. As the culture and tradition of his people demanded, Ochoka�s uncles were supposed to carry out the necessary visits to the family of the intended wife. He therefore contacted his uncles Ebije, Akum and Akuma. The uncles had realized that their injustice to Ochoka did not help them. It dawned on them to co-operate with him.
In the meantime Ebije had lost all his belongings including the inherited ones from his late brother as well as his houses to a fire. Kuma on his own part had his farmland totally destroyed by pests, while Ebije�s three children died mysteriously all in one day after a mushroom meal. The belief was that the gods had come down hard on him. Now they seemed eager to assist Ochoka. The son of their brother whom they had abandoned years ago was now an independent and prosperous man. They believed they could benefit from him too. So they started to make arrangements on how to go about the marriage contacts. First, they arranged for a visit to the house of the chief where their intended bride lived. As it was with tradition, kola nuts, money, and palm wine must be taken to show sincerity of the intention being declared.
Getting to the palace of Chief Ondaje, Ebije spoke first. He said: �Your Highness Sir, we have come here for something, we have seen something in your house which we like. That is why we have brought these kola nuts, money, and kegs of palm wine to formally ask for the thing which we desire in your house.�
The chief laughed and asked: �What is that thing? I have many things.� They all laughed and there was a lot of humour. The discussion continued, and the gifts were collected by the chief. The collection of gifts by the chief signified his acceptance to give out his daughter�s hand in marriage to the visiting family. Subsequently, Ochoka and his uncles paid more of visits to Chief Ondaje who consulted his daughter and she accepted. At a later visit, Ochoka and his uncles were told of Adda�s acceptance to get married to Ochoka. The news was received with joy and they fixed a date for the marriage. Ochoka made money available to his uncles to get all the necessary things for the marriage. He also bought new clothes for his bride. The village dance troop was contacted to perform on the day of the marriage ceremony.
The day fixed for the marriage ceremony drew close. It was to take place at Chief Ondaatje�s palace. All the palace workers and attendants worked to put things in place for the ceremony. Chairs were arranged for guests to sit on. Food was cooked and there were lots of drinks especially enyi (gruel made from guinea-corn). Pounded yam was surplus, and bush meat was plenty. It proved a great day. Everybody ate and drank. Dancers entertained the guests who danced joyously. They all enjoyed themselves. The bride price payment was carried out well too. The dowry was fixed and Ebije brought the money out and placed it on the tray. Adda was called out into the centre of the sitting arena. She came out looking shy. Then the instruction was given to her that if she liked the man Ochoka as a husband, she should pick the money placed on the tray by Ebije and give to her father. Adda knelt down and picked the money. She got up and walked briskly to her father and handed him the money. There were applauses here and there. Ochoka came out, held her hand close to him and they walked round side by side. They danced as the music played. Their marriage was the talk of the village for a long time. Even in neighbouring villages, it was discussed in good light.
A few weeks after the marriage ceremony, Adda was ready to join her husband in his residence. Necessary items for a wife: pots, dishes, other cooking utensils as well as various soup ingredients were packed for her. This was something a caring mother would do for her married daughter, and Obitiye, Adda�s mother happily did. Adda on her part was glad because she had achieved something that every young girl desired, getting married honourably. She had been brought up well, not knowing any man before marriage.
Preparations went on to get Adda to her husband�s home. Adda�s mother, step mothers and sisters accompanied her to her matrimonial home. This was done one evening at about dusk. The residence was not far away from the chief�s palace. So she was taken there and formally handed over to her husband. Ochoka was told to ensure he took care of Adda very well. In his response, he gave every assurance that he would do exactly that. They lived on happily and both of them looked up to the time they will be parents. It was however not long before the fulfilment of their dream. Adda started noticing some pleasant discomforts which marked the process of a new life forming in her. Adda was pregnant. This was confirmed when they visited their doctor. They were both happy.

23

For the Heart of Men (II)

Halima Idris Amali

*

OCHOKA cared for her wife. He never allowed her to do any serious household chores anymore and helped her closely in the kitchen. Their love waxed stronger and stronger. It was a happy home. The pregnancy developed and grew bigger. They bought a lot of things in anticipation of the arrival of their baby. One month, then two and, then, nine months passed. Finally, the baby arrived one morning. Ochoka was preparing to meet a friend of his in the heart of the village. This was to enable him complete arrangement about a house he planned to buy inside a nearby city. When Adda started complaining of pains, he had to take her to a hospital. Ochoka felt the pain too as he heard the groans of his wife. He waited patiently, and finally, came the cry of their baby. �I�m blessed, I�m blessed� screamed Ochoka when the midwife came out to inform him of his new born baby boy.
Days rolled by, months and years passed, and their family life continued happily. They were the envy of most people in their neighbourhood. More children came after the first and in a few years, they had three children.
Ochoka continued well in his farming business and exported food stuff to other cities in the country. He embarked on more business projects and earned much more money. With these, his family was comfortable. He bought a lot of clothes for his wife and children. He also bought a car. Later in their marriage life, he bought a very big house in the heart of a city in Ofieduu and decided to move his family to the comfort of the new house and city life.
On a fine day, Ochoka with his wife and children drove ahead of a truck that conveyed their belongings from the village. Getting to the house, the wife and children went round all the rooms and were very delighted. Adda was grateful to her husband. She was full of �thank you� smiles for the beautiful house he had acquired for them. �This is just the beginning my dear Adda,� he said. �There are many good and better things to come for you and for our children by the Grace of God.� The children jumped up and down the house in excitement. It was a delightful thing for them.
The following morning, neighbours came to welcome the family of Ochoka to the neighbourhood. Some of them used the visit as an opportunity to see the house. Then they wagged tongues here and there. Adda received guests warmly. She was able to make friends among the neighbours who visited.
Having settled, Ochoka registered his children in the best primary school in Ofieduu. Every morning, they dressed neatly and beautifully to school. In the evenings, the children rode around on their bicycles. Every child had a bicycle. Sometimes, Adda and her husband took evening walks along the streets. They also spent evenings on the veranda in front of their house, relaxing and discussing matters of interest to them. They were such an admirable couple who loved and cared for each other. Some people exploited Dada�s kind nature in various ways, yet she remained kind to all. But she detested gossip. Adda was uncomfortable with a particular lady who visited her often. A talkative, she visited Adda on daily basis and would tell different stories: �Adda, them say�� she would always start. At the end of each visit, she would beg for one food item or the other which Adda never hesitated in giving her. On getting to other women, she would gossip and wonder how those people made so much money. It must be bad money.
One day she visited as usual, got a few things as usual, and then went back to gossip. She claimed she now realized the source of Ochoka�s wealth. According to her, she saw Ochoka with a blood stained knife. This implied that he was sucking human blood. The gossip went round and round, some good people did not believe. �Is it a sin to have money?� some of them would ask. �So once you are rich, it is bad money,� others would say.
One evening, Ochoka and Adda sat in front of their house as usual, then a voice came calling, �Adda, Adda, a man is there waiting for you. He says you should come quickly as he has waited for too long at that roundabout near your house.� Adda and her husband could not make out what this meant. While they were still wondering what was happening, the voice came again, �Adda, Adda, why are you late today?� Ochoka point jumped up at this. No man who loved his wife would like another man to tamper with her. Adda was mute for the incident was too shocking to her. Ochoka walked fast to the direction of the voice armed with a cutlass. He saw nobody. He then decided to walk towards the roundabout. There he saw a group of three men. They were seated and chatting. Ochoka asked �Gentlemen, please did you see someone standing here?� The men pinched one another. Their prank seemed to be working. �Yes,� replied one of the men. Then they chorused: �We saw a man sitting on a stone at the roundabout, then another man walked to him and they both walked away towards that direction.� They pointed at Ochoka�s house. This confirmed to Ochoka that somebody actually waited there for Adda.
He rushed back home and yelled at his wife who was calm and quietly seated. She was innocent of any accusations of infidelity. Bewildered by anger jealousy Ochoka held her off the chair and began to beat her. Her cries and screams fell on deaf ears. There was a lot of confusion in the house that night. Their children gazed in surprise. This was a new unhappy way of life. They cried to their father, urging him to stop the quarrel. They pleaded to him not to beat their mother. Amulukpa, the eldest of the children cried out. Ikwucheyi also cried while Ofianya, their only daughter sobbed on endlessly. Adda cried as Ochoka continued to beat her. The cries and appeals from his children did not move any sense of pity in him.
This incident made an indelible mark in Adda�s marital life. Since her husband believed every bit of the words of the unknown voice, his behaviour toward her turned negative. The loving talks, the sweet smiles, the tenderly touches and envious admirations from Ochoka to his wife Adda faded away. Love, on a general note diminished. Should Ochoka not have risen above such ill, and trusted in his wife? If he had realized that the unknown voice was a ploy to destabilise his family, if the heart of man had thought further, he would have known the truth. Peace, therefore was being eroded from the home. Daily, new dimensions of mistrust for Adda manifested from her husband. He began to stay away from home from morning till late in the night. He no longer went on evening strolls with Adda and they had no evening chats again. Adda was unhappy. She thought about many things in life, her days as a decent unmarred girl, her life as a decent married woman and her moral uprightness. For sure Adda never flirted. She knew herself, that all her life, she had been faithful to God and her husband. Ochoka himself knew her that well, but something had gone wrong.
The incident had hardly been forgotten when another one happened. Adda and her husband had seen off a family friend who visited them that evening. They were walking back to the house peacefully. Just at about fifty metres to their house, a man passed by. He looked back and called �Adda, Adda, is this you? You have grown bigger and prettier.� It was the voice of Elagbaje, Addda�s school mate many years back at the Odudaaje Primary School. Adda turned and looked at Elagbaje, �Oh, Elagbaje is this you?�
�This is me. We have not seen for many years really,� he replied.
Ochoka was apprehensive. Adda introduced him to Elagbaje: �Meet my husband. He is Ochoka and we are already blessed with three children.�
Elagbaje was excited and stretched out his hand for a handshake but Ochoka was not receptive. He reluctantly stretched his hand out and walked away immediately. Elagbaje was embarrassed. After all, he was only greeting a one time classmate of his. He thought to himself. He had no ulterior motives. Turning back to Adda, who was also amazed, he said: �Adda I am sorry if I�ve caused you any trouble, but my good regards to your children who I am not privileged to meet. We�ll meet in the village sometime. Bye for now.�
Adda thanked him and walked on quietly but fast enough to catch up with her husband. As they walked home both of them remained mute but trouble was brewing. As soon as they got home, Ochoka sat down in the sofa and began: �Adda, who was that man? You cannot play on me like that, okay?�
Adda tried to explain but he would not listen to her. He continued to yell at her. She pleaded innocent of his suspicions. Yet he talked on and on. Ochoka refused to be convinced. His heart was hard against her explanations, the heart of men. He had forgotten that this was the same girl he cherished so much for her decency. He had also forgotten that she had remained an upright woman.
Tension, suspicion, quarrels built up daily in the family. Ochoa�s incessant suspicions and accusations continued to torment Adda. Quarrels persisted daily. There was continuous unhappiness in the family, among the children, and between the couple. Adda however, determined as ever, wanting to maintain her marital ideals continued to be to faithful to her marriage. She performed her duties as a good wife. She never in any way relented in her efforts to do so. On the contrary, Ochoka deserted her most of the time. He was nonchalant about anything relating to her. Life went on so.
One day Adda fell ill. She was unwilling to remain in bed so she kept on forcing herself to work in the house. She complained to her husband but his response was uncaring. He never bothered if she needed medical attention or not. Everyday, he left the house in the morning and came back only at night. Her source of comfort then became her children who sympathized and empathized with her. The children were unhappy as they saw that peace and love were lacking between their parents. �Whatever may be the cause of quarrels between our parents should not affect our father�s human feeling for our mother. It is wrong for him to ignore her even in ill-health,� the children said to themselves. That day Adda fainted while she was moving to the rest room. Her blood pressure had risen very high. Her eldest child ran to a neighbour in tears calling on him to help convey Adda to the hospital. Ochoka was nowhere around. Adda was rushed to the specialist hospital where she was admitted. She was placed on drips and other medication. Her children who followed her to the hospital wore grim faces. But they worked hard at home, preparing food to take to their mother in the hospital.
When Ochoka came back and was told by the children how their mother fainted, he was not worried. Ikwucheyi along with his sister Ofianya went to stay and assist their mother in the hospital, while the other took care of the home front. Their father still kept away from the house most of the time. He however popped into the hospital briefly sometimes to see his wife. At least, he had to do. What he kept away for, and where he spent most of his time, was unknown to the children. However, they continued to console their mother telling her that better days were ahead for her. They would take care of her at least.
On another day, Amulukpa and Ikwucheyi were going home from the hospital to pick some things for their mother. As they stood by the roadside, they saw their father driving past in his car with a lady beside him. �Father! Father!� Amulukpa screamed as he was waving his father to stop for a ride home. To his disappointment he only got a wave back. �Well, what a mystery,� he said to himself. He held Ikwucheyi's hand and they walked all the way home through the distance of five hundred metres. As soon as they got home, Amulukpa collected the items they had come for and left back of the hospital to his sick mother.
Ikwucheyi felt that their grandparents needed to know of their mother�s ill health. Through a neighbour of theirs, he sent a message to Adda's parents. On getting the message, the chief made quick arrangements to go immediately to Adda. Adda had spent ten days in hospital before he came. Discussing with the chief medical consultant of the female ward, the chief was told that Adda was suffering from hypertension as well as mental depression. According to the doctor, anxiety was the likely cause of her hypertensive condition. However, she had started improving and her health was much better although she had lost weight and was very unhappy. Adda's father was sad at the sorry sight of his daughter. He embraced her, spoke to her, and encourage her about life. Having heard from Adda of all her marital problems, he advised that she take it easy and put all those problems behind her.
Meanwhile Ochoka had not shown up in the hospital even after over six hours of Adda's father�s arrival. They chatted on. At night Ochoka walked carelessly into the ward. When he saw his father-in-law beside Adda, he was embarrassed. �Father, you are here. How did you hear?�
He got no response. This was the same chief who had helped him, had cared for him and given his daughter as wife. Now Ochoka was failing their terms of agreement to take good care of the woman. But the chief did not frown at Ochoka. He was a man of peace. He continued to visit Adda for a few days until she got better. Her children were enough source of pride and consolation for her, he told his daughter. So she must show her appreciation to God by being a happy woman. He also encouraged her to continue to be a good wife. Truly, the children were very sensible, caring and also loving to their mother. Such advice made Adda happy.
Having spent six weeks in sick bed, she was ready for discharge from the hospital. Her husband became more constant in the hospital, though very brief each time. When Adda was discharged however, he was not there. Chief Ondaje paid the bills. Together with his daughter, Adda, his grandson, Amulukpa and granddaughter Ofianya who were always beside their mother on her hospital bed, they drove home.
While in the house Adda�s children rallied round her to give her all the desired comfort and keep her mind at rest. Before her father left finally back to the village he gave her lots of soothing advice and encouragement about life and how to take it easy. He also pleaded with his son-in- law to calm down and be patient with the world.
Ochoka continued to stay away from the house most of the time. The welfare needs of the family were no longer his daily concern. Adda and her children continued to contain this negative attitude from Ochoka, their husband and father. Life went on this way for them.
Exactly six months after Adda had been discharged from the hospital, another tragic incident occurred. She was relaxing in the living room and watching a drama programme on TV when suddenly came the sound of a car horn. �That�s Daddy,� said Ofianya.
Ochoka had left his family some weeks before then on the excuse that he was travelling to Katsina on a business trip. The children and their mother rushed out to welcome Daddy. On getting to the car, there were a young girl of about one year old and another big boy of Amulukpa's age probably. They were both in the back seat of the car while a woman was seated in the front seat beside the driver.
�Welcome Daddy,� all the children chorused.
�Thank you my children,� he replied. Turning to Adda, Ochoka embraced her. Adda was happy, but unsure of this gesture. She had never in the past many months received such a loving touch from her husband. The lady in the car and the children all got down and Ochoka showed them the way into the house. Adda and her children were wondering who these visitors were but welcomed them very well and gave them the comfort of their home. Ochoka was very warm and loving to Adda that day. Adda was embarrassingly happy over this behaviour of her husband who had earlier abandoned her for many months. She quickly went to the kitchen to prepare a good meal for her husband and the visitors. In a short time, she was able to serve her husband�s favourite dish of pounded yam and vegetable soup.
When they had eaten and relaxed, it was already in the night. Ochoka called Adda and her children to the living room. They all wondered what the matter was but listened attentively. He addressed them: �It is now time for me to tell you some good tidings. We have to change some arrangements in the house. Amulukpa, you and your brother will move to the visitor�s room, you Adda, my first wife should move to the children�s room and remain there with your daughter Ofianya. Here is my new wife with her daughter who is a year old. We�ll now occupy the master bedroom with her.�
The children listened along with Adda, but they were embarrassed. Ochoka was not worried about how they felt. He only cared about himself. As far as he was concerned he was happy. He ordered that the children should quickly carry out his instructions to enable his new wife and children settle. He told them that the big boy who came with him was also his son he had a year after he married Adda. �That is my son. He has always been with his mother in Gboko. Now he is coming home to join his father, and that is me,� Ochoka re-affirmed to Adda and her children. The thought in them was why he did not tell them all the while that he had a second wife elsewhere. Adda was never intimated that there was a wife or children somewhere. Another wife outside the home, she wondered. She was shocked, but muttered nothing. The children stood up to leave but their father shouted at them to go and move their mother�s things from the master bedroom to enable the new wife pack in. The children protested and rather decided to throw out the new woman�s luggage. They threw the boxes out along with her bags and all other things they had taken to the living room from the car. Adda sat still, but in deep thought. The new wife was scared. She picked her little daughter and ran out. The big son who just came also followed. Ochoka was short of words as he watched his children fighting on behalf of their mother. As they threw out the things they insulted their father and reaffirmed that the house belonged to no other woman but their mother.
When they had completed this action, they turned to their father and told him in clear words that they would no longer watch him maltreat their mother. According to them, if he did not value her as a wife, they valued her as a mother. With the mission of throwing out things completed, they asked their father to reassure their mother that he loved her as his wife. Ochoka was shocked. It was surprising how the children summed up courage to speak. Apparently, they had had enough of the torture. That thought made them have no shame and no fear in addressing the issue. Most times, Amulukpa was their spokesman. Ochoka was deeply touched. He spoke to the children intimately: �My dear children, I am sorry, I do not know how I was carried away to that behaviour. Now I realise I am wrong so please pardon me. Pardon me, my dear children.� Then he turned to his wife, �Adda, Adda!� but there was no response. It was already too late. He grabbed Adda to embrace her but she was still and cold. Adda was dead! The shock at her husband�s behaviour took away her life. Ochoka too went into a shock as he screamed over what was happening. Their mother was dead! What a shame, what a pity. Amulukpa and his younger ones cried sorrowfully. Their mother had died for the heart of men.

24

Too Soon for Catty

Chin Ce

*

SHE was lying on the bed, obviously having an evening rest, for her eyes were slightly shut, when he entered the narrow little corner of the hostel room that housed her bedstead.
Her corner had been kept neat; the floor was cleanly swept, her books carefully arranged on the shelf by the side of her window -except for one that stuck out an angle from the neat row.
Warily, she half opened an eye, watched him gingerly place the package of cashew nuts he had brought with him on top of her small reading table. A faint smile crossed her lips as she quickly closed it again.
They had always treated themselves to cashew or pea nuts and a drink of fruit juice, especially at the beginning of a new session, whenever he called in to take her out for a walk or to watch a play. He always bought the nuts, his favourite, and she would insist on bringing the juice, her best. Together then they made what they called their little welcome party, just for two. And she would tell him stories from the latest novel she was reading.
He looked round the room. She had done so much cleaning of the walls already. Now wallpaper of beautiful floral designs added a purple hue, an aura of homely warmth, to her side. He could notice that the spew of stickers that proclaimed Armageddon until now had somehow been purged.
One scrawled on dark green paintbrush had seriously caught his attention last semester. Hell is Real, it averred. Another joined: Except Ye be born Again� and refused to say the obvious threat. There was another famous one that read: Education Plus Beauty Minus Christ Equal Hell Fire -and the fire stood in the background with a red blood blaze. Beside this used to be a daring proclamation: Beware Demons: Angels on Guard! A riotous multitude of stickers, there used to be, plastered all over the little corner, taking up every available space as if less meant inadequacy of faith. He admired her moral strength, her courage to live up to the highest ethical standard in life, but rejected her doctrine. �Rather superfluous,� he would tell her. �You'll come to know better one day.�
�One day you will know, too,� she would reply.
It was funny how she would turn his words on him whenever they disagreed on any one score. But he took it all in good faith. It felt like a bond between them, a feeling that was growing, and held the promise of even growing stronger in coming years after they might have left college and settled down together, stronger than the doctrine of faith that she wore like a garland around her neck. God, let that vanity go away, he had prayed. And now they were gone, all cleaned out. He really had to give God a warm hug for this one, he thought to himself.
She had certainly been busy since she returned. Quite some effort must have gone in the whole clean-out drill, and that was in spite of her long journey from home across the two great rivers. This transformation must testify to a new awakening, he hoped. �I like the decency of your corner, now,� he commented, gesturing to the bright floral walls of an enchanting purple.
�Oh,� she smiled wanly. �It took me one full week to dress it all up to this modest taste.� She smiled again gracefully, tenderly, innocently. �And thanks.�
�For what?�
�For your compliment.�
�You are welcome�
�So you�ve been back since the week,� he observed with a frown. �I thought you only returned today,� he added on a surprised note.
�Ah, didn�t you get my note?� she replied, adding, �on your door?�
He didn't get any note. He shook his head.
�Must have dropped off then,� she said quickly.
There was something about this that struck him rather strange. It was an old trick in the book of college loves that the note dropped off the door. It was easy and convenient if you couldn�t or didn't really want to keep your part of a schedule. You might even add the breeze then blew it away for good. All the chicks and dudes did that to their half brained sissies and johnnies. They called it squaring up once. But he didn't think Catty and himself would ever sidle up to that part in their dealings. At least, it was not the way they had treated each other their past three years of dating.
�Well, I�m so glad to see you anyway,� he smiled looking into her eyes.
�Happy to see you, yes,� she returned an uneasy laughter. After some time she asked in her warm and homely manner. �So how are the people at home?�
�Oh, they�re fine. Nora sends her greetings.�
�Nora.... your little sister, isn�t she? How�s she then?�
�Doing fine, I told her all about you,� he confessed, �and she was the one who helped me post all the sweet letters I wrote you... which you never replied,� he accused.
�I didn't get any letter, Dave. Oh dear, you wrote me those sweet letters like you promised?� she smiled, a wide teasing smile, and then gave him an accusing look, her pretended suspicious sideward glance that he found rather alluring. �Now what have you been telling about me?� she queried with a mischievous twinkle of her eyes.
�Well I told about us, to speak correctly.�
Her eyes rounded in pretended alarm. �What about us?� she asked, eager to know.
�Well... Just that we�re good friends trying to tackle our fundamental differences.�
�Is that all?� she made a face of disappointment.
�No... There's more, but aren't you missing something? I can't believe you forgot our little party!� he accused. His voice was shrill with rebuke.
She seemed to shrink. �Sorry, what was I thinking?� She knocked her fist on her head in gentle self rebuke. �You brought the peanuts. Ok. Let me get the juice. Just a minute, dear!� She opened her desk and rummaged for a second. Then she was off to get the fruit juice that they would use for their little get together. Everything for two. So it was agreed, and so it had always been. But how could she act now like she forgot? What had she been thinking to seem so listless on their first meeting in three months now?
He was staring into space, the way he often did when he had no answer to some puzzle that seemed to spring up without warning when his eyes fell back on one of her books in the shelf, the one that seemed to stick out of the row -like a sore thumb, he smiled. She was always adding one or more new titles to her romance list every session. He was sure she would soon be telling him some parts of the story as she read on. The title of this one was My Prince and I. Oh how curious. He took the book off the shelf and something tucked in between the book and another dropped to the floor. He picked it and gave a little start of surprise.
A wise man once said there were golden moments in human experience when an answer would just pop right there before you almost as soon as your question was asked. Cherish that moment, he exhorted, for it was the cosmos giving you a wink in the right direction. Dave recognised the brown five-by-seven envelope. It was the one he had used to post his holiday letters to her, only now bulky and tied with a rubber band. He did not know why he shoved the packet into his pocket. And why his heart seemed to miss a beat when he quietly replaced the book where it had stood.

Catty returned shortly carrying a pair of Sambro fruit juice and straws. Dave had opened the can of nuts he had set on the table. She was eager to continue from where she had left off. �So what have you been telling about me?� she queried again. There was always this na�ve tone about her demands that frequently gave away her feelings or misgivings about anything. From the start he had believed this an open minded quality. It gave him the confidence to keep an open diary between them both. To Catty he was determined to be as plain and guileless as one could ever be in a relationship and she seemed to love him for it.
�You�ll blush to hear the rest,� he teased her.
�Try me,� she laughed. Her voice was like peals of tiny bells, gentle sounds of music, in his ears.
�I�m serious,� he said, trying to look truly serious and hide the smile hovering around the side of his mouth.
�So what is it? I�ll try not to blush,� she replied but her heart was banging crazily against her chest. She usually nursed these sudden, unexplained fears about nothing in particular and Dave would notice. It made him want to protect her, to reassure her that all was okay and that she should just be herself, no more, no less. It also encouraged him not to want to keep anything from her or do anything that might cause her to misunderstand his own loving intentions towards her.
�Well, I told her I have been crazy about you,� he confessed finally, adding, �and have spent many months seeking an entrance into a heart that would not let me in for keeps.� She smiled shyly and gently averted her eyes, �That�s familiar...� she said, adding a trifle carelessly: �Why didn�t you remember to say that you fell in love too soon for Catty...� He felt a shiver run through her body as soon as she said those words and Dave suddenly felt sick then as realisation hit home.
�Seems we are back to squaring up once,� his voice was sad. �That's the word I used in the letter I wrote you, after you told me last semester that you didn�t know if you loved me enough to marry me. I used it in the opposite sense, Catty dear.�
�Really? I don�t remember,� she said hastily.
�You said �too soon for Catty,�� Dave smiled at her. �How you have grossly understated the case at this moment?�
Even in his sadness and disappointment, he was aware her of discomfiture and decided not to press the matter further. He rather talked about other things, making a familiar joke about her grandmother and her morbid thoughts of the world coming to an end and everything returning to the dusts. And when they rather not talked, he suggested they ought to go see a movie or take a walk to the waterside. But she excused herself she was tired. So, for the first time, Dave had to retire to his room alone and unaccompanied by his beloved Catty.

An hour later, in his room, while he regarded the envelope he had retrieved from the bookshelf, the question he asked himself was why? Pictures and letters had been loosely strapped together. It seemed to have been done hurriedly as if the person holding them saw or heard someone coming and quickly banded everything out of sight.
It took him a long time to summon the courage to remove the loose band and take out the contents. Those were his letters all right, the three letters he had written Catty during the long vacation, and which Nora had gladly posted at his behest.
But they did not answer the question, why. What gave the answer was a familiar four by six picture she had always kept by the side of her bed. That was her cousin in the United States, she had told him. He had no reason to doubt it. Until now as he scrutinised the picture again, and another one, probably a recent one he had not seen before, which had the young man resting elegantly on a Porsche. On the back was scrawled a cursive writing that said only one word �Sweetie.�
He smiled foolishly.
One word was all that had outmatched tons of his. One word and a goddamn Porsche!
He spread the first letter and began to read his own words. He had thought they were beautiful letters indeed when he wrote them because they were the first act he had ever done to completely unfold his innermost feelings to someone else -particularly in the second line of his first letter where he had made that charge of never falling too soon:

�I will never ever think, my dear, that with you I fell in love too soon,� he read aloud to himself. �That would be grossly exaggerating the case. For I, who, over the years, saw nothing much to crave from the arrays of degenerating specimens of modern-age womanhood, disillusioned in what I have seen as the perpetuation of stale stereotypes, was slowly, daintily, enamoured of you, my darling.
�Mine is the slow burning fire. But it was not for them, never.
�Those Hollywood play actresses....
�Civilized in the whole confused range of mundane attitudes and imported mannerisms where a nauseating flock of bad habits had been gathered from within the worst caverns of dark minds.
�For years, darling-
�Snobbery had walked the streets, devoid of intelligence and spiritual substance, garbed in eau de cologne and white wash.
�Stiletto and the minis-
�Rescusitated from the embarrassing pasts of a forgotten time-
�Tap! Tap!�
�Shit and bullshit�
�Damn and F- you!
�All the vulgar specimens of an age precipitating its own debauchery in a whirlpool of misguided, obfuscated motivations-
�Were called city styles...
�And woman was transmogrified -from the natural world of laughter, and smile, and cheer, from the innocuous love of life, into a mascara of vehemence and grimace-
�And punk buffoonery!
�A smile is offensive, laughter a crime against the mock dignity of the modern trans-civilized Hollywood city star.
�Thus did this confusion walk with me, even when I met you. But I saw you and said this is the most loving woman in the whole world.
�When the mountain dissolves, a land is transformed before our eyes. A new land, a new earth, ready for vegetation, ask the priest.
�Indeed, darling, the mountain loomed large then. Piles and piles of doctrines!
�From the reverend father-
�To your grandmother, there at home, where faith in the kind of love and friendship we have was all but lost.
�But who can give back what is lost; can you give what you do not have?
�So dogma had stood in the way-
�In the way of light.
�And how long did we go through all these: �Oh Dave, I love you but I�m scared for your soul. You will lose your soul if you don�t go to church!� and �My kind of love is not exuberant or selfish. Mine is godly love, for you, Dave!�
�Honey, what is divinity? �Fear God to save the soul,� you had said.
�I had stared at the bold letters of fear that were dipped in blood-red fires.
�Flames of torture; fires of sadistic torments.
�Which God is that but our mental projections?
�Our demonic vengeance which seeks out our weaker victims when unequally yoked together and relishes the pleasure and satisfaction, however insatiable, of devouring, manic destruction.
�Ye vindictive gods! How you have made nonsense of the love you so oft proclaimed to our mundane ears!
�And so you spoke your fears: �I don�t know how to love, how to love my God, Dave.�
�But I rejected this wicked misapplication of divine principle a long time ago.
�Priest-craft and principalities exploited the art of writing rather tendentiously. To advance their tangential doctrines!
�Love must be divine, and free. All that primitive expedition in a burning furnace is diabolism at work. And so this two-faced deity of ours presiding over an irreconcilable dual power had made his dominance over my consciousness unacceptable. �The soul that sinneth shall die,� your poster cries out on the wall. Each time you glanced at it again, and again, and again, your loyalty hovered.
�Dear heart, why have sin and death been their weapon of coercion for all time?
�Yet in the light we share beyond time and space, the illusion of sin and damnation evaporates. I am indestructible, I say.
�So let me eternally take on my bodies in their colours and shapes and sizes, so that experience and continuity may become the relevant element of my beingness. Let them be the purification processes of my etrnal remembering!
�Remember when you told me, with that biting sarcasm, that vehement opposition, �Dave unbelief is the first sin in heaven and has become your own undoing!�
�For want of words, I had stared blankly into space.
�And from somewhere outside the refectory, past the silent readers in the night studiously engaged in their little corners, the noises of a frolic, a beauty contest, where the ladies displayed their pants an bras for general ogling, smacking of lips, cat calls and drooling of saliva, drifted into our silent world of deeper reflections.
��You must be yourself,� I exhorted. �Freedom consists not in belief but in experience!�
��Neo-modernist,� you said...
�But what is this hypothetical concept that I advance. �Ten decades, I might say, or a hundred centuries are but passages in consciousness. Stretch time ahead. A thousand millennia in the void will hold infinite possibilities and will continue to hold gigantic advancements.
�Once upon a time painted damsels were demons and must be exorcised in deathly rituals. Today the painted beauty is the mother-goddess we often adore.
�But beauty is the attribute of a finer faculty. The dark side of human nature appropriates the negative to every good beginning. So what if I stand alone?
�And then you came up with the idea of belonging. �A sense of belonging,� you said, �is the security of living.�
�Yes living, maybe, but not life.
�And when I laughed derisively you said, �I don't mind your slanderous gimmick.�
�But I had laughed because I could imagine your priest spitting fire on whoever did not belong, whoever did not bow to mammon! And why did it not surprise me?
�Long ago many were hanged for culpable heresy. It only took an accusing finger.
�Today, I have become the heretic of your faith. Would you rather then, my dear, I talked as the fanatic disciple of faith?
�I do not espouse a faith, a body of dogma founded upon unreliable mental constructions.
�I espouse love. Not fear.
�So I may not belong to that square peg of belonging. But I enjoy it. In limitless measures lies my individuality from which I can always draw my strength, lacking so much in the social cohesiveness of your sense of belonging, which you, my dearest love would rather want of me.
�I am a round peg. Round and practical. Too very wide for this world and narrow, in many cases, to sentiments -dark sentiments and ugly values.
�It might depend on how you saw it, the observer. You may have a jaundiced eye; there may be this huge log. But when vision is warped by the loudest voices of authority, who am I to yell and proffer corrections. Who am I, darling, to seek to correct ten thousand misguided watchers and idle observers in nature, the compositions of which I, even I, am borne on wings infinite; engaged in the timeless processes of understanding my complex universe.
�For whom is it complete, this world?
�So over and above this, over and above any theory of priests and principalities, all I know is this love, one with that which we seek to express in divine longing, and thus in complement with that which I seek to give you, my dearest love.
�And now, this other mountain, our faithless grands lurking in the background of two generations and brandishing their cards of images past and present, evidencing the futility of all endeavours we seek to have-
�They shall stay in the background of our landscape, our new land, our new earth.
�Hey, we cannot live our life on the ideas and considerations of our grannies. Again who can give back what has been lost; who can have what was never there to give?
�So after all these, think darling, think, and you will realize that into your tender arms I could not ever fall too soon for Catty!�
�Love, Dave.�

After the first reading he suddenly felt like taking his bath and leaving the materials on his desk he reached for his plastic bucket in his wardrobe and went out to look for water.

25

 
Without a Backward Glance

Chin Ce

*

CATTY was sitting on his reading chair when he returned from the bathroom. She now had his letters in one hand, and the pictures of her cousin in the other. She was frowning thoughtfully as if weighing the importance of both objects and what each meant to her in turn. She lifted her face as he drew home the blind that demarcated his corner and bed area from the rest of his roommates'.
She was wearing an expensive brown frock upon the pair of bright red trousers her cousin had sent early that year for her birthday present. But she looked rather sickly for the very first time in his eyes now. Her chest heaved uncertainly and he could almost hear her heart, as usual, banging in fear and regret at the uncomfortable situation they had found themselves in.
On his part he felt strangely at peace, like during those midnights when lying on the bed, eyes shut in the darkness of the hostel room, half aware of the soft, uneven and sometimes harsh breathing of his roommates, he would be lost, deep in the groves of his thoughts about her.
Moreover the cold bath had relaxed him, had given him an insurgence of strength from within, which seemed to balance the right centres of his subconscious self, leaving him with a feeling of peace and goodwill. He thought this was a much welcome feeling on a moment like this.
They regarded each other for a few seconds which seemed to last for eternity. Then he broke the spell. �I see you came to take your pictures. I�m sorry I took them along with my letters,� he apologised. �It was unintended. But I now know why this happened. And I am glad for the knowledge,� he bit his lips and stopped. There, he thought. He had made it easy for her to explain herself now. But she said nothing; she just sat still, weighing the objects in her hands, and feeling a shamefulness that was pathetic even for her attempts at a dignified composure. He was sorry to see her in that state and so could not ask her for any further confirmation. He already knew the obvious reason for her having to lie to him.
After what seemed several hours of disquieting silence, with Dave not going on to humour or berate as was the case in their love rows, she slowly rose to her feet, pausing half way to slide the pictures into her bag and, very gently, place his letters back on his desk.
�I'm so sorry, Davey,� was all she could mutter tearfully. Then she turned and fled the room with barely a backward glance.
Feeling suddenly weak and tired, Dave no longer had appetite for dinner and no interest in prep for the night. He just wanted a sleep right there and then, a sleep that would blot out the whole damned scene from his mind. Minutes later, he changed into his pyjamas and flopped onto the low metal bunk.

Rather than blot anything out, his thoughts that night were of her and all they had done in the past. She was now resting on the bed while he sat on the chair facing her, and sipping from the bottle of coke she had offered him.
He had just done justice to his share of the chicken she had cooked. It remained the bones and little bits of flesh which he was busy picking slowly with his teeth. Then he drained the bottle of its contents and pushed the plate a little further away.
�Such generosity,� he grinned and licked his lips to show his relish, �doesn�t come quite often. For which I am so grateful.� She smiled her lovely smile, looking beautiful in an expensive green satin gown, which showed her firm bust in a modest way. �I�m happy you enjoyed all of it,� she said.
�Sure, the meat was very good.�
�Thanks for liking it,� she picked the bottle and plate away.
�Wonder why we don�t see much of these where we live,� he remarked.
�Because the boys cannot afford it,� she teased.
�Or their eating habits are more disciplined,� he returned.
He stared at the familiar pictures on the desk, a small portrait of her at one, and that of her cousin at the other end. Both were framed in steel. He was always fondly looking at her bright and brilliant eyes, the wide set lips on which he can read a great deal of determination, and the tenderness of her pose which brought a smile of adoration on his face every time he contemplated her.
He watched a large mosquito fly and hover around the frame, and impulsively struck, knocking the picture off the desk. Quickly, delicately, he picked it up rubbing off a stain that was not there. �Guess I nearly killed it,� he said.
�Our windows have no gauze,� she gestured. �So it seems they all come to feed here.�
�You should complain to the porters,� he advised.
�We have done that; they say it�s the job of Works... and Works say it is the duty of Admin to inform them... So nothing has been done since.� She opened her wardrobe, and brought out a tin of Baygon insecticide, shaking it vigorously. �We use this meanwhile.�
�And what do you want to do now?�
�Spray a little, do you mind? I know it can be unpleasant.�
He shrugged in agreement, adding �And unhealthy.�
�We will go out for a walk,� she suggested, �and the smell would have gone when we return.�
�Fine then,� Dave said, rising to his feet, and holding his breath as the pungent spray hit his nose.

It was dark outside, already night, he found to his surprise, and then realised how long he had spent in her room. Probably over three hours, he guessed. For just that brief stay with her!
�How time flies when I�m with you,� he told her. She nodded, smiling.
�I often wonder about that too.�
�Well, it gives me great joy,� he confessed. �For once in my life, I never can get bored; it�s a very special feeling.�
She nodded again, looking into the distance ahead.
Hands linked, they took the flower garden path that led away from the female hostel, walking very slowly, enjoying each pace forward and nowhere in particular. The path led toward the football stadium further from the campus where the lights of the hostels became only dull glints away in the distance.
They made their shelter under a lone yaro tree by a grassless corner near the roadside. It was cosy, warm and comfortable with each beside the other.
They spent the remaining hours of night there, sitting thus for a long time, feeling the warmth and throbbing of their hearts, and the contentment known to only them both. The moon, their favourite companion this time, was near full, shining warmly, a sedate matron in the centre of the bright clouds floating cooly in the airy endless space of the spheres.
He remembered a previous moment, their last night together before the close of the semester, here on the some lovely spot under this tree. They had watched the stars sparkle from the dark unknown distance as she sang an old, familiar song that brought a yearning and longing from within his deepest heart. It was a song about, two friends, two truthful lovers, somehow helping each other through the hard times.
And she had taught him the song -rather the refrain which was all that mattered when he listened to her mellow enchanting voice over and over until he was carried away in an emotion of indescribable thrill, joy and strange pain. And over the days, even at the distant north where he spent a dreary vacation, he tried to relive the very moments of that experience, the tightness that gripped him around the chest, as he listened to her, searching her eyes for a message of true love in that song...
�Our moon is growing full again,� he observed in a warm husky voice.
�Very nearly,� she remarked, �it will be full moon yet.�
Together they watched the bright luminescence of the heavens, savouring the elegance of the brilliant golden hue cast around the active night, watching the dark silhouettes of the trees and the roofs of houses far away in the town, barely visible from their lonely position under the yaro tree. And the steadiness of their gaze yielded in a single blur with the clouds and the moon, and the golden landscape of the night, and the darkness and lonely silence of the world around them, punctuated by the sound of their own voice and the noise of the night insects.
�Some times like this I'd want a home in the moon,� she said, laughing at herself. �How would you like it Davey?� her voice had an affectionate ring to it.
�Just the two of us?� he asked.
�Of course, silly. Were you thinking of a politician with you on the moon?�
He smiled and answered: �That would be lovely... except maybe it would be lonely... without people.�
�It would be warm... who likes a swarm of people in the first place.�
�Well there�s this idea of life in the moon,� Dave told her.
�Like we have here on the planet?�
�It�s little better at one end, a little worse at the other... with and witchcraft, deception and wars, so the legend goes.�
�Then we will live at the better end...�
He agreed. �Life there is nobler than anything on earth,� he continued. �There�s creativity, there�s love, and there�s harmony, like in Venus of the golden music.�
�So how do we catch a flight?� she teased with practical enthusiasm.
�No we travel soul-wise,� he laughed. �It�s faster than light... and we can explore further planets and worlds.
�And maybe talk to the man with the axe,� she added with a laugh. �He defied the day of worship and made God angry. So He put him there to serve as a lesson to others.� They laughed warm heartedly.
�My sister really made me believe that story. So every Sunday, I always have to go to church,� she recalled with a smile.
�In our village, the fellow was first turned to stone then taken up there.�
�Maybe the stones the astronauts picked where they landed,� she mused. �Do you also wonder if moon-dwellers fear the UFOs the way we do here.�
�No,� Dave replied sagely. �Extraterrestrials must be great friends with the people there.�
She heaved a deep breath, pulling him by the arm with a warm contended sigh.
�Sing me to sleep Davey,� she cooed, �I feel so happy and cosy with you.�
He pulled her to him and she snuggled into his arms, her eyes glowing and dancing as they came together in a long deep kiss...

After what seemed a brief moment in eternity, she stirred her body, hitting weakly at the leg where a mosquito had bitten her then cuddled back into his arms.
He massaged her affectionately. She opened the eyes she had shut in the darkness, her mind rested in the deepening silence of the night, or was it the dawn? Finally it was she who said, �we should be going, Dave.�
�Yeah,� he agreed weakly. �We have nearly spent the whole night here.�
�Do you think it�s dawn now? It�s so cold and chilly.� She rose to her feet shivering and moving closer to shield her body with his. And he offered his hands around her neck; his coat covered her back as they walked backed to the hostel, slowly, happily, in the quiet silent night of the sleeping world.
At the door, she stopped to kiss him goodnight and they clung to each other again, he looking into her beaming face, into a pair of eyes that danced with sheer delight!
�Good morning,� she announced ironically and they laughed in bemusement at themselves.
�Funny enough, I don�t feel tired,� he said.
�Me too.�
�So let�s stand like this till the day breaks,� he proposed.
Her eyes rounded in alarm. �We will give some porters the shock of their lives,� she giggled, lifting her hands to her head and feeling her hair. �That reminds me, I�ll be going to plait my hair tomorrow... I�ve nearly forgotten to tell you.�
�Not bad,� he cooed. �I�ll love your new look, even though I�d miss your low cut.�
She smiled. �It�s just for only one week or two... You�ll come with me, won�t you?��
�Go with you!� he made it sound unthinkable, but it didn�t produce the effect he wanted. She continued, coolly ignoring his objection. �Yes... later we'll go to class... Oh today is Sunday. The salon won�t open. Sorry I forgot. Then we go to church,� she sang along. �Now don�t tell me you�ll be running to any meeting again, Davey, we give the day to church... And you are not going anywhere else,� she concluded finally, her hands on her hips in a mock aggressive posture.
She stopped soon enough and glanced at him, flashing a brilliant smile.
�You are beautiful,� he told her. The compliment knocked her wide-mouthed. Her eyes rolled twice over.
�Dave! You are unpredictable!�
�Yes?� he grinned triumphantly.
Her iris caught the light of the bulb and glowed like two beautiful stars; it lighted the clear white of her eyes.
�Saying things at the wrong time,� she remonstrated
�Well, doesn�t matter as long as it is the right thing.� He smiled into her eyes, those clear, frank, and loving eyes, while she fondled with the neck collar of his shirt.
�Thanks for your compliment, but it doesn�t kill the matter of church, remember?� she gave a winning nod, with a vigorous motion of her head that was child-like and alluring in the loveliness of her gait.
She had true warmth, such glowing warmth which held no affectations and drew him on and on to the very core, the very centre of her heart.
It was a feeling he had, and which he was yet to admit to a living soul.
No, not one.
For that special feeling, that trust and confidence in the veracity of his deepest convictions, the pricelessness of this rare gem, must be guarded, relived and re-won like God's kingdom itself; yeah, not scattered, not thrown onto the dirt of trivial light talk.
So he had thought.

26

 
This Time Tomorrow
 
Taiwo Odumosu

*

BIMPE was still in the bathroom when the message reached her. It was crisp, urgent and telegraphic: �Mama, mama, awon onijogbon yen ti tun de o.� Those trouble shooters are here again, she muttered to herself. With fresh lather still on her bronze-like skin, she shuttled out of the bathroom barely veiling her body with a wrapper. Her sense of insecurity was instantly aroused. �God, God, igbese, igbese� was all she could mutter to herself as she briskly ran towards the store where she kept her wares. She saw her neighbours running helter-skelter towards different directions.
The previous day, two lorry loads of tomatoes and vegetables had arrived from the East of the country. They came in the thick of the night. Though, Akanki, the driver of the lorry which conveyed the goods volunteered to unload the goods. Bimpe would not allow him. She had thought the driver had over-worked himself and deserved a rest with his motor boys. She had treated them to ogbono soup and a bowl of eba. To reciprocate her gestures, Akanki and his boys had woken up as early as 5.00 pm unloading the goods from the lorry. As soon as they finished, they lent a helping hand to Shehu who was busy arranging the vegetables in the stall. They settled with a large bowl of eba which Bimpe usually prepared for them. The vegetables and tomatoes were still fresh. Only few of them had gone bad because of the scorching heat of the previous day.                                 
Bimpe bit into luscious lips as she looked at the men standing beside a black Prado jeep before her. Every one was running helter-skelter hauling along one item or the other. Where would she begin? She had adumbrated in her scattered mind that her goods were not just handy things she could pull and run for her life. She stood there perplexed. Tears were dripping on her cheeks. One of the men looked at her lewdly. The wrapper dropped down the middle of her breast. For all she cared, it could drop off, but her wares must be. �Hey, care for a nap?� the one with an AK 47 rifle had asked, gazing at the threshold of her chamber. Bimpe looked at him and hissed. The mobile police officer said: �You need it, woman!�
From a far distance, a yell of melancholy rented the livid air. The structure destroyers had started their wicked operation in earnest. Everyone was busy carrying those goods that could easily be scurried to safety as the men of Operation Sweep marched along side the heavy caterpillar pulling down the stalls. They were combat ready for reprisal attacks from the wounded lionesses of the market. Already, those who hauled themselves on the way protesting the invasion had been beaten plump and arrested.
�Mama, what shall we do?� her six year old son had asked as the heavy truck mauled all it could along its way. �Let�s go away. Our teacher said motors kill. The caterpillar must not kill us. Maybe they won�t get to our stores today? We shall pack our tomatoes and vegetables to safe place. And my car and land rover jeep you bought for me,� he ejaculated as he pulled at his mother. The woman sobbed. Junior, as she used to call the boy, couldn�t understand. She could only see the void her world had just become. She thought about the money obtained from the cooperative society and the weekly esusu contribution scheme. How would she meet up such daunting commitments? Her sobs became uncontrollable as she shuddered in her plaintive thoughts. �Junior, you know there is no home for us. Your father left five years ago. He hasn�t returned since then. The landlord sent us packing. Now our only hope beside God is being destroyed��
�Yes Mama,� he answered. �But we can get out of the way of these devils. Maybe if they don�t reach our store we can come tomorrow to carry our things.�
 They hurried into the store, picked their clothes and few belongings and jumped out of the place after she had locked it. It was a small store made of vast plank of wood but covered with wallpapers which beautified the interior. They could see the other stalls as they crumbled easily to the threshing of the mowing caterpillar. Junior gazed at the scene and was bewildered that the shops could not even resist the attacks but were just crumbling under the millipede tread of the caterpillar. He had thought that if he was old enough and held a gun like the invading soldiers and the policemen attacking them he would have fought back and kicked the bullies out of the market.
The bus drivers whose motor park abutted the market hurriedly jumped into their buses and screeched away from the path of the marauding devil. �So our beautiful park is gone?� a music record dealer asked no one in particular. He had barely finished when a rude hand pulled the collar of his shirt from the back. As he swivelled to the pull, the butt of a gun landed on his chest. His consciousness eloped instantly. He woke up few days later to learn that the walls of Kikikiri maximum prison he had heard so much about were really that tall.
Everyone was grimly confounded. The acrid smell of burning wood, food items, clothing and other domestic receptacles in the stores was everywhere. The sky wore a pallid dark goggle as if threatening a downpour and mild thunder shuttled across. A few reporters had assembled, running here and there with their cameras firmly hung on their necks to capture the scene. Snapshots clicked away and the flashlights illuminated the flurry of sky-bound smoke. Bimpe and her son sneaked past the commander of the troop. He was a fat but tall man with a bulgy stomach. He looked at the woman and her son. A beautiful woman, he thought: �Hey, secured your things yet? he leered at her.�
�Of what use in the mayhem you people caused?� she snorted back angrily.
�Women! They�re the same everywhere,� he said amid ribald laughter. �Has your boy a junior?� She ignored his stupid banter and went her way, but the officer still continued: �Will you marry me? I get you shop at Tejuosho market. Buy millions of goods for you. You enjoy your life. Soldiers� wives enjoy their lives!� When he looked at his side, she was gone. �Slot,� he yelled after her. Junior looked back and shouted: �Bastard!�
Suddenly, the commander fell. A rancorous yell had enveloped the place. The market women had regrouped and were brandishing their own guns singing war songs. They sang war songs. Several policemen and soldiers lay in the pool of their own blood. The police who immediately radioed divisional headquarters at Ketu as they were unable to contain the reprisal attack from the market women. Pandemonium broke lose. The policemen and the soldiers were taken by surprise because it had never happened before in Lagos. They looked on as their jeeps and two trucks went up in flames. Destabilised they sought to escape through the high walls to the main Ikorodu Road. And in a twinkle of an eye all uniformed men vamoosed from the scene.
Soon the women dispersed because they knew that the soldiers would still come back for their dead. The second day, the governor and the members of the state executive council visited the scene apparently to assess the extent of damage.

It all began few years back. The administrator of the local government council had presented the military governor a proposal on how the market could be modernised. The proposal had included a shopping complex with modern shops, eateries, and other sophisticated attractions. The governor had bought the idea as he imagined more revenue could be generated through that. Later, the contract was signed but the mode of resettling the users of the market was never contemplated, let alone discussed. Though at the time, the executive council members of the market association had promised its members of getting better deal from the government, yet this was not to be because each of them had been promised at least two shops in the new dispensation. Chief Busa, the market chairman, had said when civilisation came, it drove away old structures.
Thus when the bulldozers and caterpillars were moved to strategic points round the market, the market people had made up their minds to resist the incursion. The compensation they promised had not been paid; and if not paid now, when would they pay? They queried. Experience had thought them a bitter lesson. That was the way of all these government people. They never kept their promises. Look at the roads, the gutters and the pedestrian bridges they promised to construct. They didn�t talk about them again. The other time they published their glossy report, they said they had done all the roads and the bridges when everyone knew it was never done.

Corpses littered the ground. The governor, standing akimbo, was speechless. Efforts by the ubiquitous and inquisitive pressmen to elicit their comments were rebuffed. He walked round the sprawling market as the stench of diseased oranges, banana and other decompositions flounced in the mire of his brain. The heap of a lifeless little girl whose innocent skull had been ripped into pieces lay in the debris. A swarm of reckless flies were pecking at her blood. His mind raced home. His wife had just weaned a beautiful little girl just like the one in the heap before him. She banished the thought of the likeness to his little angel from his mind. His daughter, well tended, should be in her pretty cot or sucking the breast of her Excellency. They walked solemnly into the bowel of the chaos. Gun-wielding soldiers and mobile policemen were busy frustrating press photographers and camera men who recorded the massacre. The head of state must not see this. He disliked embarrassing news of this nature. He was too sensitive to what the outside world would say. Just in few days, the ex-president of the United States would be visiting the country. The governor thought about the NGOs and their foreign collaborators who took solace in reporting only negative things about this nation. Few of the commissioners that followed the military administrator knew there would be trouble as they trudged on the debris the market had become. He faced the pressmen who were growing impatient.
�This is serious in the history of our nation,� he said firmly and posed solemnly into the battery of cameras before him. �It�s tragic and this government and the people of Lagos State sympathise with the victims and the families of the slain victims. We�ll set up a commission of enquiry to look into the remote and immediate causes of this mayhem with the view to averting its future occurrence,� he concluded and briskly walked into the waiting car. His convoy drove off.
Bimpe returned the third day with her son strapped to her back. The smell of rotten tomatoes greeted to her nostrils. She was surprised that some of her vegetables were still good. She could still sell them.
�Mama, this place is not good again!� his little boy had said. �Is it safe for us? Can we sleep here now?�
She was ashamed to answer his questions because she knew the place was not habitable for them again. She knew there was no place to go unless providence smiled on them.
�I hope so,� she said firmly.
�Can�t we get another place, Mama, where nobody can break our shop and spoil your tomatoes?�
�Sure, we can. But we need time.�
�Mama, we must be fast, you know? The soldiers may come back.�
�They won�t come again. They�ve been taught the lesson of their lives.�
�What of tomorrow, Mama. Will luck still be on our side this time tomorrow? See they�re here again.� Bimpe looked up and saw the town council workers moving the few corpses still remaining unattended. �These are sanitary officers, junior. They�re not soldiers.� The boy thought for a few moments and said:
�Mama, I don�t want to go to school. I want to stay by you and beat those soldiers if they come again. Besides, do you still have money to send me to school?�
�You shall go to school. I�ll send you to the best school. God will give me the money. For those soldiers, they�re gone for good. After school, you will be governor and you won�t allow people to be treated like this.�
�Yes Mama. I�ll lock up the soldiers and won�t allow them to touch anyone.�
�I plan to go to Ile-Ife to see your father. We will live together again, we will never depart.�
�Yes, I wish to see my father.�
�I promise we shall go.�
That was the assurance the boy needed to lift his spirits. Few days later, after selling few of the items she could salvage from the wreckage and paying her creditors, Bimpe left for Ile-Ife with her son.
Several weeks later, when heavy duty machineries were brought in to clear the rubble, it was like a vast Olympic stadium. The industrialist to whom the land was sold was later quoted on the popular Ray FM as saying the demolition became necessary because Lagos as commercial mega city of the nation deserved modern trading centres where everyone would have opportunity to own shops. The network of roads in the market would be tarred. There would be street lights and proper drainage. It would be the wonder of the new millennium. But months later when the new market complex was completed, it was let out to the relatives and cronies of those in power. When the industrialist was asked why the people complained they couldn�t get shops, the man replied:
�This market is not for the poor. We built this to make money. When we build the second phase, we shall distribute that equitably.�

27

The Step Mother

Asabe Kabir Usman

*

LONG, long ago there lived a man called Ibrahim who had two wives. One was named Ladi, the other was named Larai. Each of these wives had a daughter. Ladi�s daughter was very kind, generous, and respectful; her name was Binta. Larai�s daughter Fati, on the other hand, was very stubborn, rude, disrespectful and naughty.
One rainy season Ladi went to the farm and planted some groundnuts. Every day she went with her daughter to work. After the harvest she got a lot of groundnuts which she took to the market to sell. With the money she got she bought a cock and a hen.
The hen laid twenty eggs and hatched all. When the chickens had grown big, Ladi sold them and bought a pregnant goat. The goat gave birth to three kids and when they grew up Ladi sold them and bought a sheep. This sheep too gave birth to three lambs and when they grew up she sold them and bought a cow. This cow grew and grew until it became the biggest cow in the whole village.
One day, Ladi fell very ill and when the illness persisted and she knew she was going to die she called on Larai to look after her daughter. She called her daughter Binta and enjoined her to be obedient and good to Larai. She told her daughter she had nothing to leave for her but her cow. She said she should look after the cow and, later on, sell it and buy herself something useful when she got married. And with those final words, she died. Immediately Ladi died Larai turned Binta into a house maid, she did all the house work, fetched water for the house and handled all the washing in the house.
One day one of the king�s loyal servants was passing by the house when he saw this fat cow belonging to Binta. He ran to the palace and told the king his finding. The king then sent for Binta�s father and demanded to buy the cow. The father could not say no to the king so he allowed the king to have his way. When the cow was slaughtered the king called Binta and gave her some parts of the meat. Binta was very sad but she collected the meat given to her. She cried all the way home. When she got home she met Larai outside washing her beautiful calabashes. In her sadness, Binta did not look at where she was going and the drops of blood from the meat splashed into the beautiful calabashes.
Larai let out a scream and told Binta to go and wash the calabashes in the River-with-purifying-water. This forbidden river was several miles away from where they lived. Binta was too frightened of her stepmother to refuse. So crying she took the calabashes and set on her way.
She walked, walked and walked till she was hungry and exhausted, yet she had not got to the forbidden river. Then it started getting dark. Just before nightfall Binta came to a very small hut. She knocked, entered and saw an ugly old woman sitting by the fire. Binta greeted the woman and the woman answered. She begged the woman for food and a place to sleep. The woman asked Binta where she was going and Binta told her everything that had happened that morning, from the cow episode to her step mother�s wickedness. The old woman said she would help Binta. She was, in fact, the custodian of the forbidden river. She gave Binta food and mat to sleep on. The next morning she directed Binta to the forbidden river which was not far from her house. She told her to get only a spoon of water from the river. Binta wondered what purpose a spoonful of water would serve them. But she took the spoonful to the old woman who told her to pour it into a big container behind the hut. Binta did this and in the bat of an eyelid the container became full. The old woman asked Binta to use the water to wash the calabash and the plates they had used in eating the previous night. After she finished the work, the old woman told Binta to come and pick the lice off her hair. She gave Binta a covered container and asked Binta to put all the lice she had picked into the container. Binta did as she was told. The old woman then asked her to go over the fire and fry the lice but she must not attempt to eat a single one.
Binta again did what she was told to do. When she fried the lice they smelled so nice and looked delicious and good to eat. But acting upon the order of the old woman, Binta did not taste a single louse. When she had finished frying the lice she took it to the old woman and the old woman told her to go behind the hut and plant the lice. Binta did as she was told.
The next morning the old woman asked Binta to go behind the hut where she had planted the lice and get whatever she found there. When Binta went behind the house she found that a beautiful tree had sprung up from where she had planted the lice. On the branches and leaves were the most extraordinary looking and beautiful jewels she had ever seen in her life. She ran to tell the old woman and the old woman told her to pick as many jewels as she needed. Binta went to the tree and picked a lot of jewels. The old woman returned the clean calabashes and bade her goodbye.
Binta walked and walked until she came to another hut half way to her home. She decided to spend the night there. She knocked and entered. She met a man, his wife and their daughter who had sores all over her body. The sores smelled and pus was coming out from them. Binta greeted them and begged for a place to sleep and food to eat. They welcomed her and gave her food. Their daughter then started crying saying she would only eat with the visitor. The parents told Binta to ignore their daughter and eat alone. Binta felt sorry for the girl and asked the girl to come and join her. The girl came and they ate together.
When it was time to sleep Binta was given a bed to sleep in. The little girl insisted that she would sleep only with Binta. Her parents again asked Binta to ignore the girl, but Binta took up the girl and put her beside her on the bed. At midnight the girl started crying that she wanted to go to the toilet. The mother came to carry her but the girl insisted that Binta must be the one to take her. Binta then took the girl to the toilet even though the parents had told her to ignore the girl. When they went out, the girl whispered to Binta to come away from the hut because she had something important to tell her.
The girl told Binta that the next day, when she would be leaving them her parents would bring out two sets of dishes. One set would be clean while the other would be dirty. Binta should take the dirty ones and would have to cross seven rivers with dirty water. She said Binta should not make the mistake of crossing the river by boat; she should walk through the water and after crossing the seventh river, she would hear a sound behind her and someone would push her from behind. She should not make the mistake of turning to see who it was but just walk on. The girl promised that if Binta abided to what she told her she would get home safely. Then Binta took the girl back into the house and they slept.
In the morning Binta said good bye to the family but the girl�s parents told Binta to wait they had a gift for her. They brought out two sets of dishes, one dirty and one clean and told Binta to choose one set. Binta chose the dirty set. She said good bye to them and set off. When she had gone half way she met the seven rivers and walked right through the dirty rivers. When she had crossed the seventh river and made to walk off, she heard steps running after her and calling her name. She heard someone pushing her from behind but she refused to turn. When she had gone a little distance without turning she heard a scream from behind her and people shouting and saying: �She has won, she has won!� and immediately several people on several horses came out from nowhere. She was picked up and taken home gallantly.
When they passed the palace the king was stunned by the colourful procession that he had to stand in salute to them. The king asked his chief messenger to follow the procession and find out where they were going. He did and discovered that they had stopped at Ibrahim�s house. He also found out that Ibrahim�s daughter whom everyone had taken for lost and dead was the one being led home with riches on horse backs. He ran to the palace to tell the king his findings.
When Binta got home, her family and well wishers came to welcome her. There was merry making and when she had rested she brought out all the riches she and divided it into four. She gave one part to her father, one for herself, one to her step mother Larai and one to her step sister Fatima.
Larai was too jealous to be happy for her step daughter�s good fortune. The hated daughter became rich and honoured. The prince later married her and they lived happily ever after.

28

Nafarce

Asabe Kabir Usman

*

ONCE in a village there lived a woman who had six handsome sons. One day the woman was working on the farm when she felt a pain on her thumb. She touched the thumb and found out that there was a boil on it. She tried to break it to ease the pain but she found she couldn�t because the pain was unbearable. She then decided to leave it.
Day after day the boil kept growing and refused to break. On a sunny afternoon when she was at home resting under a tree she felt a piecing pain on the thumb and �phew!� the boil burst open and out came a very handsome baby boy. She took the boy bathed him and dressed him and went round to tell the villagers she had given birth to her seventh child. He was named �Nafarce�.
Nafarce grew day by day like any normal child, but as he grew he became very stubborn by the day. In a village not far away from Nafarce�s village there lived a witch who specialised in killing people especially children.
One day the witch visited Nafarce�s village and turned herself into a cool stream. All the children in the village were attracted to the water. Nafarce was quick to warn them not to bath or swim in the river, and everyone took to the warning except Nafarce�s six brothers who went into the inviting water for a swim. The witch seeing her good luck gushed away with the six kids. Everyone gasped in surprise when the stream disappeared. Nafarce vowed to bring back his brothers all alive.
He followed the path that led to the witch�s village and straight to her house. He pretended that he was lost, the witch happy that she had found additional prey promised to give him a bed to sleep and to return him to his village the next day. When he got into the house he found his brothers tied and sitting on the floor while the seven daughters of the witch were sitting on beautiful woven mats. The brothers made a show of recognition but Nafarce made a sign to them to shut. When it was time to eat, the seven boys were given food to eat together. While the seven girls ate together, the mother ate separately.
Then it was time to sleep. The witch then told the seven brothers to sleep on the seven beds in the room while each of her seven daughters was to sleep under a bed each. By the side of each bed the witch made a big fire. In the night when everyone was fast asleep including the witch, Nafarce got up and woke his brothers. Together they exchanged their shirts with those of the witch�s seven daughters. They then took the seven daughters and put them on their beds; all this while the seven daughters were fast asleep and so was their mother.
All these done, the seven brothers went under a bed each and slept. At dawn the witch woke up and remade the fire, then thinking it was the boys on the bed pushed all the seven she found on the bed into the fire. The screams that followed were frightening. When the bodies had roasted to her taste, she took a shovel and brought each out of the fire and licking, her mouth called on her seven daughters to come and share the meal with her. She got no reply. She called again, and out came Nafarce. He gave a big laugh and said: �he who laughs last laughs best. Look carefully at the bodies, they are not mine and my brothers but your seven daughters.� The witch shrieked and fainted.
When she came to Nafarce and his six brothers had disappeared. She took her daughters� bodies to bury swearing by their graves to avenge them. She then got ready and went to Nafarce�s village and turned into a pear tree. The fruits were so ripe and inviting that every child in the village was there to pluck and have a taste of the juicy nice looking pears.
Nafarce warned his brothers not to go near the tree for it was the witch. The fruits were so very tempting that one of the brothers could not resist and decided to pluck the ripe and juicy fruits. As soon as the brother climbed the tree, it turned into a whirl wind and flew past every one into the forest. It threw the brother down in the middle of the forest. The witch then turned into her real self.
She gave the boy a wicked laugh and said: �You will pay for what your brother did.� She then plucked out his eyes and left for her home. Nafarce�s brother got home with difficulty. Every one that saw him was very sorry for him. Nafarce swore to get back the eyes of his brother.
Picking a cat he dressed like an old woman and went to the witch�s house. He found the witch eating and she invited him in. Nafarce told her he was also a witch and she was happy for she thought she had got a partner. The witch then prepared food for Nafarce which he ate.
Meanwhile when Nafarce entered the witch he saw that the witch had hung his brother�s eyes on the wall. So when he finished eating he thanked the old woman and they sat to tell stories about their adventures. Nafarce thought it was time to strike. He pinched his cat and the cat meowed. He then shouted: �Shut up!�
The witch said nothing. When all was quiet again he pinched the cat again and the cat gave a loud meow. He shouted again: �I said no, shut up.�
The witch said, �Don�t shout on a cat like that. What does it want?�
Nafarce then said, �Don�t mind it. It says it wants those things dancing on the wall,� he pointed at the eyes.
The witch laughed and said: �Is that why you are shouting at it? It can have it. I have no use of it. I got it from the brother of a stubborn boy who killed my seven daughters. I took away the brother�s eyes to get even. The eyes would even be safer with your cat. If I have it here the boy is very clever, he could come at any time to take them�
The witch then took down the eyes from the wall and gave it to Nafarce. He thanked her and put them round the wrapper he was tying. When it was time to sleep the witch gave him a place to sleep. When the witch was fast asleep and he heard her snoring he took his cat and left the house quietly making sure he did not wake the witch. He ran as fast as he could home, and gave his brother back his eyes the brother and every one at home was very happy when the brother regained his sight.
In the morning the witch woke up and found her visitor gone. She then wondered why her visitor had gone without informing her. Immediately she thought of the eyes and she guessed it was Nafarce that visited her the previous day.
She went to Nafarce�s village and when she saw his brother�s eyes intact, her fears were confirmed. She looked at Nafarce and said: �You have won again but you won�t next time.� Then she walked away in anger.
The witch did all she could to hurt Nafarce, but he was too smart for her. One day Nafarce heard that the witch was going to a neighbouring village and he decided to waylay her. Along the path to the village the witch was to visit was a very deep hole. Nafarce got some firewood and made an altar over the hole. On top, he laid a beautiful image to attract the witch. The witch was attracted by the image and decided to steal it. Hardly had she stepped forward than she fell down the depth below. And that was the end of the wicked witch.

29

The Bicycle
 
T. Michael Mboya
 
*

THE moves Mr. Odhiambo should have made to win the ajua match he had just lost came to him with every step he took.
�But that Othieno,� he thought admiringly, �Othieno is a man.� He came to the tree where he had left his bicycle to lean against.
�There is no shame in losing to Othieno,� he thought as he absent mindedly went round the tree. �Othieno is a man.�
The bicycle was not there.
Mr. Odhiambo stopped and, with arms akimbo, searched the whole of Obet with his eyes. The market centre was virtually empty. A gust of guffaws interrupted his search. It came from under the tree in the middle of the market centre where another game of ajua had started.
 �Othieno, son of Mudhune, plays ajua,� he reflected, and then resumed the search for his bicycle.
As far as Mr. Odhiambo could see there were only two bicycles in Obet, and both were in the bicycle repair man�s shed. One was turned upside down; a wheel was missing. The other was the repair man's famous brightly coloured Masindes Bens.
 �Cannot be my bicycle,� he sadly shook his head once again looking at the overturned bicycle. Even from a distance one could tell that it was battered. �Why people cannot keep their bicycles in good condition, I don�t know,� Mr. Odhiambo shrugged and continued searching the whole of Obet with his eyes. Nothing. His heart started beating rapidly.
 �Daughter of Alego!� he called to the shop before which stood the tree he had leaned his bicycle against.
 �Somebody cannot take away a bicycle from this place without being seen,� he tried to reassure himself.
 �Daughter of Alego!� Mr. Odhiambo called again on a more friendly voice.
The daughter of Alego�s sleepy head emerged from somewhere under the wooden counter.
 �That is you, father of Oludhe,� the daughter of Alego greeted, rubbing her eyes.
 �This is me,� Mr. Odhiambo answered.
 �You have reached Obet in this sun that brings sleep,� the daughter of Alego said, wrestling down a yawn.
 �I have been in Obet since dawn.�
�That is how you are, you people of Ajua.�
 �That is our character,� Mr. Odhiambo proudly declared. -And he would have added, �Ajua, the game of men,� had the daughter of Alego, yielding to an especially powerful yawn, not asked him at the end of it,
 �And what can I sell you, father of Oludhe?� The question violently reminded Mr. Odhiambo that he was looking for his bicycle. Brusquely, he said, �Now, daughter of Alego, have you seen my bicycle. I stood it against this tree this morning,� he patted the tree. The daughter of Alego shook her head twice, then stopped abruptly.
 �My head was wanting to forget,� she said, �it is the mother of Oludhe who took it. She had to run to Kolali. News came that her sister is very ill.�
 �The mother of Oludhe!� A disbelieving exclamation escaped his lips.
 �Yes,� the daughter of Alego replied flatly.
Mr. Odhiambo thought for a moment, and then asked: �When did she take the bicycle?�
 �Around the eighth hour,� the daughter of Alego was non-committal.
 �Disdainful woman,� he thought, �these women of today!�
Aloud, Mr. Odhiambo told the daughter of Alego: �When she returns, tell her to bring me the bicycle. I am at the headmaster's.� Mr. Odhiambo stressed the word �headmaster.�
 �I will tell her,� the daughter of Alego�s head disappeared back under the counter.
Mr. Odhiambo thought he had detected a sneer on the daughter of Alego�s face before it disappeared. He was not certain.
�A woman is a woman; a woman is -mere hide,� he decided gruffly as he started walking towards the headmaster�s.
The headmaster's home was at the edge of Obet. Carey Francis, the headmaster's last born, was playing next to the granary in front of his father's house.
�Carey Francis,� Mr. Odhiambo called.
The child looked up. Seeing who was calling him the boy dropped whatever he was playing with, and stood up.
 �Is the headmaster in?�
�He is in the house, teacher.�
 �That's alright. Play on.�
The boy went back to his game.
Mr. Odhiambo pulled up his trousers by the belt and made for the door. It was open. Inside, in the chair directly facing the door, the headmaster was bent over an exercise book which was spread on his lap. In his right hand the headmaster held a red biro pen.
 �Hodi here,� Mr. Odhiambo said at the door.
The headmaster looked up from the exercise book. On seeing Mr. Odhiambo he put the book aside on a second chair and rose.
 �Come in, teacher,� the headmaster welcomed and stretched out his hand.
Mr. Odhiambo shook the proffered hand respectfully and remained standing until the headmaster, noticing, invited him.
 �Sit, Mr. Odhiambo, sit.�
 �How did you wake up, up there?� the headmaster asked after they had both taken seats.
 �We woke up well, perhaps you?�
 �We also woke up well.�
 �And where is the mother of the house?�
 �They went to the Women's Progress meeting -she was recently elected secretary of the local branch.� There was a note of pride in the headmaster's voice.
 �Those Progress things are good,� Mr. Odhiambo said conspiratorially, �they keep our ever gossiping women busy.�
 �You have seen that you should visit us,� the headmaster hastily changed the topic.
 �Yes, I have seen that I should see how you are getting on.�
 �That is as it should be.�
 �True.�
 �It is the sun that has imprisoned people; very few people are walking,� the headmaster observed, then adopting a more serious tone, added, �You have done well to come, Mr. Odhiambo - was going to come to you myself this evening, concerning Madam Anyango's class.�
 �Teacher,� Mr. Odhiambo hesitantly said, �you know that I am busy with the examination class, and we must push more children to secondary school next year.�
 �That is true, teacher,� the headmaster rejoined, �but you know how this school of ours is. There is no other reliable teacher apart from the two of us. That is why I carry the lower classes and you struggle with the upper classes. Without us there is no school.�
Mr. Odhiambo was delighted to hear that. All the other teachers were women. But still -
 �In fact, that is the reason behind my pushing those people to make official your promotion to Deputy Headmaster as soon as possible. The work we do��
 �Women should not teach,� Mr. Odhiambo asserted, shaking his head. �Even the bible says that -and what would have happened if Madam Anyango was taking the examination class?�
It was a rhetorical question and the headmaster did not respond. Not verbally. Though Mr. Odhiambo noticed something like relief mingled with surprise across the headmaster�s face. Just the response he had desired, or almost. It was shocking that women were allowed to handle such important jobs, he had always thought. The look he had just seen on the headmaster�s face convinced him that the older man had finally seen the truth, and the truth had both surprised and consoled him.
�Carey Francis!� the headmaster called out.
Carey Francis rushed in.
�Run to your grandmother and tell her to give us a bitter bottle. She will be paid later.�
�I have heard,� the boy said and ran off.
�Your son is very disciplined, teacher,� Mr. Odhiambo remarked. The headmaster feigned a yawn to cover a smile that had worked itself up. Must be thinking about the frailties of women, still, Mr. Odhiambo thought in relation to the headmaster�s suppressed smile then said rather matter-of-factly, �He is disciplined.�
Carey Francis was soon back with a bottle of chang�aa. He fetched two glasses from an inner room and after placing them on the floor at his father�s feet, walked out. The headmaster carefully poured the chang�aa into the glasses.
 �Welcome, teacher,� the headmaster invited, handing Mr. Odhiambo a glass.
 �Thank you.�
They took sips in silence.
 �It is bitter,� the headmaster commented.
 �This is liquor,� agreed Mr. Odhiambo, who then added, �not the things the women of the market sell to us as chang�aa.�
They took sips in silence.
 �Now, teacher,� Mr. Odhiambo started conspiratorially, putting down his glass, �this Madam Anyango who is now giving birth, has she finally found a man?�
 �The life of Madam Anyango is very complicated,� the headmaster said simply.
Mr. Odhiambo picked up his glass and sat up in his chair
When at the end of two hours of backbiting their female colleague he rose to leave the headmaster�s house, the bottle of chang�aa empty -no more fuel for the gossip. Mr. Odhiambo was in very high spirits.
 �You are a man, teacher,� he complimented the headmaster as they shook hands at the door. His eyes searched the headmaster�s homestead.
The headmaster nervously watched him.
 �What are you looking for, Mr. Odhiambo?� the headmaster asked.
 �My bicycle,� Mr. Odhiambo answered readily.
 �Carey Francis,� the headmaster called to his son who was still playing next to the granary in front of the house. The boy dropped everything and ran to the two teachers.
 �Where is the teacher�s bicycle?� the headmaster asked him.
 �He did not come with it.�
 �True?� queried the headmaster, unbelieving.
 �Yes.�
 �It is true. I have just remembered,� Mr. Odhiambo said.
 �Getting used to things is just like that,� the headmaster sounded relieved. The two shook hands again, and Mr. Odhiambo started for the gate.
 �Carey Francis,� Mr. Odhiambo heard the headmaster speak to his son, �I am going to rest. You can go and play with other children, alright?�
�Thank you, father.�
 �A man!� Mr. Odhiambo admiringly thought of the headmaster as he turned and took the path to his home.
�But women!� he redirected his thinking as he walked, �Imagine Madam Anyango leaving me an extra class when my examination class is just picking up. Then that disdainful daughter of Alego� And the mother of Oludhe! The mother of Oludhe will see me. She must have come back by now, and if she has come back and not brought me my bicycle at the headmaster�s� -but women don�t hear, is it not this same mother of Oludhe I almost killed yesterday? And see now, I Mr. Odhiambo son of Obinyi, I, a teacher, walking on my two legs like any idle villager who suns himself on some rock by the river all day long��
His home was only ten minutes� of leisurely walk from Obet. He staggered the distance under seven minutes -and he could have been faster but for two necessary stops he made on the way to relieve his bladder.
There was no one in his house. A note lay on the coffee table. It was addressed to him. And it was in his wife�s handwriting:
 
The father of Oludhe,
I have gone away. I leave you with your house. I am tired of your beatings. I see that I should go because my being here only provokes your anger.
The mother of Oludhe.

Mr. Odhiambo read the note again. And then a third time. �What does this mean?� he asked himself, shaking the piece of paper and looking at the wall. He read the note again. �But no one has chased her away. How can she leave? �And MY BICYCLE!�
�Oludhe!� Mr. Odhiambo shouted, �Oludhe!�
There was no response.
�The child must be playing with his friends somewhere,� he thought. �But there is no one in the house and he should play around in case someone calls. No discipline.�
�Oludhe!� Mr. Odhiambo shouted.
One of his nieces materialized in the doorway and shyly said, �Oludhe went with his mother,� and seeing that she was no longer needed, disappeared.
Mr. Odhiambo pulled up his trousers by the belt and walked out of the house.
�A boy�s place is with his father. Oludhe is lost. Women!� he cursed as he stepped on the path. He was in Obet in four minutes. The market was rich. It was overcrowded. The ajua crowd had grown considerably.
�Othieno!� Mr. Odhiambo admiringly recalled as he walked past the crowd.
The daughter of Alego was on her feet behind the wooden counter.
�Women!� Mr. Odhiambo clicked his tongue as he hurried on towards Kolali. �It may even be a plan,� he thought, �I may even find that a man is dozing on her, nodding his head like the obongobongo lizard. And maybe she went for the man on my bicycle, MY BICYCLE!�
�PADLOCK!!� a hawker's shout interrupted the flow of Mr. Odhiambo�s thoughts. The hawker�s wares were spread a few steps away from the road.
�Padlock here!�
�That's just what I need,� Mr. Odhiambo thought, walking past the hawker, �a padlock for my bicycle.�
�Padlock for only fifteen shillings!!� the hawker cried.
Mr. Odhiambo made an abrupt turn. That was too good a price not to take advantage of.
Various items of clothing were spread on sacks in front of the kneeling hawker. Mr. Odhiambo could not see the padlocks.
�Padlock for the gate to heaven!!� the hawker shouted and crawled towards Mr. Odhiambo.
�Teacher, pick the one you want,� the hawker addressed Mr. Odhiambo and pointed at the sun-beaten, dust-covered panties, then added, �at a price you�ll never be offered again in your life time.�
Mr. Odhiambo frowned and turned to go away.
�Just buy, teacher,� the hawker coaxed, �this is the way that gate is locked -thereafter no one can enter without your permission. Only you will possess the key.�
Mr. Odhiambo, disgusted, was fleeing.
The hawker�s mocking laughter rang in his ears.
Kolali was only an hour�s walk from Obet. The sun was sinking when he arrived at his sister-in-law�s house. His bicycle was leaning against the wall of the house, next to the door. Mr. Odhiambo looked at it for a long time.
�May it not be that you ferried my wife to a lizard,� he thought to himself.
Then he pulled up his trousers by the belt and made for the door. It was open. Inside, in the chair directly facing the door, his sister-in-law was bent over a piece of cloth which she was sewing. Oludhe was at her side, watching, absorbed.
�Hodi here,� Mr Odhiambo called at the door.
His sister-in-law looked up from her sewing. So did his son. On seeing Mr. Odhiambo the sister-in-law wearily put the sewing aside on a stool and most reluctantly rose.
�Come in, father of Oludhe,� his sister-in-law said evenly -then, as though it was an afterthought, she stretched out her hand. Oludhe also shyly stretched out his hand.
Mr. Odhiambo impatiently shook the proffered hands and said �I see you are being taught women's work� maliciously to Oludhe. He flopped into a seat. �How are you, Madam. I hear you�re not feeling well.� But even as he uttered the words Mr. Odhiambo saw that his sister-in-law looked very well indeed; she had even put on more weight.
�Fine,� was the sister-in-law�s curt retort.
�That is good.�
�And you?� It was obvious she was being polite.
�I am fine,� Mr. Odhiambo answered, then turning his face to Oludhe who had gone back to his aunt�s side, �Where is your mother?�
�She has gone to the river,� Mr. Odhiambo�s sister-in-law condescendingly replied.
�The river,� he repeated, and nodded. He did not believe his sister-in-law, the image of the Obongobongo lizard coming to mind. He swallowed.
�Come help me, daughter of our mother,� the mother of Oludhe presently called from outside.
Mr. Odhiambo�s sister-in-law swaggered out of the house. Soon after the water-spattered mother of Oludhe appeared at the door. Upon seeing Mr. Odhiambo a strange look came to her eyes, terror mixed with gratitude.
Mr. Odhiambo jumped to his feet
�Let�s go,� he commanded.
�You�re not taking her anywhere. You think this daughter of our mother is a drum to be beaten to make people happy?� the sister-in-law asked, and challengingly planted herself at the door.
Mr. Odhiambo looked at her, a murderous gleam in his eyes.
�Just let us go,� the mother of Oludhe nervously pleaded with her sister.
His sister-in-law looked incredulously at her sister, then shook her head. She slowly moved to the side to allow the family a passage.
�Walk,� commanded Mr. Odhiambo. He followed his wife and son out of the house. Outside, Mr. Odhiambo lifted Oludhe onto the carrier of the bicycle, and nodded to his wife to start walking. The mother of Oludhe marched in front, Mr. Odhiambo followed, pushing the bicycle on the carrier of which sat a somewhat bemused Oludhe.
No word was uttered.
Obet had gone to sleep by the time the family walked past it.
The chang�aa had long cleared from Mr. Odhiambo�s head. His anger was spent. He tried to understand what had happened, but it was simply absurd. �A wife leaving her house without being chased away!� he wondered. �And taking the child I fathered � and my bicycle, MY BICYCLE!�
They had come to their home. As they turned into the gate-way, Mr. Odhiambo said to his wife in a calm voice, �Girl, let me never find you comparing your buttocks with mine.�

30

 
Scabies on our Skin

Rome Aboh
 
*

IT was on a Friday. Agaba was well dressed as he always was. His white shirt, crisp with starch, was well tucked in tailored-to-fit grey trousers. His black shoes were exceptionally attractive, evidence of generous polishing. He was clean-shaven. There was something in the way he carried himself that made girls forget he was not easy in the eyes. He was silently handsome. On Fridays, he used to have only a two hours English class with his sixth grade students. And after the class, he would check his Borrower�s Log Book to ensure that the borrowed books had been returned as and when due. He was returning to the office after the English class when Akpana, one of his bright female students, caught up with him.
�How was the class, sir?� she looked at her teacher with something like concern in her eyes. Agaba was perturbed that his face was like a book that every other person could read and make some clear meanings from.
�Fine, I think,� he said and waved at Utianlikong, a female teacher who was passing by. He had started seeing her. He had tried all he could to keep their relationship secret. He remembered how he stuttered the day he made his intention known to her. He thought how issues such as asking a beautiful woman out could really scare one.
�What do you want to do now?� Akpana asked again in a low melodious tone.
�I would like to take a stroll but I have to go through the Borrower�s Log Book.�
�I am not in a reading mood. I could help you do that.�
Akpana! She had a way of stealing into someone�s heart, he thought. With both hands tucked in his pockets, he smiled slightly at any student who greeted him, and ignored those who did not. He looked calm and breath-taking. But very few people would realize that despite his congenial composure, something was amiss. Perhaps, the stroll would enable him fight the fires of his love life.
He thought of Biwom. He remembered the cold dark night he met her in the restaurant at school. She was his kind of woman: smart, slim and beautiful. Their relationship had moved from one interesting phase to another until one Friday night: It was one of Alorye�s extravagant parties�
He got to the far end of the library where he had his garden of ogwu. He was pleased with the way the garden was doing. Two weeks after germination, Akpana had applied NPK fertilizer. The tendrils were thick and green; the dark green broad leaves had overtaken the table-like staking he made for them. It was obvious that he had to extend the staking before the ogwu began to crawl all over the ground. Agaba squinted at the rows of vegetable and could not resist the urge to pick up the emerging weeds. There should not be weeds. Intuitively he bent, disregarding his white starched cotton shirt and started to pick the weeds. Satisfied, he went to a green plastic bucket half-filled with rain water and washed his hands.
He raised his head. Everything seemed new and unfamiliar. In between the library and the junior section, there used to be mango trees. He and his classmates had planted those mango trees about the time they were leaving CGS, Ugidi. Those shady trees had been replaced with palm trees. That was sensible, he thought. They were economic trees and they made the school look beautiful. His mind went back to its topic of Alorye. She was Biwom�s childhood friend. They were born in the same neighbourhood and they attended the same schools: from pre-school to university. It was a state party. Alorye was the girlfriend of an MP. Virtually all the politicians in Sea State had attended the party: State affairs, it was publicly overstated. There was enough to eat and drink. Lavish. She got people in high places. Agaba watched on with trepidation how the politicians soaked themselves in imported booze as thick layers of Cuban smoke, exhaled from boozed-lips, clouded the party hall. In their midst, Agaba felt like oil in water. At the far end of the hall, the light was very faint. There, girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty years, mostly university undergraduates, were seen caressing the flabby bodies of some pot-bellied politicians with dexterity. Tongues busied themselves preparatory to love making. Jesu Christi! he involuntarily exclaimed and looked away�
He was still thinking of Biwom when he found himself in the school�s assembly hall and his eyes instinctively caught the inscription: APARTHEID IS A CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY. He thought it would be appropriate if the inscriptions said: NIGERIA�S CORRUPTION IS A CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY. He recalled that in his first grade as a student of CGS they had contributed money that was to be used to fight apartheid in South Africa. It was his Vice Principal, Mr. Ugbelishor, who talked about it. He had told them the evils of the repressive system of governance operated by a few whites over the many blacks. �It is so saddening to note that our black brethren are enslaved in their own land by some wandering white hunters. That is inhuman. Africa remains our trouble. This Republic, as Africa�s big brother, must continue to provide shoulders for other African nations to lean on in times of trouble. We have been doing this since independence and we shall not stop,� Ugbelishor had said. Although Agaba did not understand whatever he meant, his sympathy went for his black brethren. But looking at the inscription that Friday, he thought it was the Republic�s turn to receive funds from other black brothers to fight its monster: corruption.
Behind the Assembly Hall, which was later known as Emmanuel Ubi Hall, there used to be a straight building of four classrooms. It was no more. In its stead was a cassava farm. He looked at the neatly weeded cassava farm in amazement. A gentle breeze stirred the cassava leaves and they waved at him. He walked back, hands still in his pockets, through the assembly ground, about half a kilometre journey to the school gate. Both sides of the road had cashew trees planted in double rows; the trees provided a miniature forest for the school. The rays of the sun fought their ways through the broad cashew leaves, leaving shadowy patches on the road like army camouflage. It was warlike, but nevertheless romantic. The air was fresh and Agaba�s lungs simply welcomed it with an extra relish.
Again the thought of Biwom and the Friday night their relationship hit the rocks fluttered through his mind. That Friday night replayed itself as if he were reading it from a book. The first music rendered through the night was about a man who got a political appointment in the Republic�s capital city and had to leave his wife back in the village where he was a high school teacher because she could hardly speak English. The political appointee had to take a fresh graduate of English as second wife who would accompany him to official and unofficial party assignments and speak unadulterated sintax. When the politicians in the hall heard it, they cheered the musician. One of the politicians had said: �Good classical music. Who is the actor?�
It was time to dance. One of the pot-bellies he had seen in the darker part of the hall walked up to them and asked Biwom to dance with him. Suddenly, the ear chattering music changed to the lyrics of a young popular musician. The youth among the audience, who immediately identified the tune, �E get as e dey do me,� made deafening noises of approval. In seconds, almost everyone on the dancing floor swayed in a desperate struggle to mime to the beats of the song, their awkward style of dance altered rhythmically. Agaba noticed that the pot-belly politician had started touching Biwom. He had had a low opinion of the lawmaker and the low opinion was hitting zero. Where he garnered the audacity, he did not know; he only saw himself on the dancing floor asking Biwom that they should leave. She seemed not to have noticed him. She threw her hands abundantly into the air as the music moved to a crescendo. And her braless bust heaved in cadence to the music. She was actually a good dancer. Agaba knew that. Obviously, she was having a good time.
Casting a derogatory look at Agaba, the pot-belly bellowed with a voice soaked in booze and adrenalin: �Boyz take this rag somewhere.� As he spoke, murky saliva sputtered from his wide mouth. Agaba did not know how it happened but it happened swiftly. Outside, Agaba could see stars twinkling in the darkness that followed the punches he received and the scent of urine in his mouth.
When Agaba recounted his tribulation to Unim, his friend, the next day in the hospital, Unim had said: �This is indeed the dividend of our democrazy. As a representathief, he has the right to do anything.� Unim spoke with a southern accent. �Come to think of it,� he went on, �what gave you the guts to affront him? Count yourself lucky. You should be aware of the number of oppositions who have been sent to the great beyond by unknown gunmen. I am sick and tired of these polithiefians. They are like scabies on our skins.�
Agaba did not believe that the same Biwom he used his school fees to pay her own, when she wasted hers on the purchase of a blackberry, could abandon him for a sugar daddy. Some women are terribly hopeless, he thought. A week later, Biwom changed her blackberry to a blueberry. She always had surplus money in her purse. They became so estranged that Agaba did not need to be told that it was not unconnected to that dance.
He tried to forget that black Friday of his life. He went farther down the road, turned left where the trail forked and one lane delved into the Staff Quarters. Tears -he wondered where they came from- in drops like over ripe mangoes falling in a windy storm, flooded his eyes, cascaded and formed rivulet patterns on his white shirt. He wondered why he was weeping. The buildings, except for one, had their roofs blown off. The one that used to serve as the Principal�s Lodge had firewood piled in it. Inside, he saw a big dark hole and he wondered what could be there. Curiously, he got one of the sticks and inserted into the dark hole, as he tried to retrieve the wood, it became unusually heavy as if someone was pulling at the other end. He applied pressure, pulled firmly and a black cobra with its fang clung to the other end of the stick followed.
Later he wondered why he did that. At CGS�s second gate, there was a transformer that had never been used since it was brought to Ugidi. It was rumoured that General Electric Commission officials always went there to take some of the transformer�s parts. The first building, when approaching from the second gate, was the technology lab. But the equipment was no longer there. Had they also been taken? �Nigeria is a Bermuda Triangle,� he whispered. He felt a stabbing pain in his head like migraine and his heart started to drum in high tempo. He feared he would collapse. He had never felt like that. He slowly walked to a dilapidated building and he leaned his weight on a brick wall. He took in some air, gathered himself and continued his stroll, slowly this time around. The next classroom, before the badminton court, was where he did his first grade. The roof was flung about like the blades of a US military craft taking off from Kabul. Rain and shine had deepened their merciless teeth on the falling brick walls. He stood beside the dilapidated badminton court and looked at the lab that used to be the best equipped science lab in Du City Council. The sight formed a lump in his throat. Once more, he tried to force back the tears. But such a situation could make even a stone cry. He recalled cooking groundnuts using a bouncing burner in that lab. But where were the equipment?
Lamely, he took an unused short cut on the East side of the badminton court and found himself in front of Emmanuel Utande Library, where his office was located. Akpana had finished checking the Borrowers� Log Book and was reading How Europe Underdeveloped Africa. Did Europe really underdevelop Africa? Unlike before, he passed her neither saying a word nor patting her. At the other end, his eyes caught mischievous Martin Agogo, another student, reading The Dilemma of a Ghost. He sat on the general reading table which was close to his and found that someone was reading a text and the person had hurriedly gone out to either gossip or pee. The student was on page 93 or 94. There was a hospital card in between those pages. He turned the text; it was The Beautyful Ones are not yet Born and he left it the way it was.
Back in his sit, he noticed that the recently painted white walls of his office were bare except for pictures of Chinua Achebe, Mary Specht, Ngugi wa Thiong�o and Niyi Osundare. Mary�s picture held his gaze. He had met her somewhere. He tried to remember but it was all nebulous. He looked at the pictures he had cut from literary magazines and sighed regretfully. He thought of how Ngugi was put to shame on his home coming. The thought led him to Osundare and how his brain was drained to Maryland from Nigeria�s famous University.
It was 6:30 pm or so. Everyone had left. The school was as quiet as a graveyard and one would have heard, clearly, if a pin was dropped. It had never seemed that quiet but that day it did. Agaba still had his head resting on his strong folded arms. He raised his head and gazed into a distance. Palm fronds stirred in response to the gentle June breeze and produced a sizzling sound. The dusk seemed set to ambush the day. His mind switched to Utianlikong. She was a teacher who left the city to take up teaching after her husband, who was selected into the Senate of the Republic, abandoned her for a governor�s daughter. �Men! They can be hopelessly irritating at times,� he reluctantly admitted. Utianlikong was the other woman in his life. They had started seeing themselves a month after Agaba took the volunteer job in CGS, Ugidi. He always had short words to describe her. She was the kind of woman a man would desperately clinch to when the sky was falling. Utianlikong was in a world of her own. While Biwom failed to separate fantasy from reality, Utianlikong was at her best: she was capable of partitioning her life into manageable compartments. She was beautiful, intelligent and instinctual. If he committed to her, she would be faithful. He thought of what people would say: that he was married to a woman older than he was. But people always had something to say.
The office was getting dark. The school plant would not be lit. Utande, the school benefactor, had for a while not sent money for fuel. In his mind�s eye, he could clearly see Biwom in her slim beautiful naked form under or atop, whichever, the sagging frame of the politician. Bitch, he mumbled. His thought of Biwom�s naked form led him to think of Utianlikong in her dark glowing nakedness. He looked up, his gaze caught the picture of Osundare and he quietly muttered �Biwom, that day you danced with that polithiefian you fell like a book from the shelf of my heart.� He pulled out the middle drawer of his table, brought out a can of Coke and took a generous swallow. It tumbled and rumbled in his stomach and later found its way into his intestines. Except for a cup of Nescafe that morning, he was yet to eat something. His allowance was yet to be paid.
His eyes wandered to the far end of his office and rested on a pile of books that were yet to be arranged into their shelves. He smiled: books were his sanctuary, the anchor of his life. In his abstract mind, the pages of the books opened to the mature and humane face of Utianlikong. He finished his drink slowly, like the snake drinking from DH Lawrence�s water trough. The darkness loomed and he could hear pigeons cooing in their nests, children chatting boisterously apparently coming from a nearby stream, chickens gathering their chicks for the night roast and a distance mortar pounding away, competing fervently with his heartbeat.
�I won�t give you up, Utianlikong� he whispered fearlessly, his words ebbing into the stillness of the night.

31

Blue Temptation
 
Mohamed Sa�d Ra�hani
 
*

HE crept in his wheelchair on the building rooftop towards the little child watching the flocks of birds sliding smoothly in the blue sky. He tapped, with his cold palm, on the little warm forearm and whispered:
-You remind me a great deal of your late brother, Abbass...
The child sighed and asked:
-Was he fond of birds, too?
-Not only fond of birds, he was simply mad about them�
The disabled old man remained quiet for a little while and added:
-He used to spend most of his time in the same place where you are standing right now, all alone, watching the blue sky and the dancing birds as they fly higher and higher..
As he noticed the little child�s interest, he carried on:
-He was maniacally fond of birds. I remember that he asked me, once, about birds� means of communication and I said that they communicate by singing out their needs and desires. Oh, how- he- lo- ved- the- i-dea! He shouted:
-How wonderful, daddy, it is to sing out your words instead of saying them plainly! Then, with more excitement, he asked:
-What about food, daddy?
I answered him that birds do not have food problems: they have their nourishment at any time and from any field in the world because the world turns smaller when you fly, and quite at hand. That is the reason why birds seem to enjoy a high degree of self-esteem, refusing ready made nests, building their haunts with their own beaks. Some of them will rise their pride roof the highest possible refusing to live outside the beautiful seasons of the year, migrating from north of the globe to south of it, in search of and good food a warm sun.
Once Abbass surprised me:
-Can I fly, daddy?
I denied because our ancestors had spoilt on us the chance of flying from the very beginning of our existence on Mother Earth. But he would protest energetically:
-What has that to do with my ancestors, daddy? I am asking about myself...
And I had to rationalise the situation:
Our ancestors had to try flying earlier in time so that they might have wings and transmit to us their ability to fly. But they did not. That is why we are now here on the ground, wingless.
Yet Abbass would always find solutions to match his rising enthusiasm:
-I�ll put feathers on my arms and I�ll fly away.
I answered that wings cannot be worn. Wings, like facial features, are inherited.
-I won�t stay nailed here. I want to fly.
-You won�t.
-I will.
 I had tried, before him, what he was brooding over. At his age, I myself had tried flying from the edge of this very rooftop, indifferent to the crowd of neighbours down the street, below me, spreading sheets from their corners and imploring me not to commit suicide:
-Don�t kill yourself! You�ll incur God�s wrath on you...
-I�m not going to kill myself; I�m going to fly away...
But I threw myself from where you are standing now and, instead of flying, I fell so heavily that the sheets stretched for me were torn when I collided with the solidity of the ground and had my legs broken. The result is this: I do not fly, I creep... �wysiwyg,� my son: what you see in me is what you will surely get.
Yet, Abbass, you late brother, grew fonder of birds� lives and offspring and songs until I found myself once crawling in my wheelchair to look deep down the street, below the building, where my neighbours crowded to bandage split skull of your late brother who attempted to fly, imprudently.�
The disabled father withdrew his cold hand off the child�s forearm in order to outline the conclusion from this fable. Yet, the little child preceded him, with his face always focused on the horizon far away:
-Don�t be afraid, daddy. I�ll follow neither your way nor Abbass.
Then, firmly:
-I will fly, daddy, and I will succeed in my own try.

32

Foggy

Mohamed Sa�d Ra�hani
 
*

Purple haze all in my brain
Lately things just don't seem the same
Acting funny, but I don't know why
excuse me while I kiss the sky
 
Purple haze all around
Don't know if I'm coming up or down
Am I happy or in misery?
What ever it is, that girl put a spell on me
 
Purple haze all in my eyes,
Don't know if its day or night
You got me blowing, blowing my mind
Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time?
 
-�Purple Haze,� a song by Jimi Hendrix

THE thick morning fog reduces this mythic square with all its lively evening spectacles to a mere blur, cooling down the echo of the spectators� applause and merry comments, dispelling all the traces relating to yesterday's fantastic shows.
Only the crow of a cock which sounds somehow near defies the fog's blank deafness:
Cocorico! Cocorico!
The resounding crow between these zinc huts surrounding the square evokes disparate responses from distant cocks. Cocks now are calling each other through this thick endless fog.
Cocorico! Cocorico!
The strong crows shake the dewdrops making them slides slowly down the zinc panels, washing the words scribbled on them:
 Drawings of hearts torn with knives.
Interdictions of urination.
Numbers classified backwards...
Fog is all there is. The crow of the cock grew shriller behind an expression of interdiction:
 �No garbage here!�
 The final letters of the interdiction swings back inside with a door opening and an old woman stepping out of the hut, gripping the wings a tremendous cock and shaking her wholly whenever it revolts between her hands. She watches the little morning shadows sweeping the square clean with dry-weed bundles and taking away bricks and scraps of newspapers which the spectators fetch to sit on when the evening popular shows start� An old popular song interpreted by a childish voice somewhere near the fountain is waving along through the fog. The feminine child voice sings:
 
O Jilali! There they are chasing you
O Charming Jilali!
Riding his horse
Supervising his tribe
Revolting against the invaders
There they are chasing you
O charming Jilali!
  
The echo flows away, sweet and smooth. A group advances through the fog towards the centre of the square and circles around the shortest member of the group: a plump man jingling a bunch of keys with one hand and caressing with the other his round belly. He draws with his forefinger squares and rectangles in the air, gesticulates with his short forearms, traces on the ground with the point of his right shoe lines and forms� The old woman whispers to herself in a loud voice:
-Who are these men?
 The cock revolts so violently in her hands that she nearly falls. She recovers her balance and leans back against the crackling zinc of the hut. The support behind her is not trustworthy enough. She changes her attitude:
-Perhaps the show-men have claimed electric posts to light their evening pop shows�
The little girls, themselves, give up sweeping and carefully watch the workers absorbed in helping the cart-driver to get rid of the new-come cargo: bricks, cement, sand, iron sticks. One of the little girls asks the old woman:
-What are these men going to do, granny?
-I don't know, dear ones. We'll soon know when their work is all over.
-Are you going to sacrifice this cock for them?
 The squeak of a neighbouring door interrupts the little children�s questions.
Hardly has she seen an old man stepping out and taking hold of his hand drums when she bursts out calling him:
-Jilali, come here!
 The old man takes his matchbox out of his pocket, strikes a match and smells the smoke as he usually does when he wants to concentrate on something. Jilali is livened; he congratulates the old woman, coming nearer to feel the cock with his hands, weighing it and grabbing it by its feet:
-It will do you well, a sacrifice on your doorstep!
 The little children circle around Jilali, pulling him from the sleeves and urging him to sing:
-Sing us something, Uncle Jilali! Please, do!
-Dear boys and girls, it's morning-time and I must go to the railway station. Singing in the morning is reserved to travellers. Do you still mistake the morning programme for the evening one? You shall hear me sing here in the evening. See you later!
 He gets rid of them. He takes the knife from the old woman, tests it on his nail, checks its traces and asks for the cock.
 The old woman cannot stand looking at blood. Rather she finds occupation in pushing away children, shooing out the dogs and cats. Cats, now, are on the zinc watching the blood sprayed on the ground by a sacrificed cock dancing frenetically on the rhythm of the old popular song coming along steadily from the fountain:

O Jilali! There they are chasing you
O Charming Jilali!
Riding his horse
Supervising his tribe
Revolting against the invaders
There they are chasing you
O charming Jilali!
 
 Jilali withdraws, avoiding the blood as the cock jumps forwards near him. He looks amazed at an exceptional cock: resisting death to the last drop� Waiting for the cock to calm down, Jilali takes up his hand drums and begins to thrum a song. The old woman watches the cock with her eyes and accompanies the rhythm with nods of her head:

Can you hear the drums thrumming!
Come along the drums are thrumming!
Tonight, tonight
It'll be a white night
The show will go on until morning light is on�
 
On the ground the cock rolls about in its own blood, stands up occasionally, resisting fatigue and death, and then slowly falls down before jumping again and again, defying death: It flies, falls, jumps up on its feet, runs, runs, runs... The old woman pricks up her ears as if she has discovered an unforgivable mistake:
-What have you done, Jilali? The cock's still alive! Re-sacrifice it! It is going to die illegally. Come on! Put your drums down, I say!
Children run after the cock. They withdraw at its upheaval and crowd round at its calmness. At last they pick it up. They hustle and jostle to touch its smooth feathers. They carry it: Quiet and Dead. They hand it to the old woman who has recovered her smile.
 Jilali takes benefit of the new smile on the old woman�s face:
-So we're welcome to dinner�
-Tonight. I will prepare a couscous plate for every circle�
-Do you know what I'll do if you break your promise? I'll compose an epigram in which you'll be the protagonist�
-Please, don't! Not an epigram! I beg your pardon!
 The fog is slowly fading away. The square now is gradually recovering its distinctive features.
 Workers are silently absorbed in work.
 The old woman to Jilali:
-Don't you find them really strange, these men!
-They care for nobody�
-What do you think they are doing?
-They seem to build something that doesn't concern us�
-If we were concerned, they would have asked us to help them or prepare breakfast for them�
-Can�t you see they are building in the middle of the square!
-I am thinking of the evening shows in the square. What a loss!
 Workers now are putting finishing touches on this cement rectangle built in the heart of the square. They cooperate to plant on top of the rectangle an iron board. High enough. Out of frivolous hands' reach. They make sure that the board is well established. They support it with cement and sand mixture. They climb down the ladder, examine the position of the iron board, walk backwards to have a better view of the board, read it, and climb up the ladder again to wipe away the scattered cement on it.
The iron board now is quite higher and clearer.
The workers gather their clothes, tools and stroll away.
The old woman spurs Jilali:
-Was all this fuss for that nonsense erected down there?
-I think we have to read it first.
A child volunteers to read the writing on the board for them:
- P. Pro, project �
The old woman kindly asks him to go away. But the child insists on showing his brilliance at reading. She shouts at him:
-I told you to go away!
 Jilali strikes a match. He smells the tiny line of smoke and feels refreshed: a habit that developed soon after his retirement from the armed forces where he had spent his youth between gunpowder and the liberation frenzy.
He approaches the board to read the writings painted on it:
 
�Tourist Complex Project�
 
 Bewilderment overwhelms the old man's countenance. He re-reads the writings on the board once and twice. He tries to understand it before explaining it to the old woman who does not stop pricking him on the back. The little girls by the fountain, perturb his concentration by singing:

O Jilali! There they are chasing you
O Charming Jilali!
Riding his horse
Supervising his tribe
Revolting against the invaders
There they are chasing you
O charming Jilali!

The fog now has completely faded away. Vision now is clearer and the sun is brighter than ever. The man puts down his hand drums. He shades his eyes with his hand, stretching his sight to the horizon where land meets the sky from the extreme right to the extreme left, searching for the beginning and the end of the project.

33

Open Sesame!

Mohamed Sa�d Ra�hani
 
*

 Mama, take this badge off of me
I can't use it anymore.
It's getting' dark, too dark for me to see
I feel like I'm knocking on heaven's door.
 
Knock, knock, knocking' on heaven's door
 
Mama, put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them anymore.
That long black cloud is coming' down
I feel like I'm knocking' on heaven's door.
 
Knock, knock, knocking on heaven's door
 
 -A song by Bob Dylan

 AM I dreaming?
Am I really myself?
Banknotes!
In my pockets, banknotes!
I feel them one after the other. I fold them. I crumple them�.
A divine gift!
I raise them to the sun, looking for the silver fibre within.
The fibre is there, as thick as a club.
A threat is written at the bottom of the banknotes in a highly standard language:
 
�The authors or accomplices of banknote falsification will be punished in accordance with the laws of the acts in force.�
 
 There is no margin for doubt: The banknotes are real.
-Now that you�ve become responsible to your family. You�ve got to buy some clothes for you younger brothers. There�s a shop there, just around the corner...
 Who can be that wretched man thrusting his nose in my ultimate private space? A naked, bare-footed beggar hiding his genitals with his hands. Is he an informer? He does know what is really turning in my brain. And those people, there in the sit-in, moaning out their sad slogans. Are they dying? Or are they listening to my brain waves too? They are numberless, creeping along. Their complaints echo around the place.

I am fired
I am banned
I am....

Fear submerges me. The world blackens in my eyes. Blackness. Utter blackness. I feel the barrier before me in search of an outlet. This is a door. A closed door. A wooden one. An iron thing. Rather stony. I knock on the door. No one answers. I call out with all my strength:
�Open, Comrade!�
Silence is all that can be heard back.
�Open, Brother!�
Silence is all there is.
�Open Sesame!�
Then the world opens!
Then obscurity fades away!
Finally my eyes can see clearly a man and two children. A shopkeeper and... My younger brothers! What a coincidence! My brothers! They are trying on pullovers! Consulting the shopkeeper on colour, length, width�
How strange!
They have anticipated me to the shop!
-No, don�t be afraid, interrupts the shopkeeper, tapping at my shoulder. He continues:
-Don�t be afraid. What is happening now is just a kind of mutual understanding.
 He bends down on the children and kisses them. Their teeth turn whiter underneath the smile of joy with the festive clothes. I pay for the pullovers. For the first time, I enjoy the pleasure of spending money! The pleasure of responsibility! My brothers kiss me and run away unusually glad. They jump, run, stop and ask passers-by to read for them the writings on their pullover-chests.
They echo them, gladly. They run again. They spread their little forearms to fly imitating the flying stork coming from the south, swimming softly in the blue sky, stretching out its long wings, turning right, left, right, left without shaking a wing, flying up, flying down, shaking its wings a bit, relaxing as it slides in the air with its wings always wide spread.
 Flying higher and higher, above grass, above palm-trees, above mountains, above the sky, above the sun now growing as white as curd.
I am dying for a glass of curd!
�Curd purges body, mainly when it�s sour,� says the waiter to his clientele drowned in their chairs. �Sugar and sweets are good for throats too,� he adds from behind his grave-like counter. The cafe is all graves...White graves.
Graves like tables surrounded with chairs on which customers doze off.
The cafe-owner praises his propriety Cafe Living & Dead as he nails a board on the wall before the customers:
 
�The venerated customers are solicited not to smoke or chat for the preservation of the public tranquillity�
 
This is the most odious offence there ever existed. How could customers be ordered to silence in a space supposed to be the ultimate place left for free speech and free gatherings? It is only now that I can hear the dead protesting underneath the stone graves. It is only now that I can understand their anxiety.
The caf� owner answers:
�I offend no one. It�s your chats that offend my caf� and expose it to real confrontation with the authorities.�
The first grave breaks out. Then, the second grave. Then, the third. The rebellion of the living and the dead is on. All the clientele, all the dead, the fools, the shoe-blacks, the prostitutes, the youths hiding their genitals with their university attestations. Everyone stands upright, clears his throat, snatches the board off the wall, smashes it to pieces, flings the fragments about, listens to the inspiration, to the heavenly voice, to the hymn of eternity, to Poet Abderrahman El Majdoob�s voice. We run after him in chaos. We tread upon whoever stands in our way. We join the heavenly poet. We gather round him, drawing with our bodies a circle round him, lengthening our necks to hear the poet reciting aloud:

 I looked deep down at Ksar,
 A wretched city echoing silence,
Counting down for the final deliverance
Peeping out of Mount Sarsar
 
We feel convulsion devouring us from head to toe.
What a prophecy!
What a view!
We look down to the bottom of Mount Sarsar. We look down to Ksar El K�bir, a city devoid of action and life except for the movements of the frightened hands hurrying to close the windows of their old castles. We look down at River Oued El Makhazine of which transparent waters are growing orange, now. Red. Crimson. Blackish... The river is filling out. Filling. Filling. The water surface is mounting persistently to the dam brim...
Now we are waiting for the ultimate deluge. We count down hysterically for Rodriguez� drowning. We count down for the Despot�s drowning. We wave about our hands, our shirts, our djellabahs...
 
Hallelujah!
(....) (....)
Hallelujah!
(�!) (Bang!)
Hallelujah!
(Bang!) (Bang!)
Halle�!
(Bang!) (Bang!)
....... ......
(Bang!) ( Bang!)
 
I wake up, sweating all over. Very far and ambiguous calls echo in my memory to the rhythm of the knock on the door:
 
Bang! Bang!
Bang! Bang!
 
The bang on the door grows harder. I shout:
-Hold on!
The noise calms down for a while. I avail myself of the delay. I yawn. I read the new scribbles on the wall, near my bed. I lean over them and rub my eyes open to read:
 
Work w w w Work
Free Speech F F F Free Speech
Human Right R R R Human Right
 
The organization of lines and the deconstruction of words remind me of the handwriting lessons in elementary schools. This is my youngest brother�s handwriting. He does not trust his memory. That is the reason why he writes down whatever comes to his ears or mind. His only wish is to be a teacher and write all day long on the blackboard. The wavy handwriting reflects his desire to keep on the assumed line on the wall. For me, it is not a secret to see that he has made too much effort to write all these words so high. He would like to prove to me that he has really grown up and that the achievement of his wish is only a matter of time.
The knock on the door is back again. I jump out of bed. I stumble in my pair of trousers. I control myself from falling down. I find myself before the door. I open it to a man in a uniform. I rub my eyes: the postman.
He hands me a letter, briefly saying: �Insured mail. Sign here, please.�
He hands me the register. I scribble my signature down his forefinger. He retrieves the register and walks away.
I weigh the letter with my hands. It is as heavy as any insured mail that I have recently been receiving. I have developed a special intuition towards insured mail. I can guess its content without any need to open it: It contains nothing but my rejected documents in a job application.
I throw the letter behind me. There it is swimming in the air, bumping the wall and swirling down to rest at the feet of my youngest brother�s hand-writing lesson.
The sun is stuck in the middle of the sky. The postman, like a devil, creeps away, without any shadow behind, towards the neighbouring doors, without a shadow, loaded with his registers, uniform and bag. He knocks on the door, waits for the answer, knocks again, and examines his registers, searches for insured mail and leans on the door again, calling:
 
�Open Sesame!�
 
The postman looks me persistently in the eye. His features resist a strong smile that he could not control any further. The smile overwhelms him at last and he sets it free.

34

Meaningless Lives

Benjamin M.O. Odhoji

*

I

Mischievous cup: You shall not by Witness fatigued, demoralized by shrewd Attorney
Interrogation, motion dislocating provocation. Instantaneous!
No. . . no illusion . . . indeed it moved.
Not falling, No.
Hackneyed explanations inadmissible.
No dislocation for this versed cognition
only a cup dislocated and suspended itself in space.
Impresses his Lordship: Any external stimuli prevailing
upon the table?
No your Lordship, only a small cup, empty, moving off the table,
no tipping, mute, steadfast, constant: the skin color of the devil.
Raving witness, explain the circumstances explicitly.
Smooth floor, no dent, no bent.
Yourself move.
Court adjourns.

II

He alone, our stoical soothsayer
stood his ground, concocting divination and spell-bound.
His masked amulet dropped before frenzied idol-worshippers
tried to intervene.
He has since charmed despondent mortals with his conjures
impassioned, bewitching, exorcising . . .
But we know. . . as long as weary leaves no more hang on trees
respecting the forces of Nature,
This braggart, this prankster, tragically convincing, certainly,
would at his hour of need, plead for his maladroit soul.
Oh our village's immortal enigma!!

III

Natural law: Inanimate objects do not by themselves move.
Is it paroxysm supreme? Could the accused explain motive?
Inert beings animated, sometimes by themselves move. I, a witness testify.
Sensitive prosecution bench demands to know the why and the how?
No perambulation without attempts to fall.
Center-less bodies pulled towards a center!
Wobbling drunken louts evading tipping-over lest they crawl not.
And that is the Law.

IV
 
Feline. They held a cat by its limbs
Swinging forth sharp claws upside down for a dizzying fall
Suspended in mid-air, suddenly they let go.
Limbs jerked but feline landed on fours.
A puzzle for me as a witness. A hoax? No delusion.
A cup on a table, firmly placed.
Dangling? No Sir.
Any signs of gushing wind? No Your Honor.
Tremor for sure? Must be kidding!
Reclining at an angle? No more responses.

V

I noticed him at the function.
Unkempt hair like wire-mesh fit for scrubbing tenacious pans
Long neck with a dangling neck-tie, dotted and striped,
oversize coat and gaping square shoes.
Then Master of Ceremony calls upon Honorable guest
to open hitherto presumably closed meeting.
He rose and gingerly approached the dais waving his symbol,
a kerchief or a piece of paper.
Seven minutes later, I emerged from my hide-out,
heard his charismatic voice: I declare this meeting open!
Furiously, I backed off . . . back to my hiding.

VI

Some dirt-coated papers were also on the table,
Sir, no papers ruffled, and please do not mock me.
Must have been dozing all the same!
Thank you for that reminder. I never saw the motion directly
but indeed witnessed the fall.
This inviolate consciousness has had no mean laxity.
Psychiatric examination needed. The court does not grant leave
mythological tales.
The court is beyond myth. . . and other ailments.
 
VII

Her name was Mamba.
She roamed the neighborhood snatching little babies
Naughty children who obey not their mother
Those were her favorite dish.
Mamba . . . roaming about, demented,
Stalking children who respect not the baby-care!
An awe inspiring existence, death itself for the misbehaved!
Did you or did you not slap your brother?
I did not.
Fine. Shall you face Mamba and declare so?
Please do not. He abused me first.
Mamba -dreaded name forcing confessions.
Mamba -the sublime encompassing the slime!

VIII

No focus. A twinkle and then the motion.
A flash of perception for sure but motion in process.
Espied, it fell. Just that simple.
Further evidence: Presence transferred to floor, no more suspension.
The cup just dropped and found new space on the floor
after a brief suspension in mid-air.
Now it is quietly on the floor, unbroken.
Empty space once occupied on table, vacant.

IX

Are you he who was to come
Or shall we look for another?
Such was the interrogation during the First Coming
Do you plead guilty or not?
Well. . . such are the legal factors!
What causes rheumatism? for example. Let
The accused, fill in the blanks: Male or female?
Date of birth? Occupation?
Fiddlesticks!
For neither his mother knew his father
Nor did he know any of them!
He spat on the ground and mumbling his password, walked away
Into the next century!!


Judgment:
Many decades have since passed
since a cup, by itself, flew in mid-air
and fell onto the floor.
Phobia? Mania? Or simply Mental aberration?
Call it what you will. Demand the answers.
All that we know is that a cup moved from a table
Stayed suspended in the mid-air for seconds, then fell to the floor.
I, a witness of the mysterious, have learned to live
with this traumatic wound inflicted on my very being,
until we join the tireless Maker.

35

Highway Testimonies
(In memory of a family that perished in a road accident along the
Nakuru-Eldoret Road on July 29, 1996)

Benjamin M.O. Odhoji

*

Pajero�a garbled scrap-cage still waving a mournful
diplomatic flag.
His contemplative posture
betraying cogency of sharp pointed steel-rod
forcefully driven into his forehead
rendering blunt, a prominent nose.

Her bloodied right foot on dead gears, twisted, snapped,
splintered bones protruding from open flesh.
A splash of insides kissing pavement in a knotty embrace.
Her unyielding head, flattened in brain-spattering agony,
tenacious gaze fixedly prompting mesmerized onlookers!
Her symbol of everlasting union till death do them part,
glittering pricelessly as lifeless arms wave at an invisible solitude!

Folded arms on twisted back-seat is their progeny,
cuddled in a steel-bed, Innocently forced into quick everlasting repose.
Nearby grieves steel on steel, sirens hoot unceasingly. . .
Anxious onlookers mill around braving a persistent drizzle,
giraffe-necked, they strain for a glimpse
Of the secret knowledge of Life, of Death.
Complacent feelings awakened when steel meets flesh.

Unknown to all and sundry, invisible to consciousness alert,
Three jelly-like souls have passed through the Tunnel,
Awaiting a welcoming bright beam of Light. They mingle
Unseen. Transcendental witnesses to a mangled wreckage,
trapping disgusting carcasses.
They float effortlessly, painlessly.
They alone have attained salvation.
They alone have found the answers to the persistent questions.
Alas, their testimonies must never be fathomed and told. Entirely.
For some events have no witnesses.

36

Durah and Takata
A Love Story

Laleh Ghaisariyeha nj

*

THE African hero Takata had fallen in love with the girl Durah. One day Takata left to the desert and nobody knew where he was. In the desert he tied on himself a thick piece of cloth. In his hand he held a stick and through many days and nights he stood this way in the sands.
He thought with this he can discover how much love that Durah had for him. Was it real love? Was it not? He wanted to test her.
He rolled Durah`s earring that he had borrowed from her brother on the end of the stick and stuck this in the sand. He stood above the stick. Takata waited like that, faithfully, loyally and with loving patience for his girl.
He was fed tidbits by his friend the eagle who often came by from his usual hunts. After several days, he could bear it no longer: �Go bring me a message from my Durah,� he cried out to his friend. Leaning beside his stick he felt the wind and the desert sands. He grew familiar with the buzz of the wind, the feel and colours of the sands, the changes in space and the soft hard eye of the sun which turned yellow-red in the sunset.
The wind could barely speak with him, the desert sands often beat his face and stung his body the way an arrow and arc would hit their hunt.
Days passed; in the red sunset, he heard the voice of Durah`s cries and felt her heart throbbing in the wind�s buzzing.
Hot-footed in his soul he reached toward the tribe with the wind; he could see the girl crying with the women all around her
She was abused and humiliated. One of them was cutting her hair.
He found Durah�s brother asleep. He asked from him in his dream. �What happened to Durah?�
He said: �The chief�s wife has asked Durah to wash her because she is not married yet. And when Durah was washing her, her back pain caused her to fall. So they are cutting her hair�
Takata: Why did her back pain her?
Brother: The days before, she was in her habit of climbing the gate tree and standing there from morning till dusk for Takata. Suddenly she saw the eagle coming to her. She was scared and before she realised it, she fell down from the tree and injured her back.

When he returned to his body, Takata realised what he had done to her love. He had made a rash decision to test her love. Because he had sent the eagle to bring him a sign from the girl, he it was who injured her body, her soul and her heart. He took out the earrings from the stick and left to find Durah. He asked the wind to fly him to her.

While the women were cutting Durah�s hair they were saying words of consolation: �Although you fell and was wounded, you cried because you wanted to visit your love. You are our symbol of loyalty. We are with you in love and faith.�
From that time this became a custom in the tribe: the women cutting their hair for their men and everyone to know they have tasted the pain for love.

Durah felt from far that Takata was coming. Very early before sunrise, she took the eagle�s feather that was found on her skirt when she fell from the tree -she attached it to her head and with her fist on her heart, she stood near the town�s gate.
Takata arrived by noon.
He found Durah�s eyes searching out for him with silent quiet as she stood outside the gate.
When he saw Durah, he ran faster than the wind and came to her. There were no questions asked, no anger or indignation expressed. Durah knelt down before him in respect. Takata threw down his strong stick and lifted the earring to the girl.
Durah with her fist on her heart attached the eagle�s feather on Takata�s head and hung Durah's earring on her ears.
The earring was hardly pasted on her ears when it seemed they had never been parted because it was coloured with love and loyalty and borne all the way from the desert by the man and his stick.
Takata asked the tribe�s wizard to cure Durah�s back pain and he accepted to cure her with his balm from ostrich fat and poison scorpion and desert plant. He put it on her back. She seemed to catch fever, but in minute she was back to her quiet and calm. The pain had gone with the heat gone from her body. After a few days she was ready to get married.
Everybody encompassed her with blessings and goodwill. The chieftain and his wife arranged the wedding in the night.
 In the night of their wedding the chieftain asked everybody to remember Durah�s and Takata`s love story and whenever they camped around a fire in the night they should tell this story and thus will be the memorial of Durah and Takata for a long time to come.
This story is to all loyal and faithful African people!

37

 
Bund Olonde
(Olonde�s drumming)

Benjamin M.O. Odhoji

*

Luo Sigweya (from Umira Kager clan)
Sigweya is a popular virtue-boasting poetic narrative genre of the Luo people of Kenya. (*The following is a Luo sigweya about Ugenya- Kager warriors who subdued neighboring Luhya people in ethnic battles of old. This a creative rendition based on chants by a popular Kager drummer, Olonde from Nyamninia village.)
 
First Movement:
 
Soloist
I adorn sparkling ataka, blowing my buffalo horn
Inhibited not by relentless wasp's stings
Chanting and drumming until death, hailing ya-Kager, ya-Ugenya
Praising valiant warriors of old, lions of Kager clan.

Chorus
Olonde, play your drum and break through fences
Athoo Nyamninia!
Sing to death in honor of valiant warriors
Athoo Nyamninia!
Gallant warriors lusting for blood
Athoo Nyamninia!
Wounded bull buffalo with glassy eyeballs
Athoo Nyamninia!

Soloist
I will sing praises of Ka'nyang'inja
Kawango horror-struck in helter-skeltering lamentation
I will remember Obanda Ka'nyang'inja, the crow with bitter blood
Valor and verve of noble ruodhi.

Chorus
Olonde, play your drum and break through fences
Athoo Nyamninia!
Obanda Ka'nyang'inja terror of Kawango clans
Athoo Nyamninia!
Ka'nyang'inja, not even the seat of an honorable chief bears five limbs
Athoo Nyamninia!
Obanda Ka'nyang'inja ring achuta loved by butchers
Athoo Nyamninia!
Mere bait designed by pusillanimous faint-hearted Kawango
Athoo Nyamninia!

Second Movement:

Soloist
Hearken to the music of shields in enemy territory
Son of Randiga undaunted on the battlefront
Oruenjo the black mamba without shoulders
The noble crocodile that attacks only those straying within its abode.

Chorus
Olonde, play your drum and break through fences
Athoo Nyamninia!
Siero Oruenjo son of Randiga of the mighty Kager clan
Athoo Nyamninia!
We bow before you son of Randiga nyakech oluoro chuodho
Athoo Nyamninia!
Randiga the thorny porcupine which feasts on people's plantains
Athoo Nyamninia!

Soloist
Listen to the distant chants and moaning horns
Oruenjo slaying Matama, a hurricane sweeping through dry leaves
Odende the Matama elephant must this day be conquered
Son of Kager, Oruenjo the wild dog's snout the never dries.

Chorus
Olonde play your drum and jump over the fences
Athoo Nyamninia!
Siero ka Randiga the crazed leopardess emboldened by motherhood
Athoo Nyamninia!
Craving for blood, rumbling and roaring son of Kager
Athoo Nyamninia!
The red-eyed ox-pecker indecently clad, son of Randiga
Athoo Nyamninia!
Wooing toad-bellied ticks bursting with blood
Athoo Nyamninia!
Son of Randiga lend me your shield
Athoo Nyamninia!

Third Movement:

Soloist
Who shall forget son of Lidende son of Kager!
He once occupied Huluche the territory of Ogude K'Oyenga
Son of Keke roaring in the forests of Alego
Lidende, the disrespectful soldier ant that stung the buttocks of Owiny Sigoma.

Chorus
Olonde play your drum until you reach Ugwe until you meet Yimbo
Athoo Nyamninia!
We sing praises to the unpredictable host that feasts on his visitor
Athoo Nyamninia!
Son of Umira-Kager whose favorite pet chicken is never blamed
Athoo Nyamninia!
Ojwang'a ka Keke, perseverance, the language during famine
Athoo Nyamninia!
Protective shield against Komenya scavengers, son of Umira
Athoo Nyamninia!
Omia is closing ranks, summon son of Gondho, son of Kager
Athoo Nyamninia!

Soloist
There is no brown donkey son of Keke K'Oloo
Lidende whose shield remains firmly on the ground
Lidende who never abuses a crocodile while in its waters
Son of Kager, there is no black donkey, not even a white one

Chorus
Olonde drum your way until Masawa until Nyanduat
Athoo Nyamninia!
Alego giving way to Ojwang'a Hono son of Kager
Athoo Nyamninia!
Pundo Gondho the mighty one has risen
Athoo Nyamninia!
Lidende the acrid stench of a mad tortoise that suffocates mushroom gatherers
Athoo Nyamninia!
Ondong' ka Nyamwala conquered, Alego pleading for peace
Athoo Nyamninia!
Lidende roaring, clearing his way until Manyala until Anyiko
Athoo Nyamninia!

Fourth Movement:

Soloist
Son of Ochieng' I will sing to death
Ouna Koko son of Kager, I will lose my voice
Ouna K'Ochieng' the fierce tearful gaze of an excreting buffalo
Koko son of Kager, bosom ally of Muga K'Ojak, I will die singing!

Chorus
Olonde play your drum and jump over fences
Athoo Nyamninia!
Koko son of Ochieng' a mat of reeds that is never repaired
Athoo Nyamninia!
Son of Kager, vulgarity that is the eagle's nest
Athoo Nyamninia!
We shall sing to death, Koko obange, the stony excrement
Athoo Nyamninia!
Ochieng' Oking' son of Kager, we shall lose our voices
Athoo Nyamninia!
Ouna K'Ochieng' the only son, Kager onyuolo thuondi
Athoo Nyamninia!

Soloist
Let me pay homage to a fearless warrior
Let me play my drum in honor of Ouna Koko son of Kager
Let me sing praises to son of Ugenya, the untamed rhino of the plains
Son of Ochieng' the faithful jigger flea that accompanies its host to the grave.

Chorus
Olonde, wer chieng' nonega wuo' ja Umira
Athoo Nyamninia!
Lock-jawed eunuch picking quarrels with female admirers
Athoo Nyamninia!
Praise be to valiant sons of Kager
Athoo Nyamninia!
Praise be to Olonde, praise be to wuon Adero Onani ja Umira-Kager
Athoo Nyamninia!



Glossary of Luo words:
 
Bund Olonde - Literally, Olonde's drumming. An adaptation of a drumming song by a legendary drummer, Olonde of the Kawero sub-clan of Umira-Kager.
Ataka - bark-cloth
ruodhi - chiefs
ring achuta - piece of meat eaten raw
Obanda omunyolo wa Kager yathanga - �Obanda the son of Kager is coming.�
Nyakech oluoro chuodho - the hartebeest loathes the muddy terrain
ugwe - east
yimbo - west
masawa - south
nyanduat - north
onyuolo thuondi - begot warriors
wer chieng' nonega - I will sing to death
wuon Adero Onani - father of Adero Onani
Owiny Sigoma - legendary brave warrior and battalion leader. It is said that one day as he sat on an ant-hill addressing his soldiers, a soldier ant stung his buttocks and he jumped in sudden fright. People marveled at the disrespectful ant that scared the brave warrior. It became proverbial.
 

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