Some Miles into
the Dark
That very night I
was eager to go to the village square to get myself rolling in moonlight fun;
even when grandma told me not to go, I decided to tiptoe from the compound to the
village square. I must say that was the main reason why I decided to spend the
long Christmas holiday in the countryside. My parents and younger siblings were
in Lagos. I had visited many places before the sun fell: the waterfall, the
king’s palace, the village market. I came back at dusk to meet the old woman
preparing bitter-leaf soup at the heart of the compound.
The compound was a fairly large one; there were three mould buildings with rust roofs built in such a way that they would have formed a perfect square if there was a fourth building. There was a bamboo structure at the middle of the compound where unshelled maize were staked; the structure was built in form of a bench but bigger and taller with straight poles at the middle of both edges where the maize husks knotted together were wound round. There was a cooking oven under the structure (three giant stones joined together so that they formed a triangle.) I was surprised to see the oven under the structure when I came. When I asked the old woman the reason for that, she told me it was to keep the maize husks dry to prevent rust.
The flame blazed and swayed in the harmattan wind and kissed the bottom of the small iron pot on top of the oven. Iyon (as I called her until she passed on some two years ago) sat on a wooden stool very close to the fire to warm herself. It was early December and the harmattan had started to blow severely so that in the morning one preferred to marry the bed until at least the sun rays were bold enough to challenge the oppressive cold.
‘Iyon, good evening.’ I greeted in owan although not so fluent. Mum spoke owan to us but we didn’t take it seriously.
‘My husband, welcome.’ She said. She loved to call me her husband until her death because she claimed I looked very much like my grandpa – tall, dark in complexioned with pointed nose like the Whiteman’s. ‘How was your tour?’
‘Fine Iyon.’
‘I’m almost done cooking,’ she said, ‘go inside your room. It’s cold out here. I’ll be coming with your food soon.’
‘Are you done pounding?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled.
I was startled as I walked into my hut. Who pounded the yams? I couldn’t imagine she did that even in her wobbling age. There was nobody in the house, and the compound stood alone in the heart of the village. Sometime ago, my parents felt she would be lonely in the village and pleaded with her to come live with us in the city but she refused for reasons best known to her. I remember the last time I saw her in our house in Lagos was when I turned ten. My uncle in the US had told her to come over. After spending three months with us, he flew to America and returned when I was twelve. Uncle John told us he had pleaded with her to stay a little longer but she refused. She had said, ‘I’m not going to die in another man’s land.’ One thought she would die as soon as she returned to Nigeria. But do you know she lived for close to nine years after she came back before she died? Well, we sent her money and food every month – my parents and uncle.
I got into my room. The room was spacious and its walls were red earth designed beautifully with different kinds of abstract drawings. The room was partially illuminated by a bottle lamp which dangled briskly on the threshold revealing a mould bed a little bigger than the casket of a teenage corpse at the far end of the hut. Parallel to the mould bed was a line on which I hung my new clothes. There was one thing in the room that left me in the ditch of fear when I first came: the leopard skin that hung on the far wall above the bed. Iyon had made the matter worse when she told me the room belonged to my late grandpa; that he had gotten the skin when he killed a leopard. ‘That day,’ she explained, ‘was his most memorable day. He spoke about it proudly throughout his life time. He won himself the Iyoko dance and was initiated into the hunting society.’ I noticed tears stood liberally in her eyes – perhaps tears of nostalgia.
Before long, Iyon brought the meal – pounded yam and bitter-leaf soup, aromatised by bush meat. I put down the wooden tray and washed my hands effortlessly. I sat down and started swallowing lumps of pounded yam well soaked in the soup. I ate hurriedly as if I had not eaten for days. She sat close to me on the bed and gave me that look as if to say, ‘see how he has grown.’ As I ate, I looked at her keenly; nature had not been so kind to her outlook- her face had creased like a plastic bag brought near a burning furnace. Her nose stood like a gong on the rumpled face and grey hair was spread over it.
The compound was a fairly large one; there were three mould buildings with rust roofs built in such a way that they would have formed a perfect square if there was a fourth building. There was a bamboo structure at the middle of the compound where unshelled maize were staked; the structure was built in form of a bench but bigger and taller with straight poles at the middle of both edges where the maize husks knotted together were wound round. There was a cooking oven under the structure (three giant stones joined together so that they formed a triangle.) I was surprised to see the oven under the structure when I came. When I asked the old woman the reason for that, she told me it was to keep the maize husks dry to prevent rust.
The flame blazed and swayed in the harmattan wind and kissed the bottom of the small iron pot on top of the oven. Iyon (as I called her until she passed on some two years ago) sat on a wooden stool very close to the fire to warm herself. It was early December and the harmattan had started to blow severely so that in the morning one preferred to marry the bed until at least the sun rays were bold enough to challenge the oppressive cold.
‘Iyon, good evening.’ I greeted in owan although not so fluent. Mum spoke owan to us but we didn’t take it seriously.
‘My husband, welcome.’ She said. She loved to call me her husband until her death because she claimed I looked very much like my grandpa – tall, dark in complexioned with pointed nose like the Whiteman’s. ‘How was your tour?’
‘Fine Iyon.’
‘I’m almost done cooking,’ she said, ‘go inside your room. It’s cold out here. I’ll be coming with your food soon.’
‘Are you done pounding?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled.
I was startled as I walked into my hut. Who pounded the yams? I couldn’t imagine she did that even in her wobbling age. There was nobody in the house, and the compound stood alone in the heart of the village. Sometime ago, my parents felt she would be lonely in the village and pleaded with her to come live with us in the city but she refused for reasons best known to her. I remember the last time I saw her in our house in Lagos was when I turned ten. My uncle in the US had told her to come over. After spending three months with us, he flew to America and returned when I was twelve. Uncle John told us he had pleaded with her to stay a little longer but she refused. She had said, ‘I’m not going to die in another man’s land.’ One thought she would die as soon as she returned to Nigeria. But do you know she lived for close to nine years after she came back before she died? Well, we sent her money and food every month – my parents and uncle.
I got into my room. The room was spacious and its walls were red earth designed beautifully with different kinds of abstract drawings. The room was partially illuminated by a bottle lamp which dangled briskly on the threshold revealing a mould bed a little bigger than the casket of a teenage corpse at the far end of the hut. Parallel to the mould bed was a line on which I hung my new clothes. There was one thing in the room that left me in the ditch of fear when I first came: the leopard skin that hung on the far wall above the bed. Iyon had made the matter worse when she told me the room belonged to my late grandpa; that he had gotten the skin when he killed a leopard. ‘That day,’ she explained, ‘was his most memorable day. He spoke about it proudly throughout his life time. He won himself the Iyoko dance and was initiated into the hunting society.’ I noticed tears stood liberally in her eyes – perhaps tears of nostalgia.
Before long, Iyon brought the meal – pounded yam and bitter-leaf soup, aromatised by bush meat. I put down the wooden tray and washed my hands effortlessly. I sat down and started swallowing lumps of pounded yam well soaked in the soup. I ate hurriedly as if I had not eaten for days. She sat close to me on the bed and gave me that look as if to say, ‘see how he has grown.’ As I ate, I looked at her keenly; nature had not been so kind to her outlook- her face had creased like a plastic bag brought near a burning furnace. Her nose stood like a gong on the rumpled face and grey hair was spread over it.
‘Thank you Iyon.’ I said after emptying
the bowl
‘Did you enjoy the meal?’
‘Oh yes!’ I exclaimed jovially, ‘as you can see there’s no morsel left in the bowl.’ We laughed heartily for a long time after which I drew closer to her. She knew I was about requesting for something.
‘What’s it, Ohimai?’
‘Iyon,’ I called, ‘I want to go to the village square to catch the moonlight fun.’ She smiled, but I could discern something different lurking behind the smile. She kept a long looming silence and then said sadly,
‘it’s unfortunate my son, you didn’t come at the right time; the moon will be rising later in the night and there’ll nobody in the village square.’
I was completely disappointed; I felt like shedding hot tears. I moved farther away from her and lied on the bed – my legs touching the floor. I wouldn’t have come to the village, I thought. I felt she didn’t want me to go. I was almost fast asleep when I heard her voice faintly, ‘don’t worry; you’ll go some other time.’ Again, I became sad. Different thoughts flew into my mind: the old woman was deceiving me. Some village children I met at the shrine today told me there would be fun at the village square this night. My mind rattled, and in the end, I decided to escape from home when grandma was gone to her hut. I made up my mind on this and I was determined to stay awake; but my giddy eyes soaked in slumber betrayed me and I fell asleep.
Suddenly, I woke up. Everywhere was utterly quite. The old woman had gone to his hut, but the bottle-lamp still gave light to the room. I took time to observe the bottle-lamp for the first time since I came; it was made up of a small brown bottle and a thread. The bottle once contained syrup; now it was filled with kerosene, and the thread passed from the top of the bottle through the bored metallic cover down into the kerosene. It was a fascinating sight. I wondered why granny still used it. In the end I concluded that she must be in love with ancient cultures; that should be one of the reasons why she had refused to live with us in Lagos.
When I realised nobody was going to stop me from going to the sawdust square, I was over joyous. I sprang gallantly to my feet like a warrior who is desperate to win despite all challenges. I flung open the wooden door and walked out against all fears. I came out of the compound and took my right in the direction of the village square. I looked backward to the east; the moon had risen boldly to face the unbearable darkness but was still partially covered by the tall Iroko tree farther away. The dumb night was stirred up terrifically by shrills of night insects which the villagers believed fell from the sky very big but had become small on earth due to their deafening shrills. I walked on the narrow path that was flanked at both sides by sturdy vegetations. I can’t tell you how long I walked but it was for a long time. For the very first time, I became nervous as the breeze blew over the top of the trees that appeared as scarecrows. I started moving faster just to find comfort in the coolness of an open space. I soon stumbled into a wide compound but become dazed like a man who has seen what nobody is seeing. I stood glued to one spot; from what I was told about moonlight, parents waited outside their hut until their children returned from play. What I was seeing in this compound was a direct opposite; there was nobody outside. Had they returned from the village square? I wallowed in fear. I discarded the thought: it was too early for children to come back if they had gone at all – the moon was still resting against the eastern sky. It was this time I realised the danger I had exposed myself to. I would have listened to grandma if I had known.
I thought of going home; I retreated and began my frightful journey back home. I became so drenched in fear that at the rustle of vegetations, I recoiled and made sure every where was calm before I continued my journey. In front of me, the full moon had emerged gloriously. The surrounding became brightened. I became joyous but it didn’t last long as I started harbouring the illusion that trees around me were terrific ghosts. I zoomed forward, thrusting my head down. Suddenly, I hit my right foot against a stump and fell onto the dewy earth with a loud report. I stood up almost as soon as I fell and began to run. After sometime, I stopped running but walked rather fast. Sweat had now soaked my wares even though the night was cold as a refrigerator. I longed for the comfort of home but I sensed it was still far away.
I was approaching a wider path when I saw two men coming towards me. No doubt, they smelled evil. I didn’t know these men; all knew about them was that they were as huge as the wrestlers on TV, and that the one in front leapt on his left leg. I stood rooted to one spot as soon as I saw them. The men soon picked me up like a piece of wood – one holding my hands and the other my legs so that I became parallel to the earth. I didn’t shout as they carried me into the forest. I just closed my eyes and thought of how I wouldn’t see Lagos again; how I would not see my parents and siblings again. I came first in class the foregoing term and I’d made up my mind to boast of it in January when school resumed; but that would no longer be possible. I sobbed secretly as soon as I noticed I caused this to myself.
I noticed we entered a very large furbished ground, (the size of a handball pitch) brightly illuminated with burning logs. The men dropped me like a goat damned to be sacrificed to some blood-sucking deity and went behind me unsheathing their machetes. I peered around like a thief and discovered I was in front of the shrine which I visited earlier today. The boys I met here today told me the rain had not shown its mercy and that the deity needed a human head for appeasement. Although they later told me they were joking, (after all it was the dry season) it heightened my fear. The shrine stood in front of me in its stark intricacy: it was a small hut – having just the shape of an inverted calabash bowl. It had a small opening which could just allow my head entry without much difficulty.
Then from nowhere came the priestess clad in white garment stained red near her breasts. I didn’t look at her face; why should I? The boys had told me that only elderly men saw the priestess. I could not understand why she had appeared before me this harmattan night – a fifteen years old lad. I shivered in utter fear; I would be sacrificed to the heinous god for rain: poor me! The priestess called one of the men – the one that leapt and they conversed for a long time. And suddenly like someone who has been possessed by some mad demon, she let out a cry which must have been heard like the rumble of thunder several miles away.
‘The gods will accept this one!’ She danced around me like a cock around a hen after mating. She soon stooped and said, ‘give me your machete!’ The messenger that leapt handed his machete to her. Only then did I realise I was about slipping down demise’s vale. I screamed and screamed until my voice pierced through the still air of the night like a sharp sword through soft linen. I screamed again and again until I miraculously and mysteriously met myself setting on my mud bed. I was sweating profusely and my neck was almost stretched to breaking point. I was dazed; my heart pounding for a while. I gazed at the bottle-lamp on the threshold; the designs on the mould walls; my clothes on the line which I thought were unreal. I wiped my face with my palm. It was just a dream!
‘Did you enjoy the meal?’
‘Oh yes!’ I exclaimed jovially, ‘as you can see there’s no morsel left in the bowl.’ We laughed heartily for a long time after which I drew closer to her. She knew I was about requesting for something.
‘What’s it, Ohimai?’
‘Iyon,’ I called, ‘I want to go to the village square to catch the moonlight fun.’ She smiled, but I could discern something different lurking behind the smile. She kept a long looming silence and then said sadly,
‘it’s unfortunate my son, you didn’t come at the right time; the moon will be rising later in the night and there’ll nobody in the village square.’
I was completely disappointed; I felt like shedding hot tears. I moved farther away from her and lied on the bed – my legs touching the floor. I wouldn’t have come to the village, I thought. I felt she didn’t want me to go. I was almost fast asleep when I heard her voice faintly, ‘don’t worry; you’ll go some other time.’ Again, I became sad. Different thoughts flew into my mind: the old woman was deceiving me. Some village children I met at the shrine today told me there would be fun at the village square this night. My mind rattled, and in the end, I decided to escape from home when grandma was gone to her hut. I made up my mind on this and I was determined to stay awake; but my giddy eyes soaked in slumber betrayed me and I fell asleep.
Suddenly, I woke up. Everywhere was utterly quite. The old woman had gone to his hut, but the bottle-lamp still gave light to the room. I took time to observe the bottle-lamp for the first time since I came; it was made up of a small brown bottle and a thread. The bottle once contained syrup; now it was filled with kerosene, and the thread passed from the top of the bottle through the bored metallic cover down into the kerosene. It was a fascinating sight. I wondered why granny still used it. In the end I concluded that she must be in love with ancient cultures; that should be one of the reasons why she had refused to live with us in Lagos.
When I realised nobody was going to stop me from going to the sawdust square, I was over joyous. I sprang gallantly to my feet like a warrior who is desperate to win despite all challenges. I flung open the wooden door and walked out against all fears. I came out of the compound and took my right in the direction of the village square. I looked backward to the east; the moon had risen boldly to face the unbearable darkness but was still partially covered by the tall Iroko tree farther away. The dumb night was stirred up terrifically by shrills of night insects which the villagers believed fell from the sky very big but had become small on earth due to their deafening shrills. I walked on the narrow path that was flanked at both sides by sturdy vegetations. I can’t tell you how long I walked but it was for a long time. For the very first time, I became nervous as the breeze blew over the top of the trees that appeared as scarecrows. I started moving faster just to find comfort in the coolness of an open space. I soon stumbled into a wide compound but become dazed like a man who has seen what nobody is seeing. I stood glued to one spot; from what I was told about moonlight, parents waited outside their hut until their children returned from play. What I was seeing in this compound was a direct opposite; there was nobody outside. Had they returned from the village square? I wallowed in fear. I discarded the thought: it was too early for children to come back if they had gone at all – the moon was still resting against the eastern sky. It was this time I realised the danger I had exposed myself to. I would have listened to grandma if I had known.
I thought of going home; I retreated and began my frightful journey back home. I became so drenched in fear that at the rustle of vegetations, I recoiled and made sure every where was calm before I continued my journey. In front of me, the full moon had emerged gloriously. The surrounding became brightened. I became joyous but it didn’t last long as I started harbouring the illusion that trees around me were terrific ghosts. I zoomed forward, thrusting my head down. Suddenly, I hit my right foot against a stump and fell onto the dewy earth with a loud report. I stood up almost as soon as I fell and began to run. After sometime, I stopped running but walked rather fast. Sweat had now soaked my wares even though the night was cold as a refrigerator. I longed for the comfort of home but I sensed it was still far away.
I was approaching a wider path when I saw two men coming towards me. No doubt, they smelled evil. I didn’t know these men; all knew about them was that they were as huge as the wrestlers on TV, and that the one in front leapt on his left leg. I stood rooted to one spot as soon as I saw them. The men soon picked me up like a piece of wood – one holding my hands and the other my legs so that I became parallel to the earth. I didn’t shout as they carried me into the forest. I just closed my eyes and thought of how I wouldn’t see Lagos again; how I would not see my parents and siblings again. I came first in class the foregoing term and I’d made up my mind to boast of it in January when school resumed; but that would no longer be possible. I sobbed secretly as soon as I noticed I caused this to myself.
I noticed we entered a very large furbished ground, (the size of a handball pitch) brightly illuminated with burning logs. The men dropped me like a goat damned to be sacrificed to some blood-sucking deity and went behind me unsheathing their machetes. I peered around like a thief and discovered I was in front of the shrine which I visited earlier today. The boys I met here today told me the rain had not shown its mercy and that the deity needed a human head for appeasement. Although they later told me they were joking, (after all it was the dry season) it heightened my fear. The shrine stood in front of me in its stark intricacy: it was a small hut – having just the shape of an inverted calabash bowl. It had a small opening which could just allow my head entry without much difficulty.
Then from nowhere came the priestess clad in white garment stained red near her breasts. I didn’t look at her face; why should I? The boys had told me that only elderly men saw the priestess. I could not understand why she had appeared before me this harmattan night – a fifteen years old lad. I shivered in utter fear; I would be sacrificed to the heinous god for rain: poor me! The priestess called one of the men – the one that leapt and they conversed for a long time. And suddenly like someone who has been possessed by some mad demon, she let out a cry which must have been heard like the rumble of thunder several miles away.
‘The gods will accept this one!’ She danced around me like a cock around a hen after mating. She soon stooped and said, ‘give me your machete!’ The messenger that leapt handed his machete to her. Only then did I realise I was about slipping down demise’s vale. I screamed and screamed until my voice pierced through the still air of the night like a sharp sword through soft linen. I screamed again and again until I miraculously and mysteriously met myself setting on my mud bed. I was sweating profusely and my neck was almost stretched to breaking point. I was dazed; my heart pounding for a while. I gazed at the bottle-lamp on the threshold; the designs on the mould walls; my clothes on the line which I thought were unreal. I wiped my face with my palm. It was just a dream!
EMAIL: isukue@gmail.com
No comments:
Post a Comment