The winds wound round the hills and came tumbling in to the sleepy town,
carrying heavy July clouds. In this part of the country, the months of
July and August come with heavy dark clouds that causes downpour,
sometimes for days unending. It was the second week in July, and the
water aquifer was fast coming closer up.
Irish potatoes would
soon be ripe for harvest, and the local acha will revel in the much
rains. The rains always come with angry winds, which torpedo after
crashing against the fore-slopes of the highlands. They will take off
roofs of houses, uproot trees and cause fear down the bones of children.
The
swoosh-swoosh snarls that engulfed the low heavens that evening,
ensured that as many peasant farmers that made it to their farms that
day, returned home early on to the comfort of their hearths. Some animal
was scowling in the wild, probably lost, and the sound was coming from
near the village gate. The winds continued to torment roofings made of
palm fronds, even as the poorly made ones began to make way, and the old
ones allowed water to gather inside.
Somewhere distant from the
village square, close to the burial ground, about a few meters from the
border of the village and the ‘evil’ forest that sits below the hills,
the cry of a woman rented the air almost beyond the sonority of the
winds. In defiance, the winds increased in noise and intensity, the
rains now pouring down in anger and torrents.
From the north,
almost in the opposite direction, lightening flashed across the grey
skies and the resulting thunder rested at the base of an old dried oak,
three huts away from the place the cry had emanated. The winds had died
down now, but the rains continued to pour. The thunderbolt had ignited a
fire at the base of the tree, and flames began to blaze in the rains,
even as the wail of a newborn rent the steel cold night.
Ayuka
was fatigued. She and the unborn had tussled from midday. She had prayed
to the Good Spirit, to let her get a safe delivery, and the prayer
included her labour, in her hut. But her wishes were not being
fulfilled. She began to realize this, the moment those severe pains had
started. She was tending young mushrooms on a strip of land, an echo
from the thick of the forest. She thought of the bountiful harvest she
was going to reap, and the profit she would make at Tallata market. And
of the clothings and good healthy food she was going to stock for the
baby. She would call the baby Arziki, and prayed it would be a girl.
The
land was very fertile, and showed this by the huge growth of tender
edible mushroom that grew from it. At first, she thought it was someone
else’s farm, and overlooked it. Her repeated strolls through that trail,
alerted her to the weeds that now competed with the mushrooms. No good
farmer would allow his farm overgrown with this much weeds she thought.
And that was when she took over.
Her tummy had been bulging for five
moons now since she took note of the protuberance. As the days waned,
she became aware of intermittent pains. Although she had learned from
experience to be as subtle as possible, not to call up the bouts of
snapping pains, she was carried away in her thoughts, and didn’t realize
how rigorous she was getting with the tend.
That was when the
pains started, and got unusual. Though she had witnessed similar pains
in the past, they had varnished after some while. This one had forced
her to abandon the tend, and head for home. She felt very sore from the
pains and from her urgent pace to get home. And it was right on her way,
that the tumbling winds had met her. The gruesome throes of labour
right in the heavy downpour had left her muscles battered and aching.
Her
under body was still on fire, like those times the illness overthrow
and got worse because she had nowhere to go, and no one to call for help
and had to lie in her hut till she began to feel better. On those days,
the reproachful words of her father would ring aloud in her head, while
Inna’s loud sobs burst tears down her sullen cheeks. She had had little
time to take enough valuables before the Majjalisar Dattawa came
calling. That day was austere and desolate. She had never felt love
leave her like that day.
For now, getting the child warm was her
utmost priority, as every bit of clothing was drenched and unsuitable
for the occasion. The cold was fast settling in. She let out frequent
sobs now and then, and the frequency was getting on the high side.
However, she thought not of herself, as the little bag of life lay,
yelling to the night.
She mustered what was now left of her
strength, with a lot of gut, and snapped the umbilical, as she tried to
separate the baby from her, to then clean up the mess. The scene was
indeed gory, as she, in closed eyes undid the child from her, and
silenced it in “first milk”. Not knowing from where the will came, she
dragged, not in an attempt to get to what has been her source of shelter
for nine moons now, but to get closer to the burning tree.
They
both now desperately needed the warmth, but as the baby sucked, what
remain of her energy seemed to drain with the flow of the milk. She had
not had anything to eat, since she ate some of the tuber some benevolent
passerby had gifted her the day before. She could not remember the last
time she had ample food to eat, so she continued unending, to thank the
man, until his bicycle had had taken him far from hearing distance. She
had roasted a half of the yam, and planned to eat the rest when she
returned from the farm today.
Rumblings continued in the sky,
but were now from afar. The rains had now migrated, and only the Good
Spirit knew what havoc they meted where they now poured. No one would
complain by morning. “The rains have made repairs” they would say, as
peasants with damaged houses would now go about renovating them, while
those with waterlogged farms or severely damaged crops would count their
losses.
But now in the cold dark night, a parliament of owls
exchanged successive hoots in the not too far distance, the most
resounding coming from the hills. She knew that owls told of bad augur,
and hoped whatever it was, would be as distant as the continuous
rumbling of the skies. Her only source of salvation was the fire, which
crackled in the rich fuel of the old oak.
She was grateful to be
close enough now, to provide ample warmth for the newborn, a baby boy,
and to also keep away any wandering hyena whose path may seem to cross
here before dawn. The fire crackled as if in response to her. And she
prayed that it burns far in to the night. Then everything went blank.
The
torrents had moved ahead, but drizzles continued in its wake. The
heavens were just clearing up the remnants of clouds that were heavy
some few hours before. On some occasion, it would drizzle on until the
resolve of the people would force it to stop. This they seem to do by
defying it, and continuing their normal business. Today, there would be
no need for it, as dusk was already night, and the hearth would provide
better comfort. Only by morning would any damage be of any significance.
Some
rhythmic mantra broke the silence that ensued for about a quarter of an
hour. It came from the hills that stand guard for the village. The
marabou, whose duty it was to carry messages from the Good Spirit for
the village, had made there his home. The place and its inhabitant were
very revered amongst the people.
Between the hills and the
village laid the ‘evil’ forest to which no inhabitant of the village was
to step. It had human eating creatures; fathers would tell their
children to deter them from hunting Agama lizards from thence. Only the
Majjalis – the council of elders, after cleansing could walk the forest
to the hills, where the Good Spirit lived, and the marabou made
adulation daily. And on such occasions, like today’s, atonement and
reverence would be their only reason to approach the hills.
The
tapping of the marabou’s drum was notoriously paramount amidst the
chant. The Majjalis was performing a ritual to cleanse the land of all
evil and abominations. It was a yearly event. Twelve moons counted
unending, and then restitution would be sought. The marabou had
premeditated the day for the ritual, and hoped the Good Spirit would
provide ample supplies of sacrifice. They had needed the blood of an
innocent child, or of a stranger.
Now, the ritual had gone
ahead. It would last till the early hours of the morning, around when
the cock let out its first crow. Then they – the Majjalis, would tarry
two more days to unwind, and travel down from the hills from where the
marabou’s shrine laid, a watchtower for the village.
