Africa39 (42 page)

Was it the heat that drew the villagers from their huts or the smell of smoke?

‘Disembark.’

It sounded like Major Waziri, a thin, pallid man whose shout could be heard from one end of camp to the other.

‘When the villagers begin to run this way, shoot. The Colonel will also be shooting on the other side.’

‘And what if we refuse?’

‘Who said that?’

The men by Chike remained silent.

‘Anyone who refuses will be shot.’

Men were dashing into houses and rescuing the bric-a-brac of their lives. Women were carrying babies and smacking children who strayed too far from the family group. At the sound of gunfire, the young and the very old were startled into flight. The latter did not get very far but the children had almost reached the jeeps when Waziri said ‘Fire!’

For a moment, there was silence. Only Colonel Benatari and his contingent were shooting. This is a mutiny, Chike thought. Unplanned and unconcerted, they had all decided to revolt. Here was the will of the people, with no king needed to divine it. Then the first gun stuttered into life and the others found their voice.

‘Let’s go now before we take part in this.’

The men of his platoon turned when he spoke, fingers relaxing from triggers. Perhaps if he had led them, really led them instead of only giving orders, they would have followed him. They all had reasons to stay. Private Usman was newly wed, Lance Corporal Okachi had an elderly father and Sergeant Moloku’s dependents were too many to be counted. Only Y
?
mi remained unencumbered.

‘Oya,’ he said. ‘I don tire for this their army.’

Hope's Hunter

Mohamed Yunus Rafiq

Hope's hunter leaves home for the hunt of a lifetime just as the hornbills have begun to announce the severity of the impending drought.

This is the land: once teeming with galloping and prancing antelope, now a desert of fine dust. This is the land where the chatter of contented voices rang around the warm embrace of the fire from which roasting meat released its aroma into the balmy darkness. But now, shrunken heads are sunk deep on cadaverous chests or against bony lower limbs. The war song that no one dares sing still rings in the villagers' ears.

 

Eeh; eagle soaring in the sky above

Tell my family I'm bound for battle

I'll be back with food

Or return as food

The food I bring I'll share with all

If as food I return

Feed on flesh

 

And become what I am

But care for those I love the most

 

Hope's hunter leaves behind him the fire that has tied his family together more securely than the most ingenious knot. He leaves behind too the pleasant smell of the evergreen mtarakwa tree that hugs the walls of his homestead. He leaves behind the tobacco-coloured mountains that caress the low pregnant clouds that never deliver. The cracked earth that no longer shows evidence of roaming antelope. All this urges him forth to find the elixir that will ward off the impending calamity. He leaves behind the eyes of his children staring at his departing and diminishing form, eyes as blank as dead stars.

 

Resolute, Hope's hunter turns his back on his relatives' scrawny, beckoning hands; hands so powerless they have let fall the empty gourd of the sap of affection for the retreating pilgrim. But still they beckon, as if defying the wisdom in the children's song that urges:

 

Be not like a chair

With legs

That do not walk

 

The traveller moves on, for it is the glory of a man to be on the move always, like the river; unlike the mountain whose majesty is in its stillness.

 

In his departure, the traveller also leaves behind some painful, yet sorrowful nods of approval; nods reminiscent of the lizard's resignation to the inevitable setting of the sun. The traveller tips down his throat the bitter herb that is the agony of departure as he stands at the mouth of the forest.

A baobab stands formidable here; roots firmly sunk into the earth. The hunter is dwarfed by the great tree, whose branches lift like strong arms into the sky. The hunter feels the presence of the uncountable prayers of the wise that have been offered here. He only wishes he could hear them. His eyes are glued to the robust trunk of the tree and his mind records the shifting script and pictograms presented by armies of ants and other insects enacting before his eyes the daily struggle of their lives.

He sees kingdoms take shape, stand valiantly and fall here on the vast trunk. He sees the flow, swell and ebb of hope as one army advances with a huge prize of the fresh succulent cadaver of a green grasshopper.

In the translucent sap that covers part of the trunk, he sees armies sailing in canoes and beholds them as they crash into the vortexes of rapidly swirling waters and sink into chasms of spider webs spanning some depressions on the branches of the baobab.

And what is that fleeting spear? Oh, it is the lightning-fast tongue of the chameleon as it zaps into its mouth some unsuspecting juicy grub. The hunter is enthralled. No sooner does a question pop up in his mind, than the answer emerges right before his eyes. Why is it that the prey fails to see enemies who tower over it like mountains? That is because the prey lives to gather and store; while the enemy lives to hunt and eat and rest and be fresh for the next meal.

 

He feels that he can almost sniff the object of his quest now. At least, he reasons, he has found the bow and arrow and he has grasped it firmly. His hope soars into the sky and he half wishes his people could see it the way they see the clouds. He was eager to alleviate their suffering. But he remembers how even clouds in the sky no longer kindle hope in their faces.

He finds a stone conveniently close to the baobab tree on which he sits to reflect. He can still read the scripts and pictograms from where he sits. Hope rises like a serpent rearing its head not only better to survey its foe, but to intimate its menace. It is so strong in him that he journeys through many hot suns and cold moons. He grows so accustomed to the facial expressions of the moon that it is as if she and he hold nocturnal conversations. He is buoyed by the waxing of the rounded moon; left bereft with its waning. As he trudges on, it seems that the only balm for his lips is the song he sings to his ancestors, the one that bubbles from deep within and flows from his lips and wafts into the air around him where it seems to hang like an invisible mantle. The sonic forms and esoteric meanings in the songs of yore pulsate in the surrounding air enshrouding the traveller from snakes bites, deviant whispers and piercing thermal spears.

 

After many moons he comes upon a fig tree. Here he reflects on whether he has earned the honour required of him in order to help his people. Hasn't he borne the assaults of the elements? Isn't his skin covered with a thick enough layer of sweat to cement the most irreconcilable enemies? Although he cannot name what he seeks within himself, he feels the object of his quest is near, and it is bright as a ray of light dancing on the surface of a river.

He plants the staff that he has been holding firmly on the ground. As soon as the feeling of discovery dissipates, feelings of despair flood his heart, he sees himself like a star spun off from its ancestral grouping and left alone in the vastness of the sky. He staggers and falls on the ground, his hands still clenching the staff. His ear on the ground, vibrations pulsate throughout his body building back up his strength. After the thermal convulsions end, the hunter feels an emotion so profound that the dusty kiangazi wind of the dry season slapping his spare frame does not register in his consciousness. He is able to resume his journey.

 

Trees, shrubs, sand, stones, hills and mountains give way to endless plains. His countenance resembles that of a fisherman who holds a rod at which a mighty catch mischievously tugs. He does not care for the savannah grass that waves in the wind like myriad robed priests bowing and swaying in worship. If he cared it would be only for the reason that these priests intercede on his behalf. As he has countless nights before, he lays that night under the sky that places over him a ceiling decorated with jewels. The frogs and crickets produce a melodic rhythm that rocks the hunter into a pensive tune:

 

Travelling is seeing,
kusafiri ni kuona

Migrating is healing,
kuhijiri ni kupona

Depth is in reflection,
kufikiri ni kina

 

These are the words that beckon him towards the friend who awaits us all at the end of the day. The
kusafiri na kuhijiri
lures him to sleep. The next morning, he continues with his solitary journey.

 

His hope soars as he comes upon a riverbed, drawn by the promise of water and food – elemental needs. At last, he is able to drink and eat and continue his journey. With his back arched like a tightened bow, the hunter combs the shallow banks of the river for buried oysters and aquatic snails. He gorges on their white leathery flesh like an ousted mongoose, their juices escaping down the sides of his mouth and tiny bits of flesh flying in the air, mixing with the water below. His flaring nostrils draw in huge draughts of air and there is a joyful rhythm as his sandaled feet come in contact with the sand. His feet can kiss the sand now and not fear that the sand will cling to them in a spider-like embrace as he had feared before this moment. His soul chants a victory chant: greenness is life,
ubichi ni uishi wa binaamu
, those who fear should not live,
aogopae na asikae
, and more intensely, real death is to cease searching,
kifo ni kuacha kutafuta
.

The dusty wind jerks him out of his reverie. In front of him, the clump of densely populated tree encircles the riverbed. Here are the legendary medicinal trees such as the mbuyu of the leafless branches with twigs pointing up at the sky like long fingers; the elkilotri with its yellow flowers reminiscent of a flock of goats; the mwarobani in its sunny red majesty.

The hunter notices a gap in the middle of this clump of trees. His face is tear-streaked now, and he advances to the opening in the middle of the trees as if drawn by some magic. On the ground, hoof prints of the numerous animals of the forest etch the muddy path. There are so many that it is hard to make out which print belongs to which animal. Feathers from the plumage of various birds wave gently in the calm breeze. It is clear to the hunter that this path was well worn. On the other side of the copse the tunnel opens up into a clearing at the centre of which there is a huge gleaming coil that seems to be swaying gently to the breeze. Or perhaps it seems to be inflating and deflating rhythmically; surely, it is breathing, and, and, wait, this is a huge python. The sight of this massive creature mesmerises the hunter. The python's mouth opens wide and a stream of water gushes forth from it like a mighty waterfall. It is as if the great snake never ceases pouring out its precious substance and what races through the hunter's mind is the thought that if only he could drink from the snake fountain he could regain the wisdom of old.

 

The hunter beholds a colony of bedraggled frogs beside the river. Their skins appearing as tattered travelling cloaks, their eyes sunken from lack of food and water. It is a long journey across the plains to this riverbed. Though miserable in appearance, these frogs sing songs of jubilation and triumph. In unison, they take a sip of the precious water and like the fleeting sight of a leopard, their shabby appearance begins to dissolve and give way to shiny coats and their eyes begin to glow like the brave koroboi. He feels in him the sweetness of the reward of all the travailing that the frogs faced to arrive at this place. The python, as if sensing the stirrings in the man, blinks and in the process sends waves rippling over the sacred water and the waves add zest to the breeze that dances over the calm waters. Like him, the frogs have come to this riverbed to partake in the life-giving waters pouring fourth from the generous python. The hunter thinks out loud, ‘What troubles have forced these amphibian cousins to leave their abode and venture this far?' He recounts the adage: ‘Don't see a man walking; he carries mountains on his shoulders
.
' The mountains of drought, broken dreams, splintering families and vanishing forests cleaved the hunter from his people, bringing him here to this secluded riverbed. But does not one traveller aid another when the dry winds of the world blow them in different directions? Humbled, the hunter waits.

 

He rubs his hand over his eyes better to see the spectacle before him. It feels as if the fatigue is falling from his eyes in sandy sized particles. When he eventually returns his gaze once more to the giant serpent, he catches his breath in horror and staggers to lean against a nearby tree. The python is dead and its white, weather-worn skeleton is suspended on the dry vines that cling to an acacia tree. He cannot explain how the splendour of a few moments before could have disappeared. He feels a betrayal reminiscent of a worshipper who responds to a stirring call only to find that the shrine lacks a priest. In the place of the gleaming water of the river now lie the roots of a huge dusty caldera.