What Will Tomorrow Bring?

Golden hour was upon the land. Already, the sky had turned into a vibrant hue of orange that spelled the beginning of dusk. This served her well. Her youngest was playing in the shallow end of the river with the other children. She had always warned Kira to keep to the shallow end, nearer to the bank.

Her fear was not without foundation.

Until recently, it was believed that the river goddess, Umi, never took one of her own. Indigenes of Ukodo never drowned, it was unheard of. At least, it was, until Umi had taken that boy. It was three weeks ago – she still remembered his face – the boy with the soulful stare of a sad monkey. He went into the river with his friends; five went in, four came home. Emergency meetings were held, and the elders, sat under the Iroko at the centre of the town square, turned to herbalists.

Consultations were made and sacrifices followed. Umi was appeased with blood and mindless drinking. And, once again, “she looked down upon the indigenes of Ukodo with warmth and kindness”. That is what the dibia said. Still, Anando’s doubts remained. The gods are capricious: who knew if Umi was truly pacified. To tempt the gods with her precious eye was folly, so she warned her daughter to keep close.

“Kira, let us go.” she beckoned.

She took leave of the cluster of women who were in various stages of packing up. The maidens took longer. Theirs was a ritualistic dance, with a balanced earthenware filled with water balanced gracefully on their head, and their waists whirling in practiced gait. She balanced her load on her head in one swift motion. Already, the darkness was descending, she had to leave now to get home before it was pitch black. She grabbed Kira with her free hand and quickened their pace home.

The land is one of plains, valleys and hills. Standing on the highest hill, Otele, one could see the vastness of Ukodo and even neighbouring towns, all stretched out in full glory. The forests were lush and vegetation went as far as the eye could see. The countryside was evergreen all year round. Later on in the year, when the new yam festival came around at the end of the rainy season, it grew cold. The land was good to the people. They tilled it and seeded it, tending to the plants carefully and their ancestors blessed them.

When Anando was a little girl, the household would gather at night around a fire hoping to chase the darkness away. Her grizzled old father would tell stories. Stories of how the creator had shown the ancestors the land and given them dominion over it. His booming deep voice inspiring awe and fear. She believed in him. That was such a long time ago. Long before Rusobanga. She still remembered what life was then. What it was now was a poor imitation.

Two years ago, things fell apart. Tribal tensions between her people, the Bonjo, and the Gamiyu tribe reached a head. A big Gamiyu chief had been killed on Bonjo land in broad daylight. His car had been stopped in the countryside and his torso riddled with bullets, cosa nostra style. The perpetrators were never found. No one knew if it was his political opponents or bandits. The Gamiyu which made up most of the majority blamed the Bonjo. They were outraged that one of their favourite sons had been taken prematurely and in such a gruesome manner. The man had been loved. Years of perceived slight and injustice, pent up frustration incited reappraisal attacks on the Bonjo. They had fought back. The powder keg had blown up and violence was the order of the day.

These were the circumstances that created Rusobanga. An opportunist, a creation born of chaos. This was how he came to be a warlord. He had managed to quell the uprising and various warring factions. He created a monopoly on violence. The Bonjo were desperate for peace. This was a fight they could not win. To get the peace that they desired, they had made some concessions to Rusobanga to pay rent on their ancestral land. When the dust settled Anando had lost three cousins, a brother, and her old father. Rusobanga, the butcher of Gamiyu had won.

He controlled their precious gold mines now. The proceeds were used to fund his extravagant lifestyle and keep his men loyal. Whatever he wanted, he took forcefully with his dreaded militia. Ukodo had not gotten true peace but, at least, the pogroms had stopped. ‘What is land compared to life?’ they had thought at the time; they would still be in control of most of their land in the real sense. Two years on, they were, slowly but surely, realizing that land was life, and without it, a man was nothing. Land meant freedom and, in its absence, little could be done by such a man.

Anando was tending to the fire, teary-eyed from the smoke, in the backyard adjoining their garden where they grew vegetables. Precariously balanced on the fire was a clay pot, filled with gruel, the thin soup that would serve as supper. It was barely enough food to feed all of them, but they made do. In the distance, the silhouettes of her twin sons approached on the horizon. Although they were men now, it was not long ago when Kore and Joro suckled on her teats.

How fast the breeze of time blows. It is a window that opens of its own accord and never really closes. One day we look up and we wonder where all the time in the world had gone.

Kore and Joro had always been inseparable from birth and Anando knew that though they were hers – given to her by Umi – they never really belonged to her. In truth, they belonged to each other, always have and always will.

Joro was Kore’s shadow. He idolized his twin brother. So, it came as no surprise that when the time of Kore’s apprenticeship in carpentry came, Joro simply tagged along. The brothers were inseparable and Anando knew their destinies were intertwined. One would wilt without the other. A lone ember does not survive long when other kindlings have been snuffed out.

“Mother, we have come.” Kore called out.

“Welcome home, my children.”

Her brood was however not complete. Not without Ofure her beautiful daughter and Tenshi her youngest son. Already, Camara had been receiving prospective suitors for Ofure. They needed the money her bride-price would bring. Tenshi was still not home, he loved to trace his path home in the moonlight. He was probably out looking for fireflies beneath the tender protest of the stars. Anando worried about his aloofness and disobedience. She was fearful for him and the kind of man he would become. History, the elders say often repeats itself and the son shall become the father. Tenshi resembled Camara in many things. Already, the boy was nearly as tall as his father.

Red, the ink of the cartographer.

Tonight, he would dine with his family. A shell of a man, he felt himself stretched too thin. He was a ghost now. How can a man call himself a man when he let another man rob him of what was rightfully his? To look into the eyes of his children was agony. He could see them accusing him. The depths to which an emasculated man could sink to. He was strong once, a man who held the family together, the center. Now, he despaired. Prone to take comfort in the jocular and teasing ambience of the beer parlour as opposed to his own home. He covered his shame with drink. On most days, he managed to. Tonight, the madame had stopped serving him drinks. He had run his debt too high and his cup was full. A man should eat with his children, he mused. If only to remind them he was still their father. He had nowhere else to go.

These thoughts preoccupied his mind as he sauntered into his yard. Kira ran towards him and he scooped her up in his arms. This one adored him; he could see it in her eyes. Pure love may refresh the wellspring of the soul of a man such as himself undergoing a drought. He saw his reflection in her eyes and was overcome. How unlike him. He was not a man prone to the effervescence of emotion, especially when it came to mundane things.

The light from the oil lamp made for a dimly lit room, casting grotesque shadows upon the wall. The tension was thick, like overgrown foliage growing underfoot and stifling cassava plants. Walking on eggshells, everyone was guarded with their actions and statement, lest they triggered an explosion. The mood at tonight’s dinner was different. Camara was never home, and his presence cast a shadow on proceedings. It felt as though there was no air left in the world.

He ate away from his family, so much so, that Anando thought he went out of his way to be absent at the meal table. His family did not quite know what to make of the situation. Even the lively and precocious little Kira felt the tension. She retreated into the ample bosom of her mother for comfort and quiet. Never one to shy away from confrontation, Kore spoke first.

“What brings you home so early father, is there a curfew?”

“Can’t a man choose to have dinner with his family?”

“So you suddenly remembered you had a family today?” Joro chimed.

“Do not speak to your father that way.” Anando admonished.

“Father?” Kore asked, bemused.

Kore and Joro’s eyes flashed in the dim light. They let him see their hatred.

“How was your day, my dear boy.” He turned to Tenshi, his tone light and conciliatory.

The boy looked back at him listlessly, with a vacant expression. Not one for many words, he barely spoke. Even Anando sometimes struggled to remember what his voice sounded like. Grasping at straws, before it devolved into an unsalvageable situation, Anando tried to rescue the situation.

“Soldiers were at the stalls in Ofili today. Rusobanga has increased the rent.”       

“Again? This man will not stop until he takes the clothes off our backs and strips us naked. Your generation created this mess.” Kore said.

“They were whipping those who could not pay and destroyed a lot of goods.” Anando continued, ignoring the boy’s jibe.

“Our brave boys have taken to the bush. We will not go down quietly.” Joro swore.

“The butcher of Gamiyu is ruthless. He who goes against such a man courts death.” Camara proclaimed with an air of resignation.

Once upon a time, when he was young, he would have been eager to join the BLF – Bonjo Liberation Front – which is what this rag-tag group of guerrilla fighters called themselves. There was no more fight in this old dog. It slumped its shoulders and let its head fall; life had succeeded in defeating it. Why fight the ocean when the waves are inevitable?

“Look at the old buffoon, perfectly content with his lot. Rather than applaud the bravery and the actions of our people against tyranny, what does the coward do? He sits here, safe in the confines of his home, with an overdue woman’s belly. Well, we have had enough of this oppression. Tomorrow morning at first light, Kore and I are going to join the others, we will join the rebels. We will not be like you. We disown you as a father and strip you of whatever manhood you claim. You are not a man, you are an insect, a leech clinging to the skin of this family, sucking us dry.”

Kore’s dam had broken and with that singular speech, he stormed into the night and Joro followed. That was the last Anando saw of her twins.

*** 

The blood soaked into the brown earth, colouring it red. The licking heat drew a peculiar patchwork of maps in the hard, red sand. Red, a cartography of the life force of her child, light slowly draining from his shiny eyes. There will be blood and there was.

Darkness was upon the land. Violence was kindling and, with a little persuasion, it had become a wildfire. The rebels could not match Rusobanga in a game of attrition. They were outgunned and outmatched; so, they resorted to guerrilla warfare.

They took to the forests and ambushed the butcher’s men whenever they could. The militia retaliated with indiscriminate attacks on the women and children of Ukodo. People began to disappear, husbands, friends, nieces, and cousins. One day they were here, the next they were not.

Neighbours grew suspicious of each other. Tension pervaded the air. Taking advantage of the mistrust between kin, Rusobanga declared a bounty on members of the BLF. It did not take much to cast suspicion on your neighbour as being a rebel sympathizer. Sometimes, all it took was the word of an enemy, driven by a decade worth of bad blood.

Rusobanga led these purges himself, bringing catastrophe and death. He butchered scores of men and women with his trusty chrome machete. Some said he was invincible and that he could shape-shift into whatever animal he chose. His obeah was famed and feared. He existed in the realm of gods for his power was absolute. And gods demanded sacrifice, their thirst for blood must be assuaged and destruction be had.

A country is but an instrument to satisfy the desires of the flesh. The powerful take, it is law. History does not forget Ozymandias. Rusobanga took without compunction and to defy him was to court death. After all, what did the proletariat mean to the dictator?

When two elephants tussle, the grass bears the brunt of it. The common folk being the people and Rusobanga and the BLF (regardless of the disparity in power) were the brutes, mindless rampaging beasts.

Slowly the town emptied out. It started as a slow trickle, those who had cars were the first to leave. They piled all they could take along with them atop their vehicles—rickety cars, old lorries, trucks—and left. Those who had bicycles rode them out before first light. The majority crept out under the cover of night, carrying all they had left on their heads.

A settled people had become destitute. All they had in this world was the clothes on their backs and whatever they managed to salvage and take with them. Despite Anando’s protestations, Camara was loathe to leave his ancestral land. Life had already taken too much from him. No more, he would make a stand. He would prove to his sons and perhaps to himself that he still had some spine left. He was no coward. So, the household stayed.

Then they came.

With the light of dawn guiding their way, Rusobanga’s men were keen to satisfy their bloodlust. They had lost brothers to the rebels. If they could not get their hands on the cockroaches, then their families would have to do. Someone must pay, only the helpless wails of children and women would douse their anger.

Camara was tending to the vegetables in the garden, admiring the tender leaves laden with dewdrops when he heard the roar of their engine. Deep down, he was filled with certainty and he knew, they were here for them. His skin broke out in a cold sweat despite the wetness of a July morning. He was rooted to the spot. He had to warn Anando and the children. Yet his legs would not work. Soon he was left with no choice as he heard the sound of their boots on gravel. He abandoned his family and fled.

Boom! The door caved. Swift and efficient, the militia fell upon Anando and her children. They had guns and the element of surprise, no one put up a fight. Rough hands groped and reached for her in the sombre darkness of dawn. Taken from her bed, the men dragged her and the children outside.

“So you are a rebel supporter.”

“We will teach you a lesson today.”

“Bonjo filth.”

“Cockroach.”

They chorused, taunting, and attacking her with batons. Ofure and Tenshi were not spared the onslaught. The deluge of blows was sudden and hard. She felt a wetness on her face but ignored it. She had to keep Kira safe. scanning the room for Kira was futile, as the streaming sanguine wetness had nearly blinded her. Instead, she listened for the sharp cry of her little one and crawled in the direction of her sobs.

Her assailants were faceless. Their voice, she followed trying to get a sense of what was happening. Her body was limp and she was in agony.

“This one is ripe.” One leered.

“Let us spoil her. Non-stop action.” They laughed.

The man who seemed to be leading the company, a short man in military fatigue, a square jaw and deep-set eyes, with scars crisscrossing his visage, threw Ofure to the ground. There were two stars pinned on his left shoulder and one on the right. He had a dirty, blood-red beret, perched conspicuously atop his head.

“This one is mine.” He declared.

“No please, take me instead.” Anando begged.

“And what shall we do with an old cargo like you.” One of the men said dismissively.

The short man laughed derisively and began to unbuckle his trousers. The other men held Ofure down, two by the shoulders as he spread her legs apart. They sneered and cheered him on, making a ruckus.

Tenshi could bare it no longer. He raged and tore himself away from the men that held him down for he was tall and deceptively strong. He strained every sinew and ran towards his sister without thought instinctively. Bang!, a deafening shot rang out in the chilly morning air. He stopped dead in his tracks and fell. Anando screamed herself hoarse and could only watch as his blood formed lakes in the red earth. Her heart shattered in her chest; now she knew pain. She crawled over to his lifeless body and cradled his head her laps. His shining eyes staring at the azure blue sky listlessly, light drained from them.

Seven of the men took turns raping Ofure. She had stopped fighting by now and had left her body and gone to another place. Her childhood, a place of peace and tranquil. Her body was no longer hers. It was an empty shell now that things were done to by despicable men. They took it with them. Anando was torn away from the still-warm corpse of her son and bundled into one of their trucks, along with Kira and Ofure’s shell. The house—generous to call it that—was razed to the ground, per Rusobanga’s orders.

They had not gotten far into the countryside before a deafening explosion hit them. The lead vehicle flew several feet into the air, raining shrapnel and tires. The staccato of a machine gun punctuated the air. The convoy was being ambushed; rebel fighters had come out of nowhere. The green foliage on either side of the yellow road served as cover. They had the element of surprise and better weapons now.

It was in some people’s interests that the state of conflict be maintained. War is a profitable business. These demagogues were their sponsors now. The firefight did not take long. There was an eerie quiet soon after. Juxtaposed with the state of chaos a few moments earlier, the silence was deafening. Anando could hear nothing, not even the silence. A long, shrill, even note resonated in her ear. She felt strong hands lifting her to the heavens as she passed out.

***

It was the stench that woke her. The stench of rot and death. Thick and sickening like the smoke from a tobacco pipe, it drew flies. The whole place was buzzing with them. There was a man wailing, calling out for his mother. He would not last the night. She sat up in the makeshift ward, overflowing with casualties. This was the grim reality of armed conflict. A nurse with a disarming smile soon came around to her bedside.

“Good, you are awake.”

“Where are my children?” She whispered. Her throat was hoarse, and she could barely get her words out.

“You need to rest.”

“I have to see them.”

“You are in a refugee camp,” she said “do not worry, it is all over. You are safe.”

“I need to see them!” she screamed.

“I will bring you to them. Do not worry.”

They came upon Kira playing around with the other children in the camp. The child’s irrepressible spirit could not be kept down for long.

“Mama!” she screamed in her tiny sing-song voice, running towards Anando.

“Where is Ofure?”

The child pointed in the direction of the makeshift tents situated on the edge of the camp. She was sitting in what would become her favourite spot, inhaling the smell of the big pine trees casting long shadows upon the tents. She stared vacantly into space; sorrow etched on her face. She was no longer of this world. This was the face of a girl who had lost everything. Men had broken her; men had devastated her. Anando wondered if her daughter would ever return to her. The grief was too much to bear. No parent should ever see their child so broken. She remembered, Joro, Kore and Tenshi, her sweet boys. For the first time since the beginning of her long ordeal, Anando hid her face in her hands and wept.