Across the River

photo credit: google

We were gathered at the village square deliberating about the fight at the river bank, about the little girl that was raped by youths from the next village in the face of the river, in the eyes of her brothers that were beaten into shades of blue and black. We were angry that the three brothers had plucked out their eyes in regret of the evil they had beheld, and they had cut off their hands – placing them under rocks, in claims that they offered no help when it mattered most. Our woes pilled when their sister, Ujala, who was the center of their grief, hung herself and dangled from the rafters of her room because she knew she was a beauty among all the ladies but her rape would afford her no man. We were drunk with a vengeance, intoxicated with wrath at what the youths from Killifantuna did, until Zuka arrived and cleared his throat.

His only eyes were red with black veins running at the base. A badge covered his other eyes, we were told while we grew, that there is a red dry hollow in there. The thick long scar lined down the top of the damaged eye, over the eyelash, over the eyebrow and cut deep like a tribal mark into his cheek. It was said he plucked out his own eye with his hands. He had been involved in a fight with Zafun, the warrior of Killifantuna at the same river where Muna the beautiful and her brothers, sons of Kobo had been desecrated. He sat on the dead root of a tree in the center of the square. It was called the warrior's chair. No one ever sat on it; the giant tree was hewn down by our late King and made a stool for Zuka and his descendants forever. It was a powerful sit, so powerful that the birds of the air didn't fly across, lizards didn't claim for a territory, wayward chickens didn't perch on and no other man, not even the members of the King's house dared sat on.

His presence brought with it, water, the cooling of our fires. He was revered as a god. Only the King doesn't bow to him. He barely speaks, he was always thinking. Every word that came out of his mouth could be counted without exhausting the fingers, or touching the toes – they were like gold.

‘I have heard,' he said, ‘but we shall not attack.'

He stood up. His coat of lion's skin girded around his aging body, he left us, our rage watered down by his words.

We were angry. We were very angry. But no one talked. Everyone, in every house, on every farm, in every place, had ears to mouths of whispers. The grief was much for Kobo and his wife; their amputated sons had refused to eat and died. Kobo and his wife later poisoned themselves. Words had gotten to the king. More words in volumes enough to fill a book, but all he did was sigh and shake head in silence. Zuka had spoken and that was all.

The days passed and we ate roasted yams dipped in red oil, in anger. We planted all through that season in grief, so that the produce of that year was low. Even our cattle had more miscarriages, the milk of cows were low. Chicken eggs were as small as a dove's. Nights were long, dew was scarce, and days were hot and dry. Children born in that year, that season had their names marked with grief, so that women avoided their husbands. Even the loins of the husbands lacked motivation and erection. Our hearts were set on war. We had abandoned the river; the river where our grief began, where our sorrows sprang. We would stand and look at the smoking huts of Killifantuna, at nights, the cheer of their drunken men around camp fires, their chants. It hurt us to know that just this river separated us from paying vengeance – eye for an eye with our neighbors, our enemies.

Three seasons later, we lived on accepting but never forgetting that day, the events and the lives that went with it. Our women had returned to the river with our men standing watch. The children had begun to play again. A little laughter sometimes escaped from the fart of a child or the snore of an elderly. It wasn't us – men and warriors, that stood with angry faces in the village square. It was the women and their goods, their rumors, lies and gossips that filled that air. Until Zuka arrived and sat on his throne, and cleared his throat. Then the woman left with their children, the noise and voice ceased like a herd of antelopes that the wind had brought rumors of encroaching lions.

We, the men, the warriors, arrived. Some red with earth from the farm, some with gourds of palm-wine … we stood from noon till the yellow sun began to set. No one had spoken, not even a careless whisper or the scratch of tired feet against the earth. We watched his eye, his only eye dart around as we waited for gold – his words.    

      

‘Return home, fetch your weapons. Now, we attack.' He said and sat still on his stump.

Every man returned home and fetched his weapon. We matched across the river when the sun sunk into the earth. The people of Killifantuna were not expecting us. We arrived when their men were drunk and their warriors had women down their waists. We returned that night with smoke and fire behind our backs. We crossed the river with joy and the heads of the boys that were identified as the culprits at the river –three seasons ago. We hung them on stakes in front of the ruins, of the house of Kobo. Together with the king, we matched back to the village square to pay tribute to Zuka, the wise, the eternal warrior. For only then did we realize that had we attacked three seasons ago, we would have been killed in our anger and burned and buried with our grief. For the people of Killifantuna were not our match, one of their men could withstand two of ours and not spill a blood or lose a tooth.

When we arrived at the village square, the moon was standing over the stump throne of Zuka, he had his arrow of a staff in his right hand. He had not left his place since we left for war, his eyes were set across the river. For the first time, he had a faint smile hanging in his eye bags and the furrows of his jaw lines. Captured in his eyes were the fires from the land that had brought our fathers, and their fathers before them to their knees. His mouth never opened as we stood and bowed our heads in silence – the king as well. It was when morning came and the sun rose that we knew that Zuka, who was here, was gone.  

 

  ©Melchizedek, son of Michael 20/5/2016