Ten days of being robbed and harassed will do strange things to a person. Some people will retreat and withstand whatever hardship they must in order to avoid being robbed again. Some will just stand there, indecisive. Others will go get more people and hope for the protection of numbers. But some . . . some will stand and fight no matter how unlikely the odds of victory.
Emem’s father was fond of saying that some people carry the spirit of warriors. That this spirit doesn’t change just because one is reborn into the body of a tiger, rat, butterfly, tree frog, or even a little girl. That this spirit will always be looking out from within whatever vessel the Unknown has placed it within. That it will look upon the world as a place where it will never be dominated. Emem could relate to this, as she knew her friends could, too. Maybe that was what attracted them to the path in the first place.
Emem felt a surge of excitement and anticipation. She was eager.
She led the way, then Nka and then Asan. They carried books in their back packs. They carried no lunches. They were silent as they walked down the path, backs straight and necks rigid. They listened, watching the trees and bushes.
They walked for five minutes. This was the farthest they had ever gotten without being attacked. Emem laughed and said, “I guess they only come when there’s food.” But then . . . they came. They came faster and harder than ever. There were over fifteen of them this time. Emem, Nka, and Asan formed a circle, their backs to each other. As they rushed, Emem felt as if her heart would leap from her chest. Her legs felt like warm rubber. She could hear Asan grumbling something beside her, maybe a prayer. Nka was breathing heavily.
Emem’s perception narrowed. She no longer saw her friends. All she saw were the baboons that came at her, long fangs bared, claws out. They looked twice their size, with their brown gold fur aggressively puffed up, their orange eyes wide.
Emem’s foot connected with the face of one baboon. It grunted, knocked back. Her fist connected with another’s chest. She felt a satisfying crunch. At the same time, she punched another in the head, her bracelet jingling loudly.
It started raining. Heavily.
Even as it fell to the side, the baboon she punched managed to snap its mouth dangerously close to her arm. Another sunk its teeth into her left leg. She felt a searing pain in her back as another slashed at her flesh with its claws.
She didn’t make a sound, her eyes, nostrils, and mouth wide, taking in air, smell, and sight. She kicked and punched and scratched and bit. Her mouth filled with fur and baboon skin. She spat it out, saliva and blood dribbling down her mouth. Her short nails dug past fur to skin to fat to muscle. She screamed a warrior’s cry as she stomped hard on the head of the baboon she knocked from her leg. Its head caved in, white-grey brain squishing out. Some got on her sandal, its jelly-like warmth wetting the skin on her foot. She smelled salt, copper, and soil. Every sound was razor sharp. She slapped a baboon away.
Instinct told her to run for her life.
All she heard was her breathing.
Her mouth tasted tangy and bitter.
All she saw was the dirt path. Bushes and trees to her right and left.
Her feet splashed through wet slippery mud.
She fell.
She got up.
She ran.
She slapped at branches, stems and leaves.
She felt no pain.
Not yet.
All three of them emerged from the path onto the school grounds with soiled clothes and ripped school bags. The ground here was firm and dry. The sun was out.
They’d been beaten terribly.
Asan had a scratch on her forehead that bled heavily into her left eye. Nka’s clothes were the filthiest, for she’d rolled on the ground in battle, kicking and grabbing at fur. She still grasped a fistful of bloody flesh and fur in a shaky fist.
Emem was still angry, but she didn’t know why. She was just angry. She took a tissue from her school bag, spit on it, and wiped Asan’s face. They were still inspecting themselves when one of the larger baboons emerged from the path. Emem stiffened, readying herself. Nka and Asan gathered behind her.
“You want more?” Emem said, holding her fists up. Her muddy bracelet jingled, strong and true. Emem froze and then looked at Asan and Nka with wide eyes.
“Did you feel that?” she asked.
Nka was looking at the dirty soles of her sandals, rubbing her forehead. Asan met Emem’s eyes but said nothing.
The baboon stopped and sat on its haunches looking at her. Emem was sure the others were lurking behind it somewhere. She could hear her classmates talking and laughing in the schoolyard not a half mile away. If the three of them made a break for it, they might be able to outrun the baboons. Would the beasts pursue them so close to so many other human beings? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to run.
Emem frowned. The baboon’s fur wasn’t puffed out. It looked so small. And, as it sat there looking at them with its golden eyes, it seemed almost pensive and human. Emem could see a patch of blood on its flank. She hoped she’d been the one to do that.
Slowly, other baboons emerged from the path. Some of them limped, dragged an arm, bled freely. Two of them had to be helped along. The one who sat in the middle of the path continued staring at Emem. It was holding something in its hands. Emem squinted. It was black. Very very black and about the size of a golf ball. The baboon’s hands shook as it held it up.
“I think it wants to give that to you,” Nka said.
Asan laughed. Emem felt the urge to laugh, too. As if she would step up to that huge group of baboons. She wiped her forehead. At the sound of the jingle of her bracelet, the thing in the baboon’s hands pulsated. Just as it had done moments ago. Then DOOM! This time she was sure the ground shook. The deep sound made her teeth vibrate, her skin prickle, and the inside of her nails itch. Behind her, in the school yard, she heard people exclaim with surprise. Suddenly, the day grew cloudy. There was a rumble of thunder in the distance.
“What is that?” Emem whispered.
“Go get it,” Nka said, pushing her forward. “I think we won it.”
“What?” Emem asked looking back at her.
Nka was awed and despite the blood dribbling from a cut on her chin, she was smiling. “We won,” she said. “I . . . I think they were guarding something. They didn’t want to take our food after all, not really. They thought we were trying to take that thing. And we won!”
Emem looked at the waiting baboons. The thing in the baboon’s hands throbbed again, but this time the shockwave it sent was much smaller. Maybe this explained the weird forest and how fast they kept making it to the school.
“Why me?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” Nka said.
“I think she’s right,” Asan said.
“Then you go,” Emem said.
Asan shook her head and stepped back.
Emem turned to the baboons. Adrenaline still ran through her veins, as did her warrior’s blood. She took a step forward. The next step was easier. Soon she was standing amidst twenty baboons. They smelled of sweat and rain. The baboon holding the object stood up tall on its legs. Emem held out her hands. Her bracelet jingled and the object softly pulsated again, this time more gently. The baboon placed it in her cupped hands. It was warm and hummed softly, like something charged. It was light as a feather and gave off the slight scent she’d have associated with alligator pepper. Without further adieu, the baboons left one by one.
Emem, Asan, and Nka stared at the object. It was like holding a piece of midnight. Emem could see twinkling stars and the vast darkness of space inside it. Nka and Asan refused to touch it.
“We ran back up the path when the rain started,” she said. “It only made sense to come right home. We didn’t know it was going to be a full storm, though.”
“Well, thank God you’re alright,” father said.
“You could have been blown away,” I said.
The three of us stared at the object on
the table. It was making the whole kitchen smell like alligator pepper and the windows were fogging up from the moisture it exuded.
“I guess this thing is mine,” my sister said, playing with her bracelet and yawning. She picked up her tea and sipped it. “Whatever it is.”
My little sister looked so exhausted. I wanted to yank off that bracelet and throw it into the ocean. But somehow I knew the rope wouldn’t break.
Asunder
Nothing is new.
Everything has happened before and will happen again. You will be another person in another time in another place like this with this same choice to make. Let me tell you about yourself many lives ago, when you had this choice to make, the same odd and unlikely lesson to learn. This time your name was Nourbese and your dilemma was with your husband, Osaze.
Love was easy for you to give, especially to Osaze, who was the one you were meant to be with. Everyone in your village knew this, so when you two decided to get married at the age of fifteen, no one objected. Both of you were an oddity in your village but not because you were anything so amazing, genius, or unique. Actually both of you were fairly normal children . . . well, except for the exceptional love that existed between you two from the day you met.
You and Osaze met five years before. During the festival of the sun, the day when it rose the highest and hung the longest. It was a wonderful day because there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The air smelled sweet with the scent of budding lilac flowers. The land you lived in does not matter. It was a place very far from here with dry sandy grounds and gnarled wide-growing ancient trees. The people there wore long flowing garments that kept the body cool. And their lives revolved around both the sun and the large variety of flowers that grew year-round in the dry heat.
The day you met Osaze was a day of leisure for the community, and everyone gathered in the village’s common area that sat in the center of the expansive croplands. The food people feasted on would be foreign to you now. Flowers of all shapes and sizes and textures. But not the flowers you know. These flowers were like meat to a leopard, like the hearty soups, sandwiches, stews, and roasts you like to eat. These flowers were their sustenance.
There was singing and dancing. There were friends and family who were finally able to talk leisurely and catch up on things. You had come with your parents and siblings, two younger brothers and an older sister. Your parents had brought a large mat and you and your sister were sent to buy some food that you would eat before the sun reached its highest point and the dancing began.
Somehow, in the crowds, you were separated from your sister. At the age of ten, you had a bad sense of direction. You tended to get carried away with your surroundings, your attention taken by the sweet, sour, and salty smell of roasting, boiling, and frying flower petals. All the sweeping colors of people’s clothes, the blue sky, the soft sting of the sandy breeze. The sound of people talking, bees working, the click of grasshoppers, the zip of humming birds. You were so overwhelmed by it all, that you lost sight of your sister, who always walked with purpose and speed.
You were looking up at a large blue wildflower that was being visited by several ruby-red hummingbirds. Behind you, the festival crowds were coming and going. That was when you realized that you’d forgotten to keep an eye on your sister. You gasped, realizing that you were lost. You looked around frantically, nibbling at your nails. But all you saw were unfamiliar people. You stepped away from the large blue flower, unsure of which way to go.
Someone tapped you on your shoulder and when you turned, you met smooth brown eyes. His skin was the color of honey dripping down the brown stem of a wall flower. He was of a lighter shade than you were, yet he must have spent much time in the sun because something about him glowed. He held an oily-looking bulbous yellow flower out to you, its stem was long and green and slightly transparent, as if it were full of water. It gave off a sweet tart scent that made you think of lemons and sweet cane candy. He had what looked like a hundred of these same flowers balanced on his head.
“I don’t have any money,” you said, but you couldn’t stop looking at his eyes and the way his hand did not shake as he held the flower out to you.
“But your mother will,” he said. “Where is she?”
“I . . . ”
“You’re lost.”
You frowned and looked away.
“I’m just . . . looking around,” you said.
“No, you’re lost,” he said, shaking his head. “I know lost when I see it.”
“You don’t know anything,” you said. “All you know is what I tell you.”
“My father says there is plenty one can know about someone without them even speaking,” he said. He was still holding the flower out to you. And without a word, though you didn’t know why and you had no money, you took it. You took it and held it to your nose and smiled at him and he smiled back at you. And you two stood there shoulder to shoulder watching the crowds for several wordless minutes in front of that tall blue flower crowded with hummingbirds.
Can ten-year-olds fall into a love deeper than that of a man and a woman of a hundred years? A love deep like a forever blooming flower? Impossible, you say? You say impossible because you don’t know any better, haven’t had the chance to learn. You will.
Back when you were Nourbese and Osaze was in your life, you knew nothing but love. You two spent much time together from that day on. Osaze lived only minutes away from you and every morning, before school, before it was time to garden, before you did your other chores, you’d find each other and sit ear to ear and close your eyes.
It was something no one else of either of your clans was capable of. You two were the first and the last. You swam in each other’s minds, thought out the problems of the world together, built empires in your heads, grew acres of fruit and vegetables in your souls.
The place where you two tended to spend the most time became a garden in itself. All types of flowers grew around the spot next to the garden of white cupped flowers behind Osaze’s house, where you two would sit and travel within your minds. The spot where you both sat became cushioned with green soft moss.
Yours and his parents were bothered and in awe of the love you two had for each other. Thus they left you two alone to do as fate had obviously decided. The day you two were married at the age of fifteen was a quiet day. Few people attended. To most, you and Osaze were married the day you met. The actual traditional ceremony was an afterthought. Your mother didn’t even know why it was necessary.
After that day, however, you two never left each other’s sides. So this day was necessary. It marked the next phase for you and Osaze. You worked in the fields together, went to school together, studied together, lived together, spending half the time with your family and the other half with Osaze’s.
When you were both nineteen, you finally decided that it was time to consummate your marriage. You had not waited on purpose. It was more that you were so intimate, that it never occurred to you. When it did it was like the sky opened up and swallowed you and when it set you back down in the sand, you’d looked at each other and imagined the sky full of fluffy clouds. From that day on, you were never seen farther than two feet from each other. It was around this time that people began to refer to you and Osaze as Osanour and you were fine with this, for you two had begun to feel like you were one.
You thought as one mind, part male, part female, all compatible. Because plants grew well around you, people often sought and paid for your blessing of their crops, for the community was one supported by the land. And your blessings always yielded results.
A house was built for you in the center of the community croplands. Here you resided enjoying the hot sun, dry but fertile land, and each other’s love. You grew so close that even your hair began to knit together. Your closeness attracted your hair like roots to water, especially during the night. And soon, you literally couldn’t move more than two feet from each other, for you were connected by a thick thick rope of coarse hai
r. Your hair was a dark dark brown, his was a sandy brown. And so the rope was like honey and root tea.
When you were thirty years old, you didn’t know what to do when you became pregnant. You had forgotten that you were capable of producing something that was not part of you. You had forgotten that no matter how much you loved Osaze and no matter how much you were called Osanour, that you were still also Nourbese. He had forgotten that, though he wasn’t capable of producing children, you were.
When your body began to change, and you both became aware that you were no longer just you, Osanour, there was unease. Your belly grew so huge that it became difficult for you to press your body against Osaze when you slept, as you had done since you’d got married.
Your space felt invaded by a foreign presence that wasn’t that foreign. It was other. When you pressed your ears together, you still swam within each other’s minds, experiencing thoughts and emotions, but there was now something else. Another voice, one that giggled and clung. One that was full of images neither of you could interpret.
You began to feel you needed space from Osaze. Just a little. A few more feet. Your body grew so hot in the sun, as it expanded. Osaze’s hands grew more eager as your breasts began to swell and your scent changed to something irresistible to him. It badgered him at night and he covered your face with kisses as you slept, his hand on your belly, making you feel too warm.
You began to feel bothered when people called you Osanour. You wanted your name back because you were you, no matter how much you loved Osaze. You were you. You were the one with child. You insisted this but no one listened, so used they were to seeing you and Osaze as one. It seemed that to the community, the child inside you just became a part of Osanour, too. And you didn’t like this either.
You started to cry often for no reason and Osaze could not console you. Osaze understood fully that things were changing and he began to brood. He couldn’t bear that you were unhappy. And his neck constantly hurt because you were always pulling your head away from his as you tried to get more space.
Kabu Kabu Page 22
