by Vamba Sherif
On leaving the graveyard, the sound of his footsteps startled a squirrel along the path. The animal scampered for cover into a bush. Before leaving home, Halay had not decided on a specific destination. It had all happened without planning: his visit to Edward and now to the graveyard. But the real purpose of leaving home was taking shape in his mind now. It was to visit the Poro Secret Society ground. Situated in a clearing, the home of the initiates and of the masked beings was shrouded by tall trees. Halay entered one of the huts where a huge image rested on a tree trunk, its elongated, crocodile-like beak closed, in repose. Huge rings dangled from its ears, and the back of its head was stuffed full with plumes of feathers – it was the mask from his dreams. But the fear that he once associated with the mask was gone now. What remained was a deep reverence verging on wonderment.
He was aware that the ancestors had led him to the one place that symbolised their unity, the Poro sacred ground. He was at peace with himself. The journey home was swift, his heart unburdened of worries, for he had made up his mind. He would avert the war.
2
But first Halay had to exhaust other means before acting on the decision he had made. He was a prudent man, for life had taught him so. He would deliberate on a subject for a long time, and once he had made a decision, he would not waver. He would not waver now. But other options had to be exhausted. That night he went with the elders, including King Mambu, to consult the cleric. The reclusive old man was almost blind, but his insight into things was as accurate as ever, his rosaries hardly ever failing him, such as when the land was confronted by a severe drought and he had prayed and it had rained buckets. He was in his hut, seated cross-legged, counting his rosary, whispering incantations. The heady scent of the burning incense overwhelmed them. Outside, around a bonfire, his students were gathered, reciting words from their sacred book. There were chinks in the walls of the hut, and the pile of leather-bound manuscripts was shrouded in cobwebs. The cleric seemed to be withering away, Halay thought, perhaps due to the burden of age or to the fear of the imminent war. He coughed, his hands trembled and his voice was fragile.
‘The war is inevitable,’ he said.
The elders were silent.
‘But when will it come?’ Mambu asked.
Spreading a sheet of paper with mathematical symbols on it, he closed his eyes, whispering incantations and circling his right hand around his head. Then he brought his index finger down and pointed it at one of the symbols. He seemed not satisfied. He circled his head again and brought his figure down to point at another symbol, his actions seeming not arbitrary but deliberate, compelled by an outside force rather than himself. A weary expression appeared on his face. Halay grew anxious. He repeated the act again, his gaunt face hardening, bewildered.
‘I don’t know. It could happen today or tomorrow. In the eyes of the knower of the skies, God, time is of less importance.’
‘But we have to know the time. We have to prepare,’ Mambu said.
‘Will it happen a year from now?’ another said.
‘It could happen a year from now; it could happen ten, fifty or a hundred years or more from now. It could happen today.’
‘Can it be averted or avoided?’ Halay asked.
‘That I cannot say. It’s not in my power.’
The elders glanced at each other again and went on throwing questions at the cleric, his stubborn reticence unnerving them. Later, when Halay left with the elders, Mambu asked him to accompany him home.
‘How’s my daughter faring?’
‘You raised a good human being, Father-in-law.’
‘How’s my grandchild, namesake of my father?’
‘Salia is my greatest worry. What will happen to him?’
‘Do you know that people whisper that I let you wed my daughter so that you could allow me to take your father’s place?’
‘People always talk.’
‘They say I had a hand in your father’s death. You must have heard. Even after your father’s death, our people are still divided.’
This was true. There were people who still regarded Halay as the rightful person to succeed his father, and they had told him so.
‘Now we are faced with this war,’ Mambu said.
‘If only there was a way to avert it,’ Halay said.
‘We could wait it out,’ Mambu said. ‘Wait until it comes and then confront it. We could prepare for the war.’
‘You mean wait until we are no more?’
‘Listen, Halay. You are like a son to me. I feel your loss.’
‘I don’t think you do.’
‘We shouldn’t be fighting over this.’
‘Not if you see it the way I do.’
‘The oracle could be wrong. The cleric and other diviners could be wrong. The fear could be unfounded. We could wait and see.’
‘What an abomination!’ Halay said. ‘Sometimes I tend to believe that you are not one of us, that your people did indeed arrive later.’
Halay could not take it any more, and he left his father-in-law standing in the dark and headed home. The elders met him as he was about to retire to bed. ‘We heard your exchange with Mambu,’ one of them said, after they had gathered around the fire in Halay’s compound.
‘Clearly he’s not one of us,’ another said.
‘We must put a halt to his foolishness,’ a third said.
‘He was just expressing his worries,’ Halay said.
‘We don’t understand you, Halay.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You gave up so easily. You turn over what was yours, what was ours, to someone who does not deserve it, who questions our way of life. You gave up, and now an incompetent man lords it over us.’
‘We will put a stop to this,’ someone said.
‘Yes, we will. This has to end,’ several said.
‘What are you talking about?’ Halay asked.
‘If you don’t want to act, we will. That’s what we came to tell you tonight. Act soon, put a stop to this man or we will do it.’
With that the elders left. Miatta was preparing for bed when he entered the hut. She noticed his weariness and sat up on the bed.
‘What did the elders want?’
‘They asked me to depose your father.’
‘The world seems to have gone mad. What is happening in this land, Halay? Please, stand with us and be with us through this.’
He didn’t respond but sat beside her and held her hands, playing with her fingers, which were slender but rough from hard work.
‘What are you doing sitting beside an old woman,’ she said.
He smiled and said, ‘I like the old woman.’
‘You like the old woman?’
He nudged her, and she secured her wrappers firmly around her.
‘We are too old for this,’ she said.
‘You mean too young.’
Halay spread his wife out on the mud bed and brought his hand to rest on the mound of hair below her navel. She let out a moan and held him. He began to swim the narrow river of her world, his every stroke strong, determined to get to the other bank with its brown sand, trees and shades. As he drew closer and could almost touch the bank, he quickened his strokes, and when he reached it he let out a cry and fell on the sand, his body trembling in contentment. Nothing in the whole world, not even the predicament of his people, was worth trading for that moment. He wanted to remain lying on that sand, in the shade of those trees forever.
3
The men surrounded the house. The occupant was asleep. For days, the men had prepared for this moment, had played out this scene, and now they were ready to enact it. As instructed they waited for a sign, which came with a long, wailing call of a masked being. In response, the men stormed the house, headed for the main room, grabbed the sleeping form, blindfolded him with a piece of cloth, tied him up, and carried him out of the house, toward the forest, crossing a river and heading to an agreed destination. Taken aback by the sudden intrusion and
the terrible voice of the masked being, Edward called out Halay’s name and the names of all the people he knew in the town. No one answered him. The men raced on, winding their way through the forest, the portentous cry of the masked being hard on their heels. Edward could tell by his captors’ hard breathing that they were climbing a mountain, and then suddenly they set him down. He attempted to get free from his captors’ hold but failed. However much he tried, he could not identify them, for they seemed to be speaking through a medium that transformed their voices into the chirpy notes of birds. His precarious situation as an outsider in a place with strange customs, where for years he thought he belonged, now dawned on him. The thought occurred to him that perhaps he was being held by slave traders with the goal of selling him to a terrible master. A freeman sold back into slavery! It would mean the end of him. He kicked, fought, cursed but to no avail. Unable to fight a force he could not see, let alone comprehend, sure now that his end had come, Edward began to recall snippets of his life in America, where he had pored over books with the intention of sharing that knowledge with these people, learning their ways and becoming one of them. But they had betrayed him.
After what seemed like forever, they set him down.
‘It’s all right, Edward,’ one of them said.
He recognized the voice.
‘Halay!’
He got no response.
‘It’s you, Halay!’
The men were untying him.
‘I thought where you came from men were taught to be men and not whimper at the first sign of danger,’ Halay said.
‘Halay, it’s really you!’
‘You chose to be one of us, Edward.’
‘I thought I was being led into slavery.’
The men laughed. His blindfold was taken off. Edward found himself in a large hut with a burning hearth. On seeing Halay in the light of the fire, he fell into his arms. Halay was amused at Edward’s clumsiness.
‘This is how we introduce people into our world.’
‘But you told me you would teach me your ways.’
‘This is our way, Edward.’
‘What are you going to do with me?’
‘We are going to introduce you to our secrets.’
‘Your secrets?’
‘We now feel that you’ve stayed long enough with us to deserve becoming one of us. We will prepare you to become one of us.’
Edward was silent. Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks. He held out his hand to Halay, who shook it. The men shared palm wine with him to soothe his nerves, and Edward gulped down the drink.
The hut’s interior was decorated with feathers, with raffia and homespun clothes heaped in a corner. There were bags of rice and dried bushmeat piled near the door. Outside, the men were spinning a yarn.
Other huts on the sacred Poro ground were soon crowded with frightened youths who, like Edward, had been abducted from their homes for initiation. The huts were crowded with activity, but when the masked beings made their presence known, a hush fell on the place.
Emerging from the hut, Halay met the head masked being stretched out before the door, as if the ground was its throne, its task to swallow up each initiate, as it were, and give birth to him again, so that the reborn initiates would be prepared to face the world.
‘Child of our king, the chosen one, I see you are here,’ it said, addressing Halay, and Halay answered that he was.
‘Our children are being reborn into men,’ it went on. ‘We might not survive the war that is to come, but we need to go on living until it’s upon us.’
‘We might not survive the war …’ Halay repeated.
‘Unless we find a way to avert it,’ the masked being said.
‘Yes, unless we find a way,’ he said.
‘Remember who you truly are, Halay.’
The masked being then went on to warn the initiates, including Edward, never to reveal what they saw or did in the forest, for the consequences would be severe. Later it retired to its hut, followed by its large retinue. For most of the night Halay explained the initiation procedure to Edward. And when Edward fell asleep, Halay left for town and reached it at dawn. He crept in to lie beside Miatta and fell asleep.
But his sleep was interrupted by the elders.
‘We came to see you, son of our king,’ one of them said.
The sun was yet to rise. Halay came out into the first light of morning, bleary-eyed with sleep, irritated for being interrupted.
‘Follow us,’ one of them said.
They took him beyond the river to a clearing in the forest with a huge tree standing in the middle. Sunlight fell around the tree as though it was an island. Halay thought that he was being brought there to meet the head masked being who perhaps carried a message of the greatest importance for him.
‘Look on the other side of the tree,’ one of them said.
Halay approached the tree with trepidation. The sight drew a cry from him. King Mambu was tied up like a sack of kola nuts, over and over again, his hands clasped behind his back, his face beaten up, and the soles of his feet lacerated by what must have been harvesting knives. They had tortured him, for he could see that one of his ears was missing, so were his toes and his fingers.
Halay rushed to his father-in-law and began to untie his corpse, while the elders looked on, none interrupting him.
‘We told you we would do it for you,’ one of them said.
‘You are our king now,’ another said.
‘You killed him.’
‘He was never the right ruler. He was a betrayer of everything we held sacred. He had to die for the sake of the land.’
‘You killed an innocent man.’
‘Innocent? He was attracting strangers to our land; he was in league with the English and the Liberians. He betrayed us.’
‘You hated him for speaking his mind.’
‘If you think we acted alone, then you are wrong. Consult the masked beings and you will see. We didn’t want to involve you because you would have stopped us. It had to be done. You are now our king.’
‘I don’t want to be a king.’
‘You have no choice in this.’
Halay was thinking about Miatta and her reaction to her father’s death. The two were close. For her sake as much as his own, he decided not to tell her about this death until he had done what was necessary to rid the land of this perpetual fear of war, a fear that had transformed wise men into mad ones. If it went on like this any longer, the fear of war would plunge the land into chaos. He had to act. He gazed at the once handsome face, upon which a constant smile of mirth played. What remained of the face were a broken nose, bloodshot eyes and bulgy cheeks.
When he turned around to take in his surroundings he realized he was alone. The men were gone.
He returned home after burying his father-in-law. The streets were deserted, which he had expected, for the masked beings’ presence always left silence and dread in their wake. On arriving home, he found no one, which was unusual. Miatta, who hardly left the compound but delegated most chores outside of home to her domestics, was also absent. Halay left in search of his household and found them and most townspeople scattered around the thatched building that served as the town hall.
There were visitors from the distant city of Monrovia. Because such visits were infrequent, the people from both Old Town and New Town had gathered to listen to them. The men were all armed to the teeth. The leader, a young man who tried to conceal his diffidence by looking stern, spoke without an interpreter. This meant he was from those parts, Halay thought. His men flanked him on both sides, their rifles clutched to their chests.
‘We’ve come in peace,’ he said.
‘But then why the rifles?’ Halay asked.
‘I belong to this place,’ the man said. ‘My mother is from here. My parents in Monrovia sent me to school to learn and return to help you.’
He sounded sincere. But Halay remained cautious. The men had rifles and they were, like their
commander, trained and educated by the Liberians on the coast who led different lives.
‘Your action proves otherwise,’ Halay said.
The young commander looked Halay squarely in the eyes.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘It is he who is asking the questions now,’ one of the elders remarked, and the hall burst into laughter. The young militia man dabbed his face with a handkerchief, upset by the crowd’s reaction.
‘Tell me what you mean.’
‘If you don’t know what I mean, then return to where you came from. We don’t want people with rifles in our town,’ Halay said.
Another peal of laughter followed. The young man turned to his armed men, who pointed their rifles at the crowd, and suddenly before anyone could say anything, shots were fired.
The crowd scattered. People were stumbling into each other as they left the hall, which resulted in a stampede. Again, Halay saw what fear could do to men. He sat in the dust, outside the hall, made despondent by the chaos and cries, numbed and paralysed by it all.
The young militia man began to scold his men.
‘It was a mistake, believe me. I did not order this,’ he said.
No one was listening. The young man turned to Halay. ‘This was unintended. I came to help you people and to involve you in the country of Liberia. I am sorry. I am sorry,’ he said, and went on pleading.
‘But the damage has been done,’ Halay said.
The young commander left with his men, promising to mete out justice to those who had opened fire. No one had died, but several had been wounded. It was not a good beginning.
A few days later, the town crier appeared.
‘We’d all seen the signs,’ he said. ‘War is now inevitable.’
Halay, who had been dining outside the hut, in the centre of the compound, lost his appetite. ‘Are you going hungry because of that man,’ Miatta said. He did not respond but washed his hands.
