“I have a feeling the snares will hold something more than bones this time,” Okosene temporized. “At any rate, if there are no guinea-fowl to be had, I still have three cowries. That should be enough to buy some alewe-sweets for you to suck on.”
Instantly mollified, Ajema smiled.
“Good,” she said. “Very good. I’ll be waiting at our house. But remember ... be home with some food before sundown – or else.”
“Uh huh,” Okosene muttered absently.
He turned and trotted along the road out of Nyamem, the skin on his back twitching at the memory of old beatings, and his ears tingling at half-heard snatches of conversation. Most of it was about himself and his outsized spouse ... a topic of great entertainment in a town otherwise devoid of diversion.
OKOSENE TRUDGED HALF-heartedly through the bush outside Nyamem. Years ago, he might have muttered curses at the memory of the day he had paid the bride-price Ajema’s father had demanded: one chicken. But with the weight of the law on his wife’s side, Okosene had resigned himself to what had become his principal function in life: feeding Ajema.
Many were the times Okosene wished he could be as free as the guinea-fowl that always seemed to elude his snares. Pushing his way through thick, low-hanging foliage bedizened with iridescent blooms, the dan-Zamfara quickly found that his first two snares were, as usual, empty. Briefly, he considered forgetting about the third, which was located a fair distance farther in the bush.
Then he remembered his three cowries, which he hoped to invest in a gourd of banana-beer. Without a guinea-fowl, he would be forced to hold to his earlier promise to purchase the sticky alewe-sweets – which he loathed – for his wife.
He sighed. It would be well worth hacking through the undergrowth to the third snare, if only Yaa Nguyu, the Goddess of Luck, would for once heed the countless prayers he had directed toward ears that had so far remained divinely deaf.
Okosene was not far from his destination when he heard a high, distinctive cackle wending through the canopy of the treetops. His heart leaped, for the sound was the call of a guinea-fowl! As though of their own accord, his feet swiftly carried him through the bush. He needed to reach the snare before some marauding leopard robbed him of his rightful prey.
Bursting through the last of the clinging vegetation, Okosene anxiously looked upward from the place where he had set his simple mechanism. His questing gaze was rewarded by the sight of a flutter of black wings mottled with tiny white spots; a collar of long plumes hanging down from the neck, and a naked, bluish head from which plaintive cries echoed among the trees.
Okosene Alakun danced joyously. Here it was at last: a fine, fat guinea-fowl big enough to satisfy even Ajema’s voracious appetite. That he would in all likelihood not even get to suck marrow from the bones of his catch did not bother Okosene at all. Visions of the gourd of banana-beer his three cowries would buy lingered in the dan-Zamfaru’s head as he clambered up the gawasa-tree to claim his prey.
Cautiously, he crept along the limb over which the snare-rope had been looped. Clinging precariously to his high perch, Okosene removed his knife from its sheath, and positioned himself to slash the throat of the dangling bird – which had mercifully ceased its ear-splitting squawks.
In his fertile imagination, Okosene was stalking a leopard, not a miserable snared guinea-fowl. How the people of Nyamem would envy the fine spotted pelt he would bring back ...
Just as Okosene raised his knife for the death-slash, the guinea-fowl cocked its head upward and spoke:
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Okosene nearly fell out of the tree. He shook his head, blinked several times, then goggled his eyes back down at the guinea-fowl. Its bright bird-eyes stared back up at him. Intelligence, rather than the reflection of the sun, put the gleam in the guinea-fowl’s gaze.
Okosene’s grip tightened his grip on the tree-limb. For he knew now that he had snared a kungurus-kansusu – a spirit that had taken fleshly form. Why the kungurus-kansusu had chosen such a lowly shape as its guise, he could not know ... no more than he knew what he should do next.
As though reading the dan-Zamfaru’s thoughts, the bird offered a suggestion.
“If you set me free, Okosene Alakun, I will give you anything in this world you might like. Be it high office, wealth, learning ... whatever you want can be yours. But you may make no more than four requests, for I am a kungurus-kansusu of only minor standing. And, of course, your requests must be made in my presence. I am a kungurus-kansusu, not a mind-reader.”
Okosene’s mind whirled in confusion.
“H-how do you know my name?” he stammered. “Why is it that, if you possess the power to give me anything I want, you don’t have the power to free yourself from my snare? How do I know you won’t just fly away if I set you free?”
“Your wishes are that I answer those questions? Very well ...”
“Wait!” Okosene yelped.
Events were moving much too quickly for him. Even his daydreams had not prepared him for an opportunity such as this.
“Those are not my wishes,” he said. “Please ... give me time to think.”
“Better not take too long,” the guinea-fowl said. “The leopard climbing up this tree may not be inclined to wait for you to make up your mind.”
Okosene jerked his head downward in sudden consternation. Just as the kungurus-kansusu said, lithe, yellow-and-black death was creeping silently up the bole of the tree. Feline muscles bunched under spotted hide. Now that the leopard knew it had been seen, it abandoned stealth and snarled with appalling ferocity.
Even as the great cat leaped the last few yards toward Okosene, the dan-Zamfara shrieked: “I wish this leopard were gone from here!”
And, before Okosene’s disbelieving eyes, the springing cat vanished, leaving behind only a vagrant puff of breeze against his face. Looking again to his snare, Okosene found the bird still dangling impatiently by its legs, eyes glaring up at him over a hooked beak.
“That was your first wish,” the kungurus-kansusu pointed out. “You have three more left. But you are not getting any of them until you cut me free!”
Okosene, who had not made a major decision since the day he had delivered that fateful chicken to Ajema’s father, made a rapid one now. With one hand, he pulled the guinea-fowl up to his branch. After a deft slash to the rope that circled its legs, the kungurus-kansusu stood unbound.
The bird’s wings spread. Okosene’s heart sank. Then the guinea-fowl folded its pinions back against its sides, settled down on the branch, and waited. Thoughtfully, Okosene straddle the thick limb. For several minutes they sat like that, man and bird, each waiting for the other to speak.
The guinea-fowl was first to give in.
“Well for Legba’s sake, man, what do you want me to give you?”
Okosene’s face firmed into a rare expression of decisiveness.
“I have a wife named Ajema,” he began.
The bird emitted a sound very much like a human snicker.
“I know,” it said. “What about her?”
“I want you to make her beautiful!” Okosene blurted.
More avian laughter.
“It is done. Return to this place when you are ready for your other wishes – which, may I remind you, number only two now. I will not leave this spot until all your wishes are done.”
But Okosene Alakun was no longer listening to the bird. By the time the kungurus-kansusu had reached mid-sentence, Okosene was already halfway down the tree. By the word “done,” he was crashing his way through the bush toward Nyamem.
OKOSENE ARRIVED AT his ramshackle abode just as sunset lit a crimson pyre in the western sky. Hands trembling in eagerness, he pushed aside the tattered screen of thatch that served as a door, and entered. The interior of the dwelling was lit only by a single, sputtering torch of rushes. But the sight revealed by the dim illumination still left Okosene gape-mouthed in astonishment.
Ajema stood in the mid
dle of the hovel, clutching her zama-cloth wrap around her like the folds of a collapsed tent. The gele had fallen from her head, uncovering hair plaited in delicate rows across her scalp. Her face was a narrow, black oval, in which the Zamfaru face-marks were like jewels set subcutaneously by a master lapidary.
A smile flashed white in the splendor of her countenance. And a voice devoid of stridence or harshness spoke to him.
“This cloth grows heavy, Okosene,” the vision’s voice said. “I am afraid I cannot hold it up any longer ...”
Her hands opened, and the garment slipped to the floor. Okosene’s eyes devoured smooth, ebony contours hitherto buried beneath heaps of excess flesh.
Again, Ajema smiled.
“Will you do nothing but stand there, Okosene?” she asked.
Okosene rushed toward his wife so rapidly that the breeze of his passing whipped out the flame of the torch that was the dwelling’s only source of illumination. Ajema laughed girlishly as their bodies met in a soft collision in the dark. Soon, the hovel was filled with other, more passionate sounds ...
THE NEXT MORNING, OKOSENE gazed down at the sleeping form of Ajema. His eyes and hands verified that the previous night had been neither dream nor hallucination. Ajema stirred at his touch, but did not awaken. Okosene decided to allow her to sleep. She needed it.
Remembering the three cowries hidden somewhere amid his discarded clothing, Okosene reflected happily that hall he need do now was to ask the kungurus-kansusu to present him with many times that amount. He could wish for enough cowries to purchase the entire kingdom of Zamfara – plus a few neighboring ones for good measure.
Yes ... his third wish would be for wealth. And what of the fourth, and final, one? Would he ask for wisdom? Physical strength? Skill at warri? The possibilities were limitless. The wonder, however, lay in their very existence rather than their infinitude.
Old habits do not die in a day. Okosene rose and began to climb into his ragged garments. He would go to the guje, the customary gathering-place of Nyamem’s ne’er-do-wells, where thin, soupy fura would be sipped and off-color jokes told and warri played until noon. Then he would return to his home and discuss with Ajema what his final wish would be.
And, of course, he would say nothing to his cronies of the kungurus-kansusu, lest they attempt to take advantage of his good fortune.
Just before departing, Okosene looked again upon Ajema. The thin sleeping-cloth had fallen to her hips, revealing the breath-taking symmetry of her slim waist and high, pointed breasts. Okosene’s blood ran hot. But he controlled his amorous urges, as he felt somewhat depleted from the night before.
Face split in a wide grin, Okosene ventured out into the fierce morning sun. And he thanked the great god Yaa Nguyu for placing the magic guinea-fowl in his snare.
WHEN OKOSENE ALAKUN returned from the guje, however, his buoyant spirits took a sudden plummet. People were clustered outside his hovel ... more people than had been there since his last major argument with Ajema – or the Ajema-that-was. This crowd, however, was not the usual collection of over-curious neighbors. Okosene’s compeers did not wear the iron-studded harness of soldiers, or the crimson cloaks that marked the office of the zagi – the retainers of Shahu Nwankwo, who was the obufin, or chieftain, of Nyamem.
In the overall hierarchy of Zamfaru, the stature of the obufin of a small town like Nyamem was, at best, insignificant. Nonetheless, Nwankwo was the most powerful man in Nyamem. Thus, Okosene’s knees trembled as he approached his dwelling.
From inside, he could hear low murmurings, punctuated by an occasional burst of feminine laughter. There were smiles of amusement on the faces of the people outside as well.
It was only when he began working his way past the zagi and soldiers that Okosene noticed that one of the red-cloaked retainers carried a chicken in his arms. Given the highly agitated state of Okosene’s mind at that moment, perhaps his overlooking of the import of that chicken was forgivable.
The flash of a spear-point beneath his nose prevented Okosene from thrusting the entrance-screen aside.
“Not so fast, Alakun,” a soldier barked. “Shahu Nwankwo is still ... uh ... talking with your wife.”
“Talking?” Okosene repeated numbly. “What do you mean?”
At that tense moment, the obufin burst from the shabby dwelling and almost tripped over the soldier who had threatened Okosene. Nwankwo was a middle-aged man of more than medium height, with a burly build that had only recently began to surrender to the ravages of rich living.
Normally, Nwankwo’s mien was dour and imposing. But now, his cylindrical headgear sat slightly askew. The yellow-and-white patterned aba that swathed his body was disarranged. And his round, dark face was nearly bisected by a wide, white grin. At the sight of Okosene, the chieftain’s grin widened even further, and he gestured for the soldier to lower his spear.
“So, Alakun, you’re a sly one after all!” Nwankwo cried heartily. “Kwaku Anansi himself couldn’t have pulled off a neater trick. When my spies told me about it, I didn’t believe it possible, so I had to come and see for myself.
“Putting aside Big Ajema and taking up with a pretty young one, indeed! Although why you would choose to name this one ‘Ajema’ as well is beyond me. But that doesn’t matter. I’m taking her off your hands.”
“You ... can’t,” Okosene managed to gasp.
Nwankwo’s smile faded.
“You know the law, Alakun,” the obufin snapped. “A chieftain can claim the wives of any citizen, as long as the price that was paid for the man’s first wife is matched. You paid one chicken for the old Ajema – not that she was worth even that much. Here’s the chicken. Your new Ajema is now mine.”
Okosene opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
“Consent,” Okosene finally choked out. “The wife in question must give her consent ...”
Nwankwo let out a derisive bray of a laugh. Then he snapped his fingers two times. Instantly, Ajema emerged from the doorway. Soldiers, zagi and onlookers alike gasped at the sight of her beauty. She had torn off a section of her old garment and wrapped it around a body that made even such a rag look like the gown of a goddess.
“Ajema!” Okosene wailed. “You want to go with him? He has so many other wives that you’d be little better than a concubine.”
“Well, Okosene, Shahu Nwankwo is the obufin,” Ajema said, her gaze lowered demurely. “And even though he does have forty-seven other wives, he can provide for me better than you ever could. At least I would never have to take him to court.”
“Well-said, woman,” Nwankwo bellowed. “You’ll make a fine companion; I can see that already. All those other wives are only political obligations to village sub-chiefs anyway. Let’s go.”
As Nwankwo wrapped a chieftainly arm around Ajema’s bare shoulders, Okosene suddenly lost the self-control the events of his life had forced him to cultivate. Not only was he angry at the obufin; he was angry at himself because he had not told Ajema everything about the kungurus-kansusu.
Unfortunately for him, his temporary madness could not have struck at a worse time. As he lunged wildly at Nwankwo, the soldier who had threatened him earlier lashed out with his spear-butt, sending Okosene sprawling limply in the dust.
Half-stunned, jaw aching abominably, Okosene could only dimly hear the voice of Nwankwo.
“Assaulting your obufin, are you? I ought to have you whipped, Alakun. Instead, I will simply levy a fine: one chicken!”
Then Okosene sank miserably into unconsciousness amid the loud guffaws of Nwankwo, the amused chuckles of the onlookers, the tinkling laughter of Ajema, and the querulous squawking of the chicken.
IT WAS A DIFFERENT Okosene Alakun that confronted the kungurus-kansusu for the second time. His face was set in grim lines, and the apathetic vagueness in his eyes had been replaced by a cold determination. He ignored the throbbing pain in his swollen jaw as he spoke.
“Listen to me, bird,” he growled.
The
guinea-fowl was unperturbed.
“I assume you have a third wish, Okosene Alakun?”
He did ...
NIGHT HAD FALLEN. Nwankwo’s compound lay serene under the stars. In the House of Pleasuring, where the obufin spent the night with the wife (or wives) of his choice, Nwankwo lay languidly entwined with Ajema. Though sated by their previous amatory activity, they found that they still had sufficient energy to touch each other in a manner that was both soothing and seductive.
“I will give you the rank of fourth senior wife,” Nwankwo murmured. “I would rank you higher, but the first three are daughters of the obufins of important towns. If I put them aside too soon, I would have a war on my hands. And the King of Zamfaru wouldn’t take kindly to that ...”
Ajema silenced Nwankwo’s political discourse with a kiss. The obufin enjoyed the pressure of her succulent mouth against his. Then he noticed that her lips were suddenly becoming smaller and thinner. The teeth that had been gently nipping his lower lip sharpened into fangs. The soft arms clasped around his neck became thin and hairy. Nwankwo’s eyes flew open – and he let out a hoarse cry of horror and consternation.
For, in the dim light of his night-torch, he saw that it was no longer a woman who shared his bed. Instead, perched on his bare and sweaty chest was a very large, very hairy monkey!
Then a note of pain overrode the horror in Nwankwo’s cry as the monkey’s teeth closed on his lip and nearly tore it off. The obufin’s scream alerted the soldiers who guarded the House of Pleasuring. With weapons drawn, they rushed inside, ready to deal death to what they were certain was an assassin.
But all they saw was the tail and hindquarters of a monkey rapidly disappearing through the window of the bedchamber. Nwankwo was sitting naked on his bed, his hands clutched to the bottom of his face. Blood dripped from his chin to the silk-cotton coverlet.
Nyumbani Tales Page 13
