As soon as the snake came out, it bit Meki on the side of the head. The snake didn’t even bother running, it just curled itself up and retracted into a bundle, still hissing. It was fat, having gone into the hole and eaten mother rat mole and her little ones and claimed the hole as its new abode for the foreseeable future, while it digested its meal. We had come and disturbed its tranquillity and Meki had suffered the consequences.
Meki stopped barking and began making faint whimpering noises—he was crying while looking dazed. He staggered, losing his balance, as his hind legs had gone wobbly, like a car that had lost its passenger side wheel. Augustine and I were stunned, frightened to the core. The snake adjusted its head, which had two horns, and stared at us in a relaxed and suspicious way. I could see it rolling its eyes; it flicked its tongue and opened its mouth, as if it was saying something, probably telling us to back off. I couldn’t run, walk or even scream. Augustine looked so shocked you would have thought the snake had bitten him. After what seemed a good few minutes, we shouted in unison, ‘Meki!’
He was nowhere to be seen. We shouted and shouted and our shouting reached the humble abode of Mola Maimbe, a village hunter and a part time juju man. He knew something was amiss, as he brought his spear and a machete. The rhinoceros viper just lay there, looking at us, daring us to make a move. Mola Maimbe speared the viper. The spear went through its skin and into the ground, pinning the viper on one spot; it spun around but it was stuck. Then using the back of his machete, he whacked the viper on its head until he was satisfied it was dead. Maimbe then gathered a few palm leaves and using village craftsmanship, produced a small basket, and loaded the snake into it and carried it on his shoulder. He later told us, when preparing it for pepper soup, what he found in the snake’s stomach—the viper had beaten us to the rat mole.
We had escaped from the jaws of death and I mean this literally as everyone who had been bitten by a snake in the village had died. When I got home, I found Meki under my bed. He was dying. I called his name but he could only muster enough energy to shake his tail. We do not have enough hospitals to cater for humans, let alone dogs. My dog was dying in front of me. I sat down on the huge stone outside my mother’s kitchen, which had been deposited there by the volcanic eruption of Mount Cameroon in 1922, and cried. I was scared of touching Meki, in case I got poisoned, so I could not soothe his pain. If only I was a juju man. The only option I had was to contact Pa Takesh. I had not spoken to him since he had killed my goat and I hated him but now he was the only one who could save Meki.
As I was about to make my way to Pa Takesh’s house, I saw another villager called Tapotto, (I later heard he died of a lung disease because of afforforh, the Cameroonian equivalent of homemade vodka, abuse, or maybe it was witchcraft.) Tapotto was an expert in traditional medicine and I had grown to love and respect Tapotto, he was close friends with my sister Ndinge and had helped lay down the foundations of her house in my mother’s compound. I told Tapotto what had happened and gave him a detailed description of the snake. Tapotto paused when I said it had a soft underbelly and he asked, ‘How you know it had a soft belly?’ I told him whilst it was still in the hole, Augustine and I had been poking it. He screamed, ‘Oh my God, child, have you lost your senses? Have you lost your head? Were you trying to kill yourself?’
Shaking his head, puzzled, looking at me he walked past the kitchen and disappeared to the back of the compound, towards the gate where Pa Takesh had killed Evenya’a Mboli. After what seemed like an age, Tapotto came back with two peelings of bark from a tree in his hands. He checked Meki’s head, which was getting bigger and bigger, his eyes full of mucous. Meki was crying and in excruciating pain and I was crying with him. Tapotto reassured me that if the poison had not reached Meki’s heart, he could save him. He loosely tied the two peelings round Meki’s neck and promised to come back in a couple of days to check on him. I had resigned myself to the fact that it was only a matter of time before Meki kicked the bucket.
That evening, Tapotto came to the house and told my mother I had been putting my hands inside a hole that housed a rhinoceros viper. I was sat on the ewongo and my mother leapt up and gave me a slap. She said, ‘If you want to kill yourself, wait until I am gone, you child of ill omen.’
I could not sleep as Meki’s grunts kept me awake. The whole compound was sad, as everyone loved Meki. The next day Meki’s head swelled more. I did not go to college, I counted the days until Tapotto came back and I prayed for Meki not to die. To convince my mother I was going to school, I put on my uniform in the morning and walked up to my father’s, waited an hour and returned home as by then my mother would have left for work. On the third day, Tapotto came to visit Meki as promised.
The dog could not move—his head was humongous whilst the rest of his body shrivelled like an Ethiopian mushroom. Meki was dying. We dragged Meki gently from under the bed and brought him onto the veranda. Tapotto came prepared and using sharp razors, he cut open Meki’s jaws and neck. Thick green liquid poured out with each cut. Tapotto collected the concoction dripping out of Meki’s skin onto a coco leaf that he had shaped into a cup. Tapotto told me just a drop of that concoction in the water supply could kill the whole village. Meki lay still, helpless and weak. The contents collected in the leaf were carried by Tapotto and poured into our latrine. Meki looked like a monster in a horror movie; he looked horrid.
Using traditional techniques, Tapotto managed to save my dog’s life—I was forever in his debt. Within a few days, Meki had made a total recovery. We played together, we went hunting together but he never placed his head into another hole.
*
Our second client pulled out of the business, we had insisted the smallest amount was five thousand dollars, they could not afford it, or maybe they’d smelt foul play.
Chapter 7
At this time I was torn between the two women in my life—I liked Anna but I loved Lola, the beautiful one. Anna wanted me to stay in Russia with her and start a family whilst Lola was fascinated with the notion of visiting the continent of Africa with me. Her favourite animal was the wildebeest and she asked if I had come across any. She pictured Africa as this large land where animals roamed everywhere.
*
I saw crocodiles every Sunday in the Ndian River as we crossed the Bulu bridge to attend mass at the Catholic church. Crossing that bridge was treacherous, it was dreadful, planks had fallen off it in places and dangled down. If we had had health and safety inspectors, they would have closed that bridge in an instant. We dreaded Sundays.
My mother sent me to live with my sister because she believed that her accident was brought on by the villagers who wanted to kill her and, since they couldn’t get her, they would turn their attention on me. In Mundemba, we kept an alligator just behind the kitchen. It was huge and we had its mouth tied permanently but one afternoon the alligator stretched its mouth muscles and all the ropes came off. This frightened my nephew so much that he said his first words. That afternoon, my sister’s husband killed the alligator and we had pepper soup that day (pepper soup is a delicacy, usually eaten when the weather is cold, that is simple to cook and relies upon pepper, salt, onions, Maggi cubes for seasoning, and whatever meat you choose to add).
One of my rites of passage as a boy was to learn how to set traps, my favourite being what we called fence traps. It is very simple: using sticks leaves and twigs, you construct an average height fence, however you leave little gaps in the fence for animals to squeeze through. The problem is these gaps have snares or traps—any slight movement will trigger the snare and the animal will be caught. On my way I passed an old man called Lorkhorlorkor. It was an ill omen for Lorkhorlorkor was known in the village as a witchcraft practitioner and was feared by all, young and old alike; he was the last person you would want to come across. In fact, when he died, it is rumoured that he had his head separated and buried far away from his body; this only added to his mysticism. Our village felt like a ghost town after six o’clock for ther
e were rumours that Lorkhorlorkor’s decapitated body had been seen sitting outside his house.
I had been checking my trap and for some time but nothing had happened; I thought this afternoon was not going to be any different but seeing Lorkhorlorkor and the way he’d looked at me (even when Lorkhorlorkor was not looking in your direction, you still felt his gaze) increased my apprehension.
The first and second traps were as I had seen them previously, however, the third trap looked like it had been disturbed. I noticed the grass had been flattened then I saw the tail end of a snake that I recognised straight away as a green mamba. We grew up surrounded by tales of people being bitten by snakes who never made it to the hospital, so we were wary of snakes and extremely frightened of mambas. Mola Maimbe, a local hunter, had told us that mambas commuted in pairs, male and female.
There was a tree that had fallen and become hollow with age, and every afternoon two black mambas would come out and enjoy the sun. I had seen them quite a few times and was no longer frightened of them. In fact, I was certain by now the two snakes recognised me; we made eye contact every time I walked past that tree and I was more frightened if I didn’t see the snakes. We had developed some sort of mutual admiration and respect, they knew I meant them no harm and they reciprocated. I was just a farm boy and the two mambas had become my guardians. Mola Maimbe had also told us that if you noticed a mamba in your trap, you should walk slowly backwards, get some stones and sticks and make some loud noise to scare the mate who might be lurking nearby. So I slowly retreated, got a few stones and a long stick and followed the routine as I was told.
I then gathered some courage and approached the snake. In order to ensure it was dead, we had been told to hit on the head with force. I lifted the stick and brought it down towards the snake’s head with all the force I could muster. However, in the process of lifting and bringing down the stick, an mbetetu (beetle) sprayed its pepper spray into my eyes. It hurt like hellfire. Maybe Lorkhorlorkor had placed a curse on me for I completely missed the snake’s head, cutting the snare and unleashing one pissed-off green mamba. If you think Usain Bolt is fast, you should have seen me that day. My legs never touched the ground, and somehow, I managed to invoke a flying juju (spell) that ensured I flew all the way to my grandfather’s compound without touching the ground.
*
If it is true what they say about one in two hundred men being direct descendants of Genghis Khan, then Batu and his friend Arban had that genetic link. Their stature was imposing; they both had clean-shaven heads like monks and they both looked a bit Mongolian with extremely strong palms and handshakes. It all made sense when Arban told us that as a teenager he had spent time in Siberia digging snow and making illegal homemade vodka known as ‘Samagon’.
During winter, he told us, the price goes up and he and his brother capitalised on it. This was how they had made their fortunes before moving to Stavropol where they ran a successful liquor store. They also had a small summer business importing watermelons from Uzbekistan. (Anthony was doing the same importing of watermelons into Sochi from Dagestan, however, his watermelons were drained and filled with a certain white powder.)
Batu, Arban and some unknown companions came to the hostel around 8 p.m. in a convoy of cars. Their companions never spoke a single word; they wore black trousers and black leather jackets and carried man-bags. Alphonse, the President and I drove with Arban and Batu for a couple of hours; we left civilisation behind us completely. By the time we got to our destination it was total darkness. Arban and Batu were excited at the prospect of doubling their money after just three days, and they had brought with them an initial capital of five thousand dollars with a promissory note that if the business were successful, they would bring fifty thousand dollars for a one-off transaction.
I was getting really scared—the only comparable fear had been seeing that green mamba and now here I was in the middle of nowhere, with people who looked like killers. They had strong astute faces, which when they spoke, remained straight—there was no betrayal of emotions.
I was far away from my village, far away from the meandering slopes of Small Soppo. No longer surrounded by the plantains behind my mother’s house. I could no longer go and steal pears from Mola Ngombis farm; I could not just go and hide in the strawberry fields behind the kitchen; I could not just disappear for hours eating sugarcane and pineapple at Mola Mongambe’s farm. My village only existed in dreams, I was playing the role of an innocent translator trying to scam five thousand dollars from people who could kill us and abandon our corpses in the middle of a forest and no one would have been any the wiser.
We had left the main road, crossed little streams and climbed a few hills before arriving in the middle of a large compound. The sky was in perfect darkness. We came across a small hut with a single light bulb above the door with lots of moths banging their heads on it in some sort of dazed craze. Arban indicated to me that it was the toilet.
From outside, the house was baronial. Though built from wood, it was humongous and elevated from the ground by huge pillars. Two German Shepherd dogs greeted us on chains barking as if they had sensed our intention. Above the entrance was an imposing skull of a stag; Arban later told us he was a seasoned hunter and proudly showed us his plethora of guns and ammunition, which included an elephant rifle. I had seen one of those when I attended a funeral of my mother’s uncle. My mother had explained to me that it was customary to fire a gun to shoo the bad spirits away.
I whispered to Alphonse, ‘Do you think it’s a clever idea us attempting to take money from these people?’
But Alphonse and The President were adamant saying, ‘We’re here now, we must finish what we started.’
Inside, the house was well appointed with fine silk curtains and beautiful rugs. Arban gave us a tour of the house: skulls of various animal covered the walls, there was a huge piano and above the television was an imposing picture of Mikhail Gorbachev, which Arban pointed to and said, ‘One of our own.’
The men in black jackets waited outside.
I was scared but not terribly afraid. I was already dead, my fathers’ relatives in Cameroon had killed me, I was decapitated, I was a headless chicken and my fate had been decided. I had no control over my life: whatever direction the wind blew, that was where I went. We settled in the dining room—they had killed and roasted a whole lamb and there was baked bread directly from the oven as well as salted fish, beer and vodka but like all good businessmen, we postponed the merriment until we had finished the business at hand.
One of the guys in black jackets was summoned into the house and given some instructions; he disappeared and came back after a few minutes with a bag that was handed to Arban. I looked across at Batu and it looked like he had developed some doubts. Arban opened the bag and brought out a brown envelope that contained five thousand dollars. Alphonse counted the money just to confirm and reassure them that we knew what we were doing. My heart was beating fast; I had never seen that amount of money before. As Alphonse counted, Batu reached into the bag and placed a hand gun onto the table. Without betraying or moving any muscle on his face he said, ‘If you lie to us, we will kill you.’ I translated the dire warning to Alphonse and The President but they just laughed and dismissed it saying, ‘Never.’
I was translating very well but my mouth and throat were getting dry.
As if drawn by the intense silence and strain on our faces, a moth fluttered towards us. I suddenly wished I had wings like that moth so I could fly away. A small drama began to unfold between Batu and the moth—every time the moth flew towards him, he waved the back of his hand in an attempt to kill it but the winged intruder avoided the danger until it landed on the ceiling, sealing its fate. Its fluttering about was being monitored by a wall gecko, as soon as it landed the gecko swallowed the moth whole with a fast launch of its tongue. Batu smiled and Arban laughed out loud while The President concentrated on building the bundle of cash, mixing their five thousand dollars with our
fake dollars.
*
I remember the afternoon so very well, it was a Saturday and Morake, the second son of my adopted Sister Monjowa and I had gone fishing in the small springs of Mosre. All the villagers have at one time or another fished in Mosre water and no matter how hot the weather was, the water remained cold.
Morake and I had been fishing for tadpoles and crabs—the waters were so serene and cold that afternoon, it seemed as though it had impacted on the metabolisms of the creatures. It was like we’d hit the jackpot as every stone we lifted had a small crab underneath for which that day was marked; they were destined for the charcoal. The tadpoles were easy to catch and most times we just used our hands. We caught bucket loads that day. There were no happier times in my life than spending them in the open with Morake. I love Morake, we are connected spiritually. Despite the things that unfolded, that cord which attaches Morake and I has never been severed. In fact, when I came to Wales Morake wrote me a personal letter, the content of which made me cry and still does.
We were excited as we walked past my mother’s house up the road to my father’s compound. As luck would have it, it had rained slightly that afternoon and rainwater had collected itself in some old moulded bricks on the side of the house. This was our temporary fishpond. The rest of the tadpoles and crabs we wrapped in banana leaves after marinating with a dash of salt and pepper.
Aunty Ewuwe was in the kitchen cooking Mbasri in Mbanga soup and she took the wrapped tadpoles and crabs and placed them into the hot charcoal while we went outside and played hopscotch. A few minutes later Aunty Ewuwe shouted, ‘Elickie!’ She loved calling me Elickie instead of Eric. Her shouts simply meant our feast was cooked and ready to be served. Morake and I sat at the front of the house and ate our well-prepared catch of the day, every crunch of crab was met by the extra sweet and soft tadpole melting; it was a little piece of heaven. We licked our fingers ignoring the attentions of the jealous weaverbird that had nested just outside Mr Enongene’s house. Yet the weaverbird was wiser than us: it had identified our improvised fishpond. We wondered why it kept flying back and forth, and we found out too late the bastard had smuggled most of the tadpoles and used them to fatten his family.
I, Eric Ngalle Page 6
