Story time : walls have eyes

Hello everyone. I would like to share a nice story with you. It was inspired by @khojo, thanks for his support and his inspiration.

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(http://www.bucharestdailyphoto.com/2010/05/)

           WALLS HAVE EYES 
             Chapter 1

There were a lot of things I did not know at the time—a lot of
things I did not understand. For instance, we had a garden in our compound and once every week my father would harvest
the most ripe fruits-the once that had received the right amount of rain and love—put them in a basket that he woven
himself and take them to the king. I remember being particularly unhappy but Mama always said that Papa was doing it for me. Also, every night before going to sleep, we would huddle at the foot of the bed and pray for the king. We
did pray for ourselves but the health and well being of the king came before our own.
This was our way of life. We weren’t the only ones who did it. All around the village, fathers carried baskets of their best farm yields to the king while mothers prayed for the king
every night. This was the way it was before I was born; and the way it had been before my parents were born. Nobody seemed to know why it was so, or maybe they just didn’t
think us old enough to know. Once I asked my mother why we
had to put the king first in everything we did, and she demurred.
“Shushʼʼ,she said, pressing her fingers to her lips. Shecast furtive glances around the house. We were the only ones
at home at the time. Papa had not returned from the farm.
“Desist from asking such questions.” She continued after
a moment of thoughtfulness. “You are too young and besides
if someone overhead you…” Silence lingered between us like
an unwelcomed visitor. I nodded my agreement and returned
to my daily task of washing dishes in a big pan in the kitchen.
There were over a dozen yam tubers in a big dirty sack; Mama
was taking them out and carefully sorting through, placing
the big ones first. The big ones were for the king.
After a while of companionable silence in which we both
worked earnestly, Mama set the sack down and turned her
attention to me. “Listen.” I rinsed a bowl and set it among the
pile, then I sat facing Mama. “Be careful who you talk to
about these things. I mean do not ask anyone about it. Do not
discuss it with anyone. When your father comes, he will have
a proper chat with you.”
“Okay, Mama. "
It must be noted that Mama had a habit of ‘leaving some
things to the men.’ It wasn’t that she couldn’t speak about
such things herself; it was merely a case of personal feelings
and choices. She imagined that as ‘men’ Papa could get
through to me in a way that she couldn’t. She also hoped that,
being the ‘man of the house’ Papa would elicit a stronger obedience.

That day Papa did not return from the farm until later in the evening when the village was cloaked in darkness. Mama had prepared yam and kontomire stew. I had set the table, feeling myself go dizzy with hunger as the smell of the kontomire stew wafted through my nose. We’d waited for Papa for over an hour when Mama decided that I could eat mine. I was almost done eating when Papa’s squishy bicycle crawled up the bushy road towards our house. That evening, Papa told me a story.
In my opinion, the protagonist of this story was also the antagonist of the story. He was a good man until the inelegance of history and tradition determined that he wasn’t. This was a story about a man called Egya Napo who was killed by then chief Mansa Nuhu, father of the current
chief. Egya Napo had stood up to the chief, in the face of what he thought was an unjust treatment of the village farmers.
There was a meeting in Egya Napo’s home, where all the farmers resolved that they wouldn’t give their best farm
yields to the chief as tradition determined. The chief obtained
knowledge of this and ordered that Egya Napo be apprehended. That evening, he was beheaded in the village
market, under the terrified gaze of the village.
Papa cautioned me to take away two lessons: To never ruffle shoulders with men who wielded power and to never
trust anyone. You see, Papa purported that there had beensome men within the farmers whose loyalties lay with the
king; these men had outed Egya Napo. I thought it was a bit of a stretch. I wondered if the chief had the mental awareness to
conjure up such a delicate plan. Surely, the man about whom nothing bright had been spoken could not come up with such
an artful thought. However, I accepted Papa’s theory and kept my thoughts to myself.
The disappearing of men began some two weeks later.
First, it was Egya Kwame, whose son, Atongo, I attended school with. It was in the early hours of Saturday when we heard the news. No, in fact, if I recall correctly, Egya Kwame lived not so far away from us so his wife must have come to
our house, eyes sodden, hair falling apart in ugly strands. He had gone to the farm some two days previously and failed to
return. A quite party consisting of Maame Kwame and her son
—whom I attended school with—had gone to the farm to
make sure everything was okay. They only found his cutlass buried in the earth.
A search party was put together to look for Egya Kwame
but in less than three weeks, more men were vanishing. Their
names, would be burned in my brain, because every time
someone disappeared, our house was the first point of call;
Papa had a special relationship with the farmers in the
village. Egya Yaw, Egya Manu, Egya Mensah, Egya Akulugu,
Egya Opoku. Between them, they left behind over a dozen
children (most of whom were my age or close) and almost as
many wives. There was mourning everywhere, and black wrappers abound in every street; it was as if the village had found something fashionable.

What I found strange was that nobody seemed capable of doing something about it. In later years, when the escapades of life brought me in touch with civilization, I would sometimes lie awake and wonder what magic I could have
worked with barely a fraction of the resources available to the police these days. But aside acceptance, there was acceptance,
a compulsory acceptance of the situation which I found cowardly. I thought and expected my father to do something about it but all he did was put together search parties upon
search parties and assure the women that he would do everything in his power to bring them back. So, one evening, out of frustration, I confronted him.
“Why do you keep lying to the women?” You know there is
nothing you can do to help me so why don’t you direct them
to the chief?” It was later, reflecting on this memory, that I
realized that I may have taken a harsh tone with my father that day.
“And what makes you think I am lying to them? Son, listen, these women need something to hold onto, even if it is
a lie. Of course, I am not lying to them, I meant every word I
said. We will find their husbands and bring them home in one
piece.” Papa was always good with words. In today’s world, I
imagine he would be a fine politician.
There was something else I found wrong with the situation: it was the chief’s absence during. While the men disappeared, the chief’s announcer did not bring any directive
as to how the chief planned to deal with the situation.

More reply if you want me to continue writing this and post them here. Your restreem would help alot.
Thanks for reading my post.
Big shoutout to @khojo and myself @tsikata