The Stranger

unnamed (3).jpg

FACT: The Kingdom of Kongo located in west central Africa in present-day northern Angola, Cabinda, the Republic of the Congo, the western portion of the Democratic Republic of the Congo,as well as the southernmost part of Gabon. It lasted from 1390 to 1914
Wikipedia

The Kingdom of Kongo in the 1690s… Too many things happened that year, too many to forget. There was the two years bloody war with Portugal Angola everyone thought we were going to lose. There was the plague that wiped out almost a quarter of my father’s village. And then there was the man… a man like no other. You could walk into a group of gossiping women and hear a lie or two about the man. But I was there, I experienced it first hand and I have no issue with telling the truth.

My village was a small libata in the Kingdom of Kongo. Centuries later, this kingdom would be absorbed by four African states. But in 1692, it was an independent kingdom and I was trying to be independent of my family and my village's superstition.

I was a young girl of twelve, running away from father. I was betrothed to his friend in exchange for 30,000 nzimbu cowries. 20,000 cowries would buy a goat. Apparently, I wasn’t worth up to two goats in my father’s opinion. i believed I was worth more than goats or my father’s friendship.

It was cold morning, I remember my tiny hands clutching my shoulders as I trudged against the cold wind. The sun would not be up for a few hours. The grass was still moistened from the dew of the morning. There was no warmth in the atmosphere nor my heart. The cold wind told me to return home but I didn’t.

I had just crossed the edge of the village when I saw him. He was just as surprised to see me. I thought about the slave-raiders and my heart began to raise. I was too far from my village to raise a cry but I tried all the same. The shriek forced a blanket of fear on his face; his hands jerked up, lifting something black and flat against his face. Was he scared of me?

I retraced my steps, looking around. If he wasn’t a slave driver what was he doing here ahead of the sun. We stared at each other for a long time. He had clothes like those of the Portuguese. I remember they were blue. I hadn’t seen one but I heard they wore very long and tight-fitting clothes. But he didn’t look like them. His skin was not white. His hair seemed to be black and curly. Perhaps he was one of us but raised like a Portuguese, I thought. My eyes reached for his but his eyes were focused elsewhere.

“Pervert!” I breathed as I clutched my hands against my chest. I turned to walk away, eager to leave this stranger behind and continue on my journey. I was going to my mother in the next village. I must have walked for minutes before I noticed the rustling of leaves trailing me. My heart tried to leap out of my chest when I saw him behind me. This time I didn’t even stop to think. My legs entered a race with each other in the direction of my father’s village

…..

I was grinding wheat in my father’s compound when I heard the shouts. My mind pestered my legs itching to know what the noise was about. There was something about the noise. I wondered if the Portuguese were attacking us. That wasn’t possible as our village was on the other side of the kingdom, far from where the action took place.

I wondered if someone had died again but thought against it. Too many death had numbed my reactions. The plague was on, a punishment sent by the gods for deserting them for the Christian God. Or so they said. Even if our village chief died, no one would have the strength to make such noise.

I tightened my grip on the grinding stone, crushing wheat as if they had the answer to my curiosity in them. I wanted to run out and see what was happening but step mother’s watching eyes would not let me. Father had sentenced to grinding sacks of wheat for my attempt at running. The intent to punish was his but grinding flour was definitely my lazy step mother’s idea.

The shouting approached my house. That mean those involved were walking across the road. My step mother seemed disinterested until we hear “the gods had sent a deliverer”. Even my step mother could not ignore that. We dashed out of the compound - although I allowed her a moment before I followed.

I saw the deliverer the gods had sent. He was young, had black and curly hair and held a black object in his hand. There was a slight fear in his eyes, as if he felt the men carrying him wanted to offer him as a sacrifice. One of his bearers adjusted his share of the weight and I saw the blue trouser. The person I met that morning was sent by the gods? I knew it was not true. I would know if I met a spirit being.

I was about to ask someone in the crowd for more information when my step mother called out to me. Obviously she had gotten all the answers she needed and wanted to return to the compound. All I could think of, as I returned my punishment, was what could make people think he was sent from the gods. I snorted.

….

Three days passed before I saw him again. It was at the village square on a market day. Step mother told me to come so she could get me new wrappers. I had bled on one of my wrappers the night before. It was the second time that was happening. For most girls it was a thing of pride; for me it was a curse. Since the last harvest, I had been bleeding on a monthly basis. I know the boys do not bleed. I envied them; I wanted to be a boy.

However, when I saw in the village square, I instantly began to hate him. He was sitting under a shed. Not just any shed; it was the one reserved for the village elders. There were people around, trying to get his attention. He would walk around, attend to someone and then tap against a flat object - the object he was holding the morning I met him.

The object was flat and board and seemed to have a cover. It was opened and I could see a faint light emit from the cover. I inched closer to peep into the object when I heard some of the village boys whisper and giggled like little children. I cursed my womanhood as I wrapped my hands against my chest. People said I got it from my mother. People also said other things about my mother.

He heard the giggling and turned to stare at me. We looked at each other for a while. He had curiosity written over his face. There was a longing for acceptance in his eyes. I wanted to be mean, to look at him as if he was nothing and walk away. Instead I drowned in his eyes. It took my step-mother’s shout to pull me out.

I turned to notice everyone was watching us. Perhaps the starring occurred for longer than I thought it did. Normally, I would not give a damn but I knew what people would say. They would compare me to my mother; how she enticed men with her big bosom and big wild eyes. I was not sure about the eyes but the ogling confirmed how big my bosom was.

I walked to my step mother’s stall and noticed the shadow moving in the ground. I smiled in my heart when I noticed jealousy swelling up around me. I am being trailed by someone sent by the gods.

I noticed how gently step mother spoke to me and I began to get angry. I felt less of a human, like my worth depended on someone else. i collected the wrappers, turned to him, hissed and began the journey home. If he could fool everyone, he definitely wasn’t going to fool me.

I arrived home tired and hungry. I rushed to the banana tree behind the compound hoping to fill my belly. Instead, boyish whispers from grown up men filled my head and then my emotions. They confirmed what I had always believed and then more. I saw the men turn around and I dived into the goats’ pen. I counted the seconds there, waiting for the shuffling noises of feet to end. A shadow grew over me and I looked up to see my father’s face.

We stared at each other, although he was better at the game. No words were said but I heard enough. I did not hear anything. I had always known there were no spiritual visits by the gods. Those who went missing were taken by slave raiders. I know because my mother told me the last time I went to her village. It was a shock to know my father had a hand in it; and even more shocking to know they wanted to sell the young man.

They were scared; all of them. He had stop the villagers from drinking the water from the communal well. He could not tell them why because he did not know our language. From my whispers, it was obvious the elders poisoned the well. Tears welled up in my eyes when I realised my own father was responsible for killing his people. I sat beside the goats and cried.

…..

Today, they will be celebrating the second anniversary of the appearance of the gods. They will tell tales of how he found an ailing man by the road and saved him. How he seemed to know what herbs caused what by looking into the ‘divination board’ he carried in his hands. They would narrate how he met secretly with the Elders and informed them he was living. Some would tell you the way I treated him at the village square forced him to leave.

They are all lies. My father sold him to the slave drivers. I never got to know who he was or why he came. He was not a god but he was certainly not from this region. He looked like some transported from another era. I could see it in his eyes.

I am done with this village and their superstitions. Everyone is talking about the war with Portuguese and how the gods would save us. If only they knew….

Entry for October 2 Twenty-four Hour Short Story contest

Image source: US Air Forces Central Command - AF.mil

Sort:  

I read it all bro, awesome, this is worthy of a curie biggest upvote.
Perfect and dope. I've resteemed it too.
I've always wanted to write a #twentyfourhours story thing, but am yet to gather enough courage to write long post like this.
Am learning everyday.

Posted using Partiko Android

Wow! Your writing never fails to trip me! Well done bruv!

#Bigwaves

Coin Marketplace

STEEM 0.15
TRX 0.12
JST 0.025
BTC 55275.78
ETH 2457.15
USDT 1.00
SBD 2.18