Dike stared at his sleeping wife, watching as her chest rose and fell evenly, the stillness of her face altered occasionally by twitching brows, her pale skin shimmering within the dark interior of their bedroom. Tonight, the sky was a gaping void of blackness, without a trace of twinkling stars or silver moonlight leaking into their bedroom through its lonesome square window. He stared at her neck, slender and long, with traces of bulging veins, and imagined the dagger he had in his hand making a clean cut. He imagined the red blood that would look black against her pale skin, and the confused horror that would register on her face as pain fired up her nerves. He also imagined the haunted look in her eyes, the disbelief and betrayal etched in those pair of bright blues as she gaped at him, her stunned mind connecting the dots.

He fought the moan of agony that threatened to leave his swollen, tightly pressed lips. He had silently cried himself raw earlier, pleading with the forces that be to change her fate. But the goddess Ani, mother of all things fertile, had been clear; “The life of your soulmate in exchange for your manhood.”

And when he had gaped at the goddess, bewildered and uncertain, she had asked; “Do you not wish to father children of your own any longer?” Her ageless eyes shimmering with mockery, her vile intent unconcealed.

All he had to do was refuse her offer, choose his wife over his need to father an offspring. But the people of Ukorie had started to whisper, and rumours hung on neighbours’ puckered lips. Even his friends had begun to give him ‘the look’. A look he knew questioned his masculinity, a look they reserved for a man who could as well be a woman. How could a man of his status not sire a child after a year of being married? The women of Ukorie were not known to be barren, such a thing was unheard of, so surely, this childlessness had something to do with his loins. Perhaps a curse from a past lover who would not let go, or one from his lineage. Whatever it was, Dike’s reputation, and that of his family was at stake, he had to prove himself man enough, he had to prove he functioned as properly as every other fertile man in Ukorie. His entire legacy hung dangerously between generational shame and restored dignity. Surely Yeni would understand, she might die with a broken heart – as one betrayed by the man she had loved and trusted, but she would later come to see the bigger picture, she would forgive him; he hoped.

A drop of sweat, or perhaps tears, trickled from his face onto Yeni’s, and she stirred. Dike bristled, almost losing his grip on the dagger. His heart thundered within his ribcage as he watched her moved slightly, a soft moan escaping thin pink lips typical of people born with pale skin. He shuddered with relief when she did not wake. Once again, he drew himself over her, a looming figure of sweat and thick muscles, sucked in a deep breath, tightened his grip on the hilt of the glistening dagger, swallowed the lump of terror, guilt and shame lodged in his throat, and slowly lowered the dagger to Yeni’s neck.

“Forgive me my love,” he whispered.

Yeni stirred again.

‘Now!’ he heard the goddess Ani’s voice echo in his head.

His hand moved with the practiced precision of one who had killed too many times, the sharp silver blade of the dagger slashing across smooth pale skin, drawing blood. It happened as he had imagined it; Yeni’s eyes flew open, blue as the sea and alert as a cat. She opened her mouth to speak, or perhaps scream, but gurgled on her own blood. In the dark, it sputtered in waves of black against her pale skin, squirting all over Dike’s dark thick abdomen, warm and sticky, the stench of it, metallic and heady. Her eyes found his, and for a second, the confusion flickered within them, then instant realization. He watched as those eyes widened in disbelief. Then, as though an afterthought, her body began to thrash beneath him, her slender hands, once delicate and smooth against his hardened body as she caressed him into slumber on those many nights when he returned to her in exhaustion from the day’s labour, now clutched desperately at her gaping neck. Everything within him begged to look away, but he did not, he allowed the image of Yeni, thrashing and gurgling for life, to plant itself in his memory, an eternal burden he’d bear as retribution for her.

When Yeni finally stilled in death, her blue eyes, now devoid of light, remained wide open, staring accusingly at him. Dike released a ragged breath. His body trembled and sweat slicked across his skin. He ran his free hand over his sticky abdomen, feeling Yeni’s blood mixed with his sweat. The sob lodged in his throat like a rock, refusing to be released.

“Well done.”

Dike’s head snapped up. In a shadowed corner of the room, just above the bed, Ani’s slender form blended like a darker shadow itself. She stared at him through a face partially concealed by a veil of beads flowing from a silver crown made of colorful seashells, only her nose and full lips were visible. Her long braided hair cascaded around her like tendrils, twisting of its own accord. Dike’s hands trembled as he stared at her, his breath came in laboured gasps. Then after long seconds of unnerving silence, she spoke again,

“Lay your wife to rest Dike, and when you do so, make sure you solicit the help of Okeke the witchdoctor, you may perhaps be in need of his… abilities,” her voice was like trickles of water poured into a bucket, ancient and beautiful.

Drawing all the strength he could muster, Dike said,

“W-will I be able t-to f-father a child now?”

Silence greeted him, for Ani was already gone, as easily as she had been there.

Through the night, while surrounding neighbours and the rest of Ukorie slept, Dike knelt before his wife’s corpse and wept till his eyes puffed, his throat burned, and the first crack of dawn peeked across the sky.

*

Yeni was buried two days later. Dike snuck her body out of their home in the dead of the night, and, according to instructions from Okeke the witchdoctor, took her to the deepest parts of Agunji forest where Okeke already stood waiting for him with a group of shirtless sweating young boys, armed with shovels. They stood in a clearing; a gaping hole dug by the boys at its center.

Dike stood back and watched as the boys lowered Yeni’s stiff body into the grave while Okeke paced the perimeter, muttering words under his breath. Yeni had died with a broken heart, her trust betrayed, Ani had asked Dike to solicit Okeke’s help because he needed to bind her soul, in case she became vengeful and latched on to the mortal world using her rage as an anchor, refusing to move on to the afterlife. This was also why Okeke advised against burying her behind their home as Dike had intended, for the closer her body was to Dike, the more likely she was to return.

Once the grave was sealed, Okeke, a tall bald man dressed in pure white wrappa tied around one shoulder, flowing all the way to his feet, stood over the grave, his voice sharp and clip against the rustling breeze as he uttered guttural incantations. Dike watched this through eyes that still stung from hours spent weeping. Okeke circled the grave, a calabash containing a white substance in his large, wrinkled hand. He traced the white powder around the grave, forming a circle in the black soil. Somewhere close by, an owl hooted, the undergrowth rustled as nocturnal beasts lurked, some peering curiously at the group of humans in their territory, others scampering away just by merely catching a scent of them.

Okeke instructed one of the boys to hand him another calabash, then sprayed its content — dried leaves — over the grave, all the while his mouth did not stop muttering those guttural incantations. He stood back, inspected his work, and nodded his approval.

“Now cover the traces of salt,” he said to the boys.

They swung into action, carefully placing damp earth over the circle of salt.

“Are you sure this will work?” Dike asked the man as they trudged through the forest, heading for Ukorie village.

“Yes Dike, it is done, the salt will keep her bound within the circle if she tries to return, and the achicha leaves will inconvenience her. When she gets restless, or tired of being confined, she will have no choice but to move on to the afterlife.”

Dike nodded.

“B-but will i-it h-hurt her? The salt and the ach…”

“Achicha leaves,”

“Yes.”

Okeke chuckled.

“Dike, Yeni is dead, nothing can harm the dead, she feels no pain, at least physical, however, emotional pain is not like physical pain, it never just goes away, especially when it is strong, it lingers; which is why some souls need to be bound in order to prevent them from leaving the planes of the dead where they belong. Yeni died knowing you betrayed her, which is no fault of yours by the way, the gods made a request, you had to do what was required of you. However, if she is not bound, she might return for vengeance,”

At this, Okeke patted Dike in the back, his calloused palm hard against Dike’s bare skin.

Dike nodded and spoke no further.

Later that night, while he laid in bed alone, the lingering stench of Yeni’s blood in the still air, he stared into the ceiling and for the first time since Yeni’s death, gave in to the wave of exhaustion that caused his eyes to close.

*

He dreamt of feet. Filthy strong feet, thrashing at black damp earth like a chicken searching for insects in the undergrowth, only, these feet were human. The earth peeled off where the feet thrashed, and white shimmering powder came into view. The feet kicked at the white powder, scattering it across the floor, then paused. One heartbeat, two heartbeats, then charged for his face. One foot rose above him, revealing a filthy sole, and came down with a grunt, smashing into his eyes…

Dike jolted awake clawing at his face.

*

When the people of Ukorie asked about his wife, Dike told them she had gone to be with her mother in the west. They had nodded in response, a knowing look in their eyes, which was why when Dike took a new wife for himself three months later, rather than ask if Yeni was aware of this, they cheered and congratulated him. His friends gave him strong handshakes, the elders patted him on the back, and the women sang his praises.

His new wife was a young woman whose parents were low earning farmers from the northern parts of Ukorie, which meant she was not as pale as Yeni, but was several shades darker than himself. Dike had carefully chosen her for her round waist, plump breasts, and long legs, all of which were qualities of a body that would know how to make and nurse a child.

Her dark skin and full body were not the only qualities that contradicted Yeni’s. Where Yeni was feisty, sharp-mouthed and laughed carelessly the way most women of Ukorie did not dare around their husbands, Njideka was a typical Ukorie woman, silent and subservient, judiciously performing her wifely duties in a bid to please her husband. Even lovemaking was not as loud or as wild as it was with Yeni. She did not mount him and twist her waist the way Yeni did; the way he liked. She did not press his head against her nipples as he nibbled and suckled on them. She did not scream his name and writhe beneath his bulk with pleasure, she barely made a sound, only short, suppressed gasps as though afraid releasing the moan of ecstasy he knew rippled through her would offend him. And when he tried to teach her the art of pleasuring him with her mouth around his manhood the way Yeni knew how to, she had been awkward and stiff. Hence, lovemaking with Njideka was quick, unexciting, and quiet, save for infrequent, suppressed grunts. But Dike was hopeful, he had no interest in enjoying it anyway, all he needed was for her to conceive.

He had his plans laid out; after three children, if they were all boys, or two boys and a girl, he would resume bedding other women for the sole purpose of pleasure, and if they took in and gave him more children, though he would not marry them, for his dwelling was too small to accommodate more than one woman and he wanted no such responsibility of being forever tied to his concubines, he would take the children and place them under Njideka’s care, as was customary in such cases.

*

The first two months came and went with Njideka still seeing her monthly flow. No one thought too much of it, for sometimes it took a woman up to five months after marriage before conception. But four more months came and went, yet Njideka’s monthly flow did not cease. The looks and whispers began anew, this time less conspicuous than with Yeni. The anxiety crept up on Dike like a slithering serpent, haunting him on those nights he spent thrusting into Njideka. Each time he released, he willed his semen to penetrate whatever wall stood between him and her womb.

By the eighth month, Dike had had enough. He knelt before his altar and beckoned on Ani. She did not respond. His fury blazed like suppressed burning lava. The lingering fear lurked in the recesses of his mind that perhaps, Ani had deceived him. It was not uncommon for the gods to toy with humanity, which was why most never communed with them directly.

Dike pleaded and called to Ani Day and night, but she never came. Then on the seventh day, fueled by rage, he mounted Njideka, determined to shatter her womb if that was what it took.

For hours he pumped himself into her, and even when she began to sob in agony, he did not stop. Whenever he got exhausted, he laid beside her for a short while to regain his strength, and when he did, began the process all over again. This he did until darkness fell across the sky, and he finally collapsed on top of Njideka, exhaustion causing his muscles to tremble.

*

By the end of the ninth month, Njideka’s flow did not come. She held her breath, refusing to get excited too soon. Then the morning sickness began, and along with it, the headaches and constant exhaustion. By the third week of the tenth month, women around their home confirmed Njideka was with child. The tension that had heaped over Dike’s shoulder like a humongous boulder, came crumbling down. Ani had fulfilled her part of the bargain after all.

Njideka’s body adjusted as her stomach grew, her mother visited from the north to assist with house duties and look after her daughter. Across Ukorie, Dike was congratulated for finally proving himself a man worthy of honour. In the eighteenth month after his marriage to Njideka, she brought forth twin sons.

Friends and neighbours went wild with jubilation. Not only had Dike been blessed by the gods with twins, but twin sons? That was more than any man could ask for. Dike held a feast at his home, slaughtering three bulls: one as thanksgiving to Ani, the other two for his sons. People drank and dined, women sang and ululated, men jeered and got drunk, and when at last night came, silence returned to Dike’s dwelling as the men and women retired to their homes.

That night, Ani visited.

Her misty shadow-body materialized out of the dark. Dike bristled when he saw her, shoving his penis back into the wrappa tied around his waist. He had been in the middle of urinating in the backyard of his home when the goddess appeared before him.

Dike went on one knee, head bowed. Silence and stillness peppered the chilly night as crickets and frogs in the surrounding bushes scampered away at the presence of the goddess.

“G-great A-Ani, mother of the sea and all things fertile, I greet you,”

She scoffed and heaved a sigh.

“Rise mortal,” she said with distaste.

Dike rose. A smirk lingered on her full lips. Through the veil of beads, Dike caught glimpses of her face. When she did not speak, Dike spoke first.

“I-I thank you for blessing my home with such undeserved blessing, I asked for just a child, not even a son, and you gave me two sons all at on—”

“You fool!” she hissed, her voice like the sound of waves slamming against rocks by the sea.

Dike startled, confused.

“You mortals are so stupid and unwise, so full of greed and driven by your desires, you plunge into your own doom without thinking!”

What was she talking about?

Seeing the questioning look on his face, she scoffed again and said,

“I blessed you with no children, those two sons are no sons of yours, you fool! How could you not see it!” she hissed, “your wife has played you for the fool that you are, the curse that kept your loins locked up was never lifted!”

Dike blinked at her; his mouth suddenly dry.

“I don’t understand,” he breathed, “I-I made t-the sacrifice.”

Ani’s voice carried into the night as she laughed, bitter and resentful. She shook her head, her beaded veil clinking against each other.

“Tsk, my instructions were clear and simple; the life of your soulmate in exchange for your manhood. Yeni was never your soulmate, she was merely your wife!”

Dike froze, his eyes bulging in disbelief.

“Your soulmate is never always your lover, mortal, your soulmate can be a friend, a brother, a sister, and in some cases, if you are lucky, a lover. Yeni was not—”

“But you s-said… that night, y-you came to me, y-you said it was done,”

Ani chuckled.

“I said, ‘well done’ and then asked you to lay Yeni to rest, I never said she was the one. And don’t you dare question me mortal!”

Dike’s knees felt like they would cave from beneath him. Yeni had died for nothing, he had murdered his wife for absolutely nothing, all of it had been a waste, the curse still clung to his loins, unyielding.

“B-but w-what about my sons, the twins?”

Ani made a sound that might have been a chuckle, but it came out like gurgling water.

“Have you not been listening to me, mortal? Your new bride deceived you. She saw how desperate you were for a child and did what most women in this accursed village do in such cases, she bedded an old lover of hers in your absence, those sons for whom you slaughtered two bulls are not yours!” Ani laughed and shook her head, “you mortals never cease to fascinate me.”

Her words sank in, each one unveiling like layers of onions, causing his eyes to sting and burn. Not only had he been deceived by the gods, Njideka had deceived him as well. He trembled, his rage churning, contorting, and morphing into a foul thing that twisted his hands into tight fists. He glowered at Ani, his hands longed to grab her slender neck and snap it in half. Ani smirked at him, relishing his powerlessness and fury. She knew he could do her no harm; he was but an ant in the face of her powers, and this fueled his anger even more. His breath came in huffs, his chest rising and falling, thick muscles heaving, veins bulging across his biceps.

“So much anger, so much hate,” she chuckled, “mortals and their fickle emotions,” she said to herself, shook her head, and faded into the shadows.

Dike did not know how long he stood there, rage, regret and shame, coursing through his nerves. While Ani was a goddess and beyond his reach, Njideka was not. She had deceived him just as much as the ruthless goddess, played him for a fool, and would have kept up the act had the goddess not told him the truth. He would have raised two bastard sons in his home, completely oblivious to who had truly sired them.

Unable to contain himself, Dike charged for the house.

*

Njideka snored softly, her still protruding stomach rising and falling as she breathed. His contempt grew with each rise and fall of that stomach, all the useless nights spent thrusting wildly into this useless lump of flesh of a woman, wasted. All the nights enduring her dullness in bed when he could have had Yeni by his side. Oh, poor beautiful Yeni. Dike growled, his voice startling Njideka awake.

“Di’m, my husband, is that you?” she said, blinking sleepy eyes at him.

That stupid meek voice of hers too, how he hated it. Dike went on his knees, reached under the bed where he had hidden the dagger, he’d used on Yeni, and pulled it out. It was still wrapped in the thickly bound rag he had used to encase it.

“Di’m, what is it, is everything o—”

The words died in her mouth when Dike rose, the glistening dagger in his fist. Her eyes bulged with terror.

“D-di’m—”

Dike roared as he plummeted her with the dagger, blindly stabbing and slashing at her flesh. Njideka screamed, her hands going up to shield her face. But Dike was a big man, his muscles were thick and well built. With both hands clasping the dagger, he brought it down on Njideka. He heard her hand snap from the force of his blows, and she shrieked. He caught flashes of terror in her huge eyes as her blood splattered all over the room, and when she could fight no more, she went limp. Dike sank the dagger into her stomach repeatedly, sputters of blood raining on him. Once he was sure she no longer lived, he charged for the next room where the twin bastards slept with Njideka’s mother.

He almost bumped into the frightened old woman as she too made to step out through the door. She froze when she saw him, a petit figure in the face of his brutish build. His eyes darted to the babies tightly clasped in her arms and the small bag at her feet. His nose flared. She had been about to escape, the old hag, she had probably planned the entire thing with her stupid daughter.

Dike killed her easily, first yanking the boys off her arms and tossing them on the bed. They wailed. Then, he grabbed her by the neck and bashed her head against the wall, twice. The woman’s skull popped on the second impact, and her body convulsed, then went limp. He tossed the body aside and turned to the twins. He snatched the first child off the bed by the leg, letting him dangle, his voice shrill as he screeched in agony. Dike held the dagger over the child’s elongated neck. He sobbed, tears trickling down his face, rage, and compassion rioting within him. The boys had done nothing to deserve this, but neither had Yeni. Ani had played him, so had Njideka. The image of her tall curvy body on a mat, moaning and writhing as another man, perhaps younger and better looking than him, thrusting into her, flashed before his eyes. Dike snarled. These little bastards belonged to that stranger, whoever he was, wherever he was.

The rage returned, shooting through his nerves in blinding bolts of white twinkling stars. The cut was deep, swift, and clean. He did not wait to watch the baby gurgle on his own blood, he tossed the child aside and went for his twin. He held him up by the leg, then all at once, as though a veil had been lifted from his face, the rage slipped away, taking with it the strength and determination that had fueled him. His muscles caved and he dropped the wailing child on the bed. He trembled. He sobbed. He gaped in shame and disbelief at the carnage he had unleashed on his household; the dead twin, twisted in an awkward position on the floor, neck gaping, his mother-in-law, sprawled in one corner, brain-matter leaking from the gap in her skull. And when he dragged his feet to his bedroom, he wept at the sight of Njideka, mangled and bleeding.

That night, while the people of Ukorie slept and the only surviving twin wailed, Dike, a man who had once prided himself as one who had fought in the king’s army and returned with the head of their enemy’s general, a man who had once loved a pale-skinned woman, but for his selfish desires, had sacrificed her to a goddess who had tricked him, walked out of his home, bloodied and sweating, never to be seen or heard from again.

The End

The boy didn’t look his age, he was seven summers old but looked much younger than that. His frail body, from head to toe, was covered with goat and cow skins. The animal skins were warm enough against the winter wind that had been raging for some days. The cold had frozen every bit of happiness in the village. The boy, plump and warm, had left the rest of the cold and hunger-stricken-children glued to their mothers’ breasts, mothers who were trying to warm their own bodies with single pieces of charcoal. That day, like every other day, the boy had come to talk to the fish. The fish were always happy and ready to give joy to their visitor.

The boy staggered upstream, skipping upon the rocks making sure not to get his feet wet. He could see his village a distance away, downstream. Thirty or so huts clustered around the Chief’s kraal, all of which were surrounded by a wall of stone and mortar. That was the only home the boy had ever known.

Of course, he wasn’t allowed to wander off that far from the village, but he knew no one would notice. Not his mother; she was the only healer in the village, always administering herbs to the old and the sick for the entire day. Not his father, the Chief, he was rich and always fixing the villagers’ lives. They did not care about the boy, but the fishes did. The fishes would console and give the boy the love he deserved. With this in mind the boy’s resolve to reach the pond where the fishes waited for him was strengthened. He could see the pond a few paces away.

Then, the pond exploded right in front of his eyes.

A large body of water rose some feet into the air before splashing back to the pond. The boy stood still. His happy fishes were thrown out of the water. Some of the fishes were stuck in the trees. The boy could not fathom what had happened. He watched the pond suspiciously from a little distance away.

As the murky water settled, the boy could see a large fish, twice as large as he was, inside the water. Surely that was magic. Then it popped its head from the water and started coughing and gasping for air. The fish had a human head, a woman’s head. A chill ran through the boy’s spine. He had heard tales of children abducted by mermaids only to be returned to their families decades later. The boy didn’t want to live in a cave under the water, eating worms the mermaid would offer him.

The boy took one step back. The mermaid swam to the edge of the pond. The boy couldn’t run away, not yet anyways, he had to see the mermaid’s hind which was said to be that of a fish. The mermaid dragged itself out of the pond and crawled to the higher ground with its own two feet.

The boy screamed. The only mermaid he had ever seen happened to have a woman’s head and torso but a pair of legs too. It was scary and deserved a scream from the boy. Hearing the boy scream, the mermaid turned to the direction of the boy and screamed even louder. It grabbed a stone and threw it in the boy’s direction. The stone missed by far and fell in the middle of the pond.

“No!” The mermaid jumped into the pond, and started searching furiously where the stone had sunk, “look what you have made me do.”

The boy didn’t know what he had done. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to apologise. He took that moment to observe the mermaid standing waist deep in the water. It was young and pretty enough to conform to the legendary beauty of the mermaids. He thought she could have been a mermaid, but her hair was short, black, and rugged. Her face was pale, not the usual dark complexion the boy was accustomed to seeing in his village. The boy thought she was beautiful and wanted to marry her. Impala skins, which was what she wore, were rare and reserved only for the noble village elders. The usual necklaces, beads and wristbands didn’t interest the boy.

The mermaid walked out of the pond, turning back after every step, hoping to find the stone she had thrown earlier. Between the glances the boy noticed the woman’s belly poking out of her animal skins, she was pregnant.

“Where are the rest of the villagers?” the mermaid asked the boy, who only pointed downstream with his shaky finger. The mermaid looked closely at the boy for the first time, unsure what to make of him, “What is your name, boy?”

“Khumalo,” The boy stammered back. The mermaid’s face saddened at the name. She looked past the boy, all the way to her own past.

“Khumalo. I once knew someone named Khumalo.” She recalled with sorrow.

 The mermaid took one last glance at the pond and eagerly made her way down to the village, caressing her huge stomach.

                                                           ***

 Years of experience had taught Rati that it was easy to slice open a bream in one hand motion. That way she would spare herself from the fins that could easily stick her fingers together. She hummed the song her mother had always sang to her. Singing always made chores seem easy. In no time she had sliced open four breams and cleaned out the intestines and was ready to leave to barter with the villagers.

“Singing your witch song again?”

The voice startled Rati but she quickly regained her composure after she noticed it was Khumalo who had sneaked behind her again. She gave him a sly smile and continued with her fish.

” I told you not to startle me when I am doing chores, my mother doesn’t like it.” Rati said, pointing to her mother who was standing in the river staring intently at the waters.

Rati had lived on the riverbank with her mother for as long as she remembered. It had always been the two of them, well, three of them, counting Khumalo who had visited every single day. Since she was a baby Khumalo had come all the way from the village to play with her, none of the children wanted to play with her. She and her mother had never been welcome to stay in the village. Her mother had built a shack from mud and branches and had raised her daughter in it by fishing in the river every day. She was the only fisherwoman known in all the lands.

“I will tell you again, it’s not a witch song. It’s a hymn a trope-bearer uses to prepare the way. I told you what a trope is right?”

“You already told me, Rati,” Khumalo said with resignation,” it is the magical boulder that carried your mother to this land.”

Rati sighed. Despite her mother’s warning Rati had told Khumalo about the trope, a magical rock that needed incantations to open channels to travel to distant lands. Rati’s mother had travelled from those distant lands years ago. She had lost the rock on the first day she had arrived. If her mother was not mistaken the rock lay somewhere in the river. For sixteen years her mother had woken up every morning in search of the rock in the chilly water.

Her mother had told her it was a secret between mother and daughter; but Rati was of age now and would need a husband soon. Khumalo, being a Chief’s son and a close family friend, was a prospect she didn’t want to miss so why keep a secret from someone who would marry her?

“Khumalo, can you accompany me to the village? Rati asked. “I have to trade this basket of fish with the blacksmith”

She knew he would say yes. She had planned it all to happen that way. In preparation for her walk in the village with Khumalo, she had waxed the goat skins she wore. She had to make sure every other girl in the village knew the Rati was laying claim to the Chief’s son.

Khumalo, unable to say no to the prettiest face he knew, grabbed Rati’s basket and led the way, awkwardly glancing at her as she followed in his heels, a smile of triumph on her face.

                                                            *

It was just a pond, but they had already started calling her the lady of the lake, a mockery to what she did every day. Except when she was sleeping, she was always in the water looking for the trope. The fish just came to her but what she needed was the trope. She had been searching for it for sixteen years, every single day of them.

On that day she was standing in the water, searching for her way out. She stood up to stretch her back and noticed her daughter cleaning the breams she had caught earlier that morning. Her daughter was as beautiful as a mermaid, none of the girls in the village could compare to her.

On the night of her daughter’s birth, the lady of the lake had seen the beauty of what she had given to the world. A girl with no father, a creature who would suffer the wrath of the world. She gave the little child her own name, Rati. The lady of the lake was sure that her own daughter would suffer the way she had suffered. She was not happy about it, but it was the curse of being raised by a single mother.

Rati, the mother, noticed her daughter cleaning the fish, oblivious to the Chief’s son sneaking up behind her. The daughter was startled for a moment but relaxed a bit when she saw who it was. Then the two started to talk. She was too far to hear anything but from the way her daughter blushed, she knew everything there was.

“It’s a good thing that she fell in love with the Chief’s son. If she gets to marry him, she will live comfortably for the rest of her life,” She said under her breath.

As if on cue the two love birds started to walk towards the village. The boy carrying the basket with the fish whilst the girl followed behind him with a grin on her face. The boy looked happy. Khumalo, that was the boy’s name. The Lady of the lake felt ashamed of herself for not remembering the boy’s name.

On her first day on this strange land, she had met Khumalo, a seven-year-old boy then. He had startled her, and she had lost the trope, she didn’t blame him though. The boy had led her to the village. The villagers did not accept her into their home, she was pregnant but without a husband. They, however, allowed her to build her own shelter near the river. The boy had been fascinated by her belly. He had visited almost every day in her pregnancy months. Upon the arrival of Rati, the daughter, the boy had started visiting every day to play with the child. Sixteen years later they were about to get married. Rati the mother wasn’t disappointed. All she wanted was her daughter not tell Khumalo about the trope.

As Rati and Khumalo disappeared towards the village, Rati the mother then decided to take a break from her search. It was way past midday after all, and she had other duties to attend to.

 Everything would had been easier if he were there.

She hadn’t thought about him in years, Sifelani, the father of her daughter. The last time she saw Sifelani, he lay in a pool of his own blood slowly dying from a stab wound. Rati the mother had only glanced once and continued singing the song of the trope bearer. The trope had opened the channels, she had escaped with her yet-to-be-born child. That was the day she had lost her husband and her peace.

As Rati the mother came out of her reverie, she heaved herself out of the water. Just then, she slipped and hit her face on a turtle’s back. She broke a tooth. She glared at the turtle; she hadn’t seen one in ages. She picked it up and closely examined it. The turtle was heavier than expected. It was just a rock. A hiss of disappointment escaped her mouth. She threw the stone near the fireplace, intending to make it a base stone for her cooking pots.

She didn’t notice the fire she had lighted thereafter melt the dirt around the new stone neither did she notice the familiar design of the trope appearing on the stone. She didn’t notice the trope she had hauled in the pond years earlier glowing beside the fire.

                                                              *

Khumalo walked slowly, his bare feet crushing dead Autumn leaves on the ground. Years had passed since he had visited Rati in his goat and cow hides. He now wore a cheetah hide; he wasn’t a nobody anymore in village. In his hand he held a long spear. The spear that the royal and the elite only held.

The well-trodden path was familiar to his feet, he could walk all the way with his eyes closed. It was almost evening as he made his way to the lone hut. A flock of birds flew away as he came closer to the hut. No smoke came from the vents or the entrance, Khumalo thought the house was empty.

For a while he thought of going home and coming back the following day, but he decided against it. Whatever was on his mind he had to talk to Rati that day. He was ready to profess his love to her.

He sat outside the hut and waited for her. Between the croaking frogs, the chirping crickets, and a distant laughter of hyenas, Khumalo heard a song. Someone was singing inside Rati’s hut. Without thinking much Khumalo barged into the hut.

From the dimming fire Khumalo could see a woman kneeling in front of a glowing stone. Strange sounds were coming out of her mouth. It took a moment to realise it was Rati’s mother. Sensing the presence of another person the woman turned around to see him glaring at her. She screamed and stood stork still, shocked.

“Khumalo!” She ejaculated, “you scared me.”

Khumalo kept his eyes on the glowing stone. He noticed it changing colour to black. It definitely was the trope.

“I didn’t know you were coming. I was going to speak to you at your ascension tonight. Congratulations Chief Khumalo!”

“Sifelani, Chief Sifelani. That is the name I am taking upon my ascension to the chieftain tonight.” Khumalo spoke softly, surprised at his own ability to keep his composure.

“Rati is not here my son, I will tell her you stopped by.” The mother said picking up the trope and neatly wrapping it in cowhide. She could see Khumalo eyeing it.

“That’s the trope, isn’t it?” The boy started,” You don’t have to lie, Rati had told me all about it. You want to travel to other worlds, taking Rati with you, and leaving me all alone?”

Rati’s mother was taken back by the gentle boy’s sudden outburst. She mumbled something about the trope not working well and leaving Rati behind. Before she could think of a good reply the boy struck her on the forehead with a log from the fire. She didn’t even scream; she just fell dead on the floor. Without giving it much thought, Khumalo grabbed the trope and dug a small hole in the fireplace. He hid the trope inside the hole and covered it with some ash. No one would ever think of looking there.

The realization that he had murdered a woman in her own hut suddenly dawned upon him. Not sure what to do next, the boy who was soon-to-be chief continued staring at the woman on the floor. The dim hut exponentiating the gloominess of the situation. He wasn’t sure what was happening, he stood there looking sheepishly until he heard a voice singing and footsteps approaching the hut.

“Mother?”

                                                           *

Chief Sifelani led the procession, his wife followed a few strides behind him,, then came the rest of the villagers. The villagers had been told that on arriving the river bank they had to stop whilst the Chief and his wife continued to make their way to the old hut.

“Chief Sifelani,” the woman called,” can we take a moment to rest?”

“I am sorry my love I keep forgetting your condition.” the Chief said, helping the woman to sit on the ground.

The woman giggled. She knew her husband loved her but hated it when she called him Chief Sifelani, he was always Khumalo to her. The husband caressed her stomach. She was heavily pregnant with their first child.

“We should continue walking,” the woman continued,” I haven’t seen my mother’s place in a long time.”

It was almost a year since Rati had left her home. The night she left; she had come back home from fetching firewood from the forest to find the Chief standing upon her mother’s body. Rati had almost lost her sanity then, begging her dead mother to come back to life.

The Chief had calmed her. He had told Rati how he had come to visit them and discovered Rati’s mother laying on the floor with blood coming out of her cracked skull. In between the sobs and the mourning, Rati had asked about the trope her mother had found. The Chief didn’t know anything, and they had searched everywhere together but to no avail.

” I will postpone my ascension tonight,”   the boy had proclaimed,” I will find whoever did this to your mother and punish them. Tonight, come with me to the village, I will marry you and take care of you for the rest of your life.”

Rati had left to become Chief Sifelani’s wife. They had laid her mother to rest the following day. Chief Sifelani had searched for the murderer for several months but didn’t find him. A year later the husband and the wife were going to Rati’s mother’s hut for her final memorial rites. The dilapidated hut was still as gloomy as ever.

Rati walked inside the hut, repeating her mother’s name over and over again, praying to the ancestors to accept her mother’s spirit. She did not know any of her mother’s ancestors, so her prayers were short. The Chief stood at the entrance with a resigned look on his face, his mind wandering to distant lands he didn’t know much about.

“When I was born,” Rati said when she was done with the prayers,” my mother buried my umbilical cord in the centre of the fireplace. That way I was tethered to this place and I will always come back home whatever happens.”

Like a manic, the woman started to dig the fireplace with her fingers. The husband was slow to stop her. Instead of finding her umbilical cord her fingers hit the hard-cold trope.

“Khumalo,” Rati started,” this is my mother’s Trope.”

Chief Sifelani nodded slowly, not sure how it would end this time. He formulated a half-baked lie, but it died on his lips with some confusion.

“Do you know what it means?” She asked with awe on her face.

Yes, he knew what it meant. The world had been opened to her, and she would leave him. Even if he followed her, he wouldn’t be a chief but a nobody. If he stayed, she would take their child and leave him. She would leave him, she the only love he had known. He didn’t want to live without her, he knew he couldn’t live without her.

“I can’t let you do that,” Chief Sifelani said to the wife who had already started chanting the song of the trope-bearer,” Rati, I can’t let you go to those distant lands.”

Rati’s face fell, perplexed by her husband’s adamant answer. She stopped chanting in order to explain to her husband that what they had found was worth more than anything in the world. She turned in the direction of her husband to find him walking towards her with a blade in hand.

She froze. This was something she hadn’t expected. She threw the trope in Chief Sifelani’s direction with all her mighty. The trope hit home, and a moan of pain escaped his mouth. The blade fell first, then the man followed. She grabbed the blade and stabbed the man she loved. He screamed then groaned in pain. She didn’t stop stabbing.

The screams alerted the people they had left at the bank and Rati heard the sound of their feet as they ran towards the hut. She looked at her husband lying in a pool of his own blood. She sat on the floor and started chanting the song of the trope bearer. She could feel the trope getting warm, she could see it start glowing.

The footsteps reached the hut entrance. The trope was glowing but not working. Rati knew that her punishment for killing the Chief would be death. She couldn’t let them take her alive, it was better if she died by her own hand. She stood up, the trope in hand, dashed out of the hut and ran past the confused multitude. She jumped into the river; drowning was a better way to die.

                                                    *

Rati could feel herself swallowing lots of water. She went deeper into the water. No, drowning wasn’t a good option. Rati changed her mind and decided to get out of the water. Rati pushed her head out of the water and swam to the edge of the river. She crawled to a higher ground where the water couldn’t reach her. A scream pierced her ear. Startled, she turned and screamed back even louder. Thinking that it was one of the villagers trying to capture her. Rati hurled the thing nearest to her, realising a little late that it was the trope she had thrown. A little splash told her it had fallen somewhere in the water.

“No!” Rati screamed at the boy who seemed to be the one who screamed first. She quickly started searching the side she had heard the splash, “Look what you have made me do.”

The boy looked to be six or seven and Rati had never seen him before. She started walking towards the boy who looked nervous standing on the riverbank. The rest of the villagers were not in sight.

“Where are the rest of the villagers?” she asked the boy, who pointed down the river,” what is your name, boy?”

“Khumalo.” The boy stammered a reply.

“Khumalo. I once knew someone named Khumalo.” Rati said with a death-pale face, she recalled Khumalo the boy she had loved, the boy she had made a husband, and the husband she had killed.

The end.