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Excerpt: An African Rigmarole

The year 2002 was one when some sort of monster had been released in the country and, on either side, Sierra Leoneans pondered “Why are we so nonsensical?” when Homo sapiens, on waking up at dawn, found out that in the nighttime, while in deep slumber that carried them beyond the bounds of prejudice or hatred, they had fantasized of the “no sex, no food” effrontery of NGO aid workers and international agencies’ peacekeepers. I personally fantasized of a monumental banderole, sprawled irrationally across the UN building in Freetown and carrying the inscription What an African Rigmarole! It was the dry season when, time and again, the garbage, the confusion, the disorder confirmed itself more sophisticatedly than the rebel Front’s dogma and the peacekeepers so-called integrity. It was the dry season when female and male prostitution was on the minds of us all, and existence, in all its corrupt adulteration, repeatedly embarrassed the country. Occasionally on weekend evenings, and as neighbours, I and Bamewole, my husband, would invite Salakoh over to our house at Hill Cot Road for a drink of Martell Cognac brandy, a chat, and to listen to Dr. Oloh and his Milo Jazz Band. By the dry season of 2002, I had been lonely for a while since Bamewole was diagnosed with hemorrhagic stroke and admitted at the Hill Station Choithram Memorial Hospital. Practically lonesome, as a widow, in a sizable old-fashioned brick-gated house where I’d brought up three children with Bamewole. By then, I was in the middle of a fight with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs on a charge of tribalism filed against me by three male employees in my department. At that time, I had been at Foreign Affairs for the main part of my civil service career, a distinguished, permanent secretary, who founded the nonconformist Diplomat’s Social Circle. My superb FM 98.1 radio talk show in diplomacy, called NWP, for Negotiate, World, and Peace, was trendy with civil servants just because of the all-embracing, sincerity in my presentation.

Alkebulan: An Excerpt

“I must emphasize that while the Whitians tried to strike a deal with some of our species, they failed to convince others. It was no secret that Sene of the Land of the Spoonbill and Civ of the Land of the Elephants became puppets of the Whitians. However, N’fa Kankan of Futa, N’fa Bamba of Segou, Nana Kojo of the Land of Cocoa, and Musomesa Mukisa continued our fight for liberty. And some amount of liberty was achieved. But then ...” Suddenly, Bai Bala stopped giving his speech and squinted his eyes. He looked up and cocked his ears. The other chimpanzees followed suit. One could tell by Bai Bala’s squint that his mind was literally racing. Whenever he was juggling thoughts, he narrowed his eyes. The more cluttered his mind, the narrower his eyes became. He heard the drone of a helicopter. Alarmed, Bai Bala stood up and started vocalizing threat barks. Every one of the chimpanzees started doing the same as they tumbled down the branches of the corkwood trees. Then, all hell was let loose as a helicopter opened rapid gunfire on them. They scrambled to take cover, trying to save their lives. The forest became smoky and dusty. The grunts of the dying and the screams of the living could be heard. In the ensuing mayhem, Bai Bala, Musomesa Natukunda, Musomesa Kalule and Odongo were shot dead among others. There were rumours that it was meant to be a warning to those who were determined to regain their liberty from the domineering aliens. Later, history was written by the victors who claimed that they had dispatched the helicopter gunship from Delagoa with orders from Frensch to annihilate all living chimpanzees in Alkebulan.

Excerpt on witchcraft

A Pentacle for Jebbeh The clay pentacle and the black-handled double-edged dagger showed up on Jebbeh’s doorstep that morning. Massa, the woman with the jewelled eyes, showed up that evening. The two appearances jolted her all the way through. Jebbeh, a petty trader, found the two items lying side-by-side as she opened the door to walk to the foothills. Her darker skin portrayed angelic beauty, even at age forty, and her full set of delicate lips matched her natural curly, jet-black hair that gave her an air of superiority. Her full-figure, partially hidden by a black flowing gown, hardly reflected her strength. Frightened and then slightly unconcerned, she walked past the two items. Not until she returned at sunset, when she saw the tip of the dagger stuck into the center of the five-pointed star pentacle, did she become concerned. She knew a pentacle and a dagger to be two of the most recognized symbols of witches and witchcraft. Jebbeh froze at the thought. She stood still, staring at the mysterious act of violence, and tried to contain the sudden strong feeling of fear that gripped her body. Then she remembered Massa, her next-door neighbour, whom she last saw three days ago. The image of her roughly cleaved features and the glistening jewelled extents of her outlandishly impelling eyes recurred with exploding force in her mind. Her stare never leaving the dagger in the pentacle, Jebbeh reached out a trembling hand, grasped the door handle, and quickly entered the house. The house itself was simply built with sticks, mud, and thatched roof. It stood apart from two other similarly-built houses. She tried to imagine who would have played such a spellbound trick on her. There was the quiet little man, her landlord. Then there was Massa. But she couldn’t see the little man doing something like this. And why would Massa do such a thing either?

Footprints of a Migrant: Excerpt from the Horn of Africa

Hundreds of miles to the last Haba city south of the border with Mare and Nub, a taxi cab sped along the dusty plains toward Hum. In the backseat, Meb had replaced his red toque with a safari bush hat, taking pleasure from a feeling of liberty as he sat back and thought about his getaway from the man in the patrol hat. All but instantly once inside the taxi cab, Meb had unleashed his knife and held it against the throat of the shivering chauffeur. At Meb’s request, the chauffeur had switched off his cellphone thereby disconnecting all contacts with the outside world. Then Meb had searched the man’s pocketbook, learning by heart his residential address and the name of his child. Obey my orders, Meb had told him, or your child will die. The man’s face had shown panic, and Meb concluded that he had a cooperative chauffeur for the evening. I am safe now from the man in the patrol hat, Meb thought as a couple of vehicles galloped by on the other side of the road. As the taxi raced onwards, Meb made himself comfortable for the journey, enjoying the feeling of his high-sensation experience. I have served the military diligently, he thought. He glanced at the scar of a bayonet wound on the back of his right palm. Being convinced that his frightened chauffeur would obey orders, Meb lowered his knife. As the vehicle sped toward Hum, he gazed at a symbol on the car’s dashboard. It could only have been a political one. A photo of the presidents of Mare and Haba shaking hands. The symbol was everywhere nowadays---people around the northern Tigblack region of Haba showing unanimity with the two presidents, endorsing their peace treaty agreement. Amusingly, Meb’s recognition that his chauffeur was a fan of the peace treaty, which he believed was a failure, had made pulling a knife on the man an almost gratifying feeling. Meb was disheartened at how ignorant people allowed the politicians to play on their intelligence. Footprints of migrants, like himself, could still be seen heading out of the country. Fear of the Mare government, human rights abuses and years of military service still existed. Restrictions at the border crossing remained a daily hustle. Absolutely nothing seemed to have changed in Mare.

Titbits from the Sahel

For the past decade, Bobo-Dioulasso’s Maison des martyrs had been one of the headquarters of the IWA, an armed group of political activists who are against the influence of Western countries in West Africa. Recently, however, at the request of the current ailing leader of this armed group, Saye Zoubga, the Maison des martyrs had become the living quarters for Hawa Sawadogo, the thirty-one-year-old masked figure, and future leader of the group. Zoubga, a charismatic man, had been disabled for several months with a strange incurable wound on his left thigh. A wound that he sustained after his group seized control of a town near Sikasso in Mali and were stopped from overrunning Korhogo, in Côte d’Ivoire. Between August 1960 and January 1966, Saye Zoubga was a well-known personality in Upper Volta, present day Burkina Faso. Once the name Zoubga was mentioned, most senior Upper Voltian would quickly associate it with Maurice Yaméogo, the first president of Upper Volta. During Yaméogo’s rule, Zoubga was one of his staunch henchmen. The regime was equivalent to a single political party tyranny that silenced all forms of opposition. Kangaroo courts mushroomed in which accused persons had no right to be defended by attorneys. Theft, misappropriation of public funds, embezzlement, and corruption were the watchwords of Yaméogo’s era. His entourage consisted of people like Zoubga had a field day as their lavish taste for fancy lifestyle was embraced by merchants in Paris and Brussels. As strikes and mass demonstrations by students, labour unions, and civil servants marred Yaméogo’s one-party regime, he was overthrown by General Aboubakar Sangoulé Lamizana. Those within the age group of Zoubga would never forget the days of Maurice Yaméogo. For many Upper Voltians, the name Yaméogo could still implore dread in their hearts. Up to the present time, prudent folks hinted that the topmost offices of Burkina Faso administration still maintained some diehard sympathisers, like Zoubga, of the Yaméogo regime. With the command reshuffle now looming, members of the IWA were looking forward to Sawadogo, wondering what type of leadership she will bring. Moreover, Zoubga had always been very forceful in his display of leadership, leaving Sawadogo less opportunity to engage in decision-making.