MWINDO, CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE LAST CHILD

In a joyful voice, Nyirare sang the song that welcomed a new child to the Bana-Tubondo.  She smiled through the pain she felt.  Her midwife, who was older than the others, had never before seen a woman as happy as Nyirare during birthing.  The midwife assumed, like Nyirare’s co-wives, that the Least Favored Wife had some foreknowledge that the child she bore was a girl.

But that was not why Nyirare was happy.  For, even as the time between her contractions diminished, she remembered the first wonders her unborn child had performed …

It happened one morning not long after her pregnancy began to show.  She had risen from her sleeping-mat, wrapped a bark-cloth skirt around her waist, and stepped out of her dwelling to collect wood for her cooking-fire.  For the other wives of Shemwindo, Bana-Tubondo children gathered wood.  The Least Favored Wife was obliged to collect her own cooking-fuel.  She did so without complaint.

On this morning, however, Nyirare saw that a pile of wood had already been neatly stacked outside the entrance to her dwelling.

Perhaps the people think better of me now that I am with child, Nyirare thought as she moved the wood into her house.  Then she made the long trip to the stream that cascaded down the side of the mountain to empty into the river.  She carried a water-pot on her head.  Her body, still reed-thin expect for her abdomen, swayed gracefully as she made her way along the trail.  She brought the full pot back to her dwelling, and the rest of the day progressed as did most others.

The next morning, Nyirare found both a stack of firewood and a full pot of water waiting for her.  Though grateful for the unaccustomed service, she was also puzzled.  Surely, she should have heard the noises the children made while they performed their chores before sunrise.  Yet Nyirare, by nature a light sleeper, had heard nothing.

On the third day, Nyirare made sure she awakened before dawn.  Quietly, she waited by the entrance to her dwelling.  The darkness inside concealed her like a cloak.  Curiosity aroused, she was behaving with a decisiveness that would have surprised her co-wives, not to mention Shemwindo.

Soon she saw how the wood and water were brought to her …

In the half-light that precedes the arrival of the sun, she saw sticks of wood whirling through the air and landing neatly by the clay walls of her dwelling.  And she saw her water-pot sailing slowly above the ground, as though carried carefully by unseen hands.  She could hear the water sloshing inside the pot as it came closer.

For a moment, fear clutched coldly at Nyirare.  As the last of the wood settled into the pile and the water in the pot stilled, she felt an urge to rush down the mountain to the dwelling of the mganga to tell him what she had seen.

Then warmth radiated from the center of her womb.  And that warmth quieted Nyirare’s fears and filled her with a contentment that had eluded her since the time before Shemwindo made her his Least Favored Wife.

“You, Child,” she whispered softly.  “Is this your doing?”

The warmth that answered her contained no words.  But words were not needed, for she knew that her unborn child was, indeed, helping her.

Now, as she sang, the child moved out of her.  No further pain accompanied the birth.  And the warmth that had rested in her womb remained after the child was gone.  As that warmth enveloped her, Nyirare barely heard the cry of anguish that escaped the midwife’s throat when she lifted the newborn infant and saw that the child was unmistakably a boy.

The midwife’s eyes were not the only ones that had witnessed the birth of Shemwindo’s son.  Kitundukutu the cricket perched in the shadows of the dwelling’s inner wall.  The moment the child’s gender was clear, Kitundukutu jumped from the wall and flew outside.  His wings carried him across the compound, toward the dwelling of the Mwami, who impatiently awaited the arrival of the last midwife.

Kitundukutu glided through the entrance and alighted at Shemwindo’s feet.

“You, Shemwindo,” the cricket chirped.  “Are you not now the father of seven children?”

Shemwindo stared at the insect.

“So far, I only know of six,” the Mwami said.

“Do you not know that your Least Favored Wife has borne you a son?”

With speed rivaling that of Kibira the leopard, Shemwindo sprang to his feet and rushed out of his dwelling.  Only a timely leap spared Kitundukutu from being crushed by the Mwami’s feet.

***

This is as far as I got into telling this story before events from the distant past caused me to put it aside for far too long.  Now that I’ve shared this part of it with you, I feel a need to finish what I started.  I will return to it before too long.  Right now, Dossouye wants me to finish the second volume of her adventures.  When I do, it will be Mwindo’s turn.  Hopefully, my interpretation of the Mwindo saga will be published some day.  If and when that happens, remember that you saw the beginning of the story here.

Thanks for reading this.

MWINDO, CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TIME OF FEAR

During the months of the seven pregnancies, Tubondo became a troubled land.  Crops failed.  Families quarreled violently.  Traps and nets remained empty.  Sheburu’s auguries were ambivalent, and provided no comfort to those who came to him for advice.

Shemwindo remained aloof and truculent.  Only when warriors of the neighboring Bana-Biri people raided an outlying Tubondo village did the Mwami bestir himself to action.  And then he fought with a ferocity that frightened even the warriors who went into battle beside him.  The Bana-Biri soon fled as if pursued by a Bashumbu, and the Bana-Tubondo wondered whether they should have joined them.

No longer did Shemwindo visit the dwellings of his wives.  Each one slept alone, under the shadow of the spear in the central pole.  As their bellies grew, so did their fear.

In better times, they would have shared a mutual understanding of their role in the creation of new lives for their husband and Tubondo.  In the time since Shemwindo’s pronouncement, however, his wives avoided each other.  They spent most of their times consulting with midwives.  Those discussions centered on ways to determine the gender of an unborn child.

“Does your child ride low in your belly?” one midwife asked the Most Favored Wife.

“No,” Nyili replied.

“Then it is probably a girl.”

“Probably?” Nyili gasped.  “Can you not say for certain?”

“Not for certain,” the midwife replied.  “But most of the time, a girl rides high in the belly, and a boy rides low.”

Nyili could only hope that her child continued to ride high.

Another midwife spoke to Masisa.

“You are old to be bearing your first child.  And the first child of an older woman is usually a boy.”

The Eldest Wife wept for three days in her dwelling afterward.  And she spent the remainder of her pregnancy clinging to the word “usually” although it were a protective talisman.  For the midwife had said “usually,” not “always.”

Some of the other wives also visited midwives to seek reassurance.  Like Nyili and Masisa, they did not find it.  Some went so far as to visit Sheburu, the mganga.  But Sheburu had less to offer than the midwives.  For the Bashumbu no longer spoke to him through the bones.  And he had lost his influence over Shemwindo.  Times had become so difficult for the mganga that he was sometimes tempted to throw his mask into the bush and scour the markings from his skin.  But even though the Bashumbu were silent, they would never forgive such an act of transgression.

Of all Shemwindo’s wives, only Nyirare did not seek advice from the midwives or the mganga.  In the brief moments her co-wives spent with each other, they talked about her.

“She must know she is going to have a girl.”

“But how can she know, when the midwives and Sheburu are unable to tell us anything?”

“Perhaps she has other ways to know what is riding within us.”

“Then let us ask her.”

“Never!  Is she not the Least Favored Wife?”

Thus, they didn’t ask.  If they had, they would have known that Nyirare had no idea whether her child would be a boy or a girl.  But she did know the child would be extraordinary.

MWINDO, CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE MIDWIVES SPEAK

Shemwindo’s wives began their labor on the same morning.  ....Sunrise.... saw seven midwives hurrying to ascent the mountain to assist with the births.  Below the summit, the Bana-Tubondo waited anxiously.  There had been talk of deposing Shemwindo should he carry out his dire threat to slay any man-children his wives birthed.  But the hands of those who talked trembled at the thought of matching might with a man who had defeated a Bashumbu.

The seven midwives sang to Shemwindo’s wives while massaging their legs, palpating their stomachs, preparing the special knives that would cut the umbilical cords, and laying out the covered clay bowls in which the babies’ afterbirth would be stored, and later buried.  The wives sang along with the midwives, and tried to keep quavers of fear from their voices.

Shemwindo waited in his own dwelling, for among the Bana-Tubondo it was considered bad luck for a man to be present at the birthing of his children.  After each of his wives gave birth, the midwife would come to him to tell him whether the child had been born alive and whole.  Then she would inform him of the child’s gender.

The Mwami sat quiet and motionless.  His face was like that of a leopard in a tree, poised to leap downward.  The evil seed Kitundukutu had planted was about to bear fruit.

By mid-day, the first midwife entered Shemwindo’s dwelling.  Bowing low before him, she said: “I speak for Masisa, the Eldest Wife.”

Shemwindo nodded.  The midwife straightened and slapped her hands twice against her breasts.  And the sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh said: Masisa’s child is alive and intact.

Shemwindo nodded again.  Then the midwife uttered a peal of high-pitched, celebratory laughter.  And the tone of that mirth said: Masisa’s child is a girl.  Had the tone been lower, it would have meant that a boy had been born.

Shemwindo nodded a third time.  Then he reached into a skin pouch lying at his side and pulled out a butea-ring.  He handed it to the midwife, who solemnly accepted it.  And the butea said:  I accept Masisa’s child.

Bowing again, the midwife departed.  The moment she left, another appeared.

“I speak for Nyili, the Most Favored Wife,” the second midwife said.  Then she slapped her breasts two times and laughed in a high-pitched tone.  Before the setting of the sun, four more midwives appeared, each announcing the birth of a girl-child.

Dusk fell, then darkness.  But no midwife came to announce the birth of Nyirare’s child.

MWINDO, CHAPTER TWELVE

THE DRUMS SPEAK

Two months later, the kiomas sent an extraordinary message pulsing through all of Tubondo.  In the forests, the trappers looked up from their snares in astonishment at what the drums told them.  In the forges, the blacksmiths laid down their hammers and shook their heads in envy.  In the fields, the women paused in their cultivation of crops and sighed in awe.  In their hidden villages, the Kwikwi clapped their hands and danced in joy.  And in the iremso – the spirit-house – Sheburu cast the knucklebones of a monkey on a patterned mat to divine the meaning of the news the drummers proclaimed.

For the kiomas said: Shemwindo, the Mwami of Tubondo, has stopped the offering of all seven of his wives …

When Shemwindo heard the drums, he was standing by the river, spear in hand.  Thus far, he and his people had heeded the injunction of Mukiti.  No longer did they fish, bathe, or wash their clothes in the shallows by its banks.  Nor did they paddle their boats along the broad stream to trade with their neighbors.

Shemwindo was contemplating the wisdom of flouting Mukiti’s admonition.  Had Shemwindo not already bested a Bashumbu?  Could Nkoli the crocodile or Ngubu the hippopotamus tear out his backbone if he strove against them?  Given the melancholy that had gripped him since his conversation with Kitundukutu, he was sorely tempted to test himself against the Children of the River.

Then he heard the message of the kiomas.  At another time, before the seeds of doubt Mpaca had sown with the voice of the cricket had taken hold, Shemwindo’s spirit would have soared with pride and vindication at such news.  It was a deed that would be praised throughout the lands of the mountain forests.

Instead, Shemwindo’s face twisted in rage.  And his hand tightened on the shaft of his iron-tipped spear.  Turning away from the river, he ran back along the trail to the ....mountain.. of ..Tubondo.....  On his way, he passed a large party of hunters returning with carcasses of monkeys and Mboloko, the small, shy antelope that dove headlong into the bushes at the slightest sign of danger.

The hunters had heard the drums, and they greeted their Mwami with great effusion.

“Hail, Shemwindo!” they cried.  “May your seven wives bear you seven sons!”

Shemwindo did not reply.  Moving so quickly that the hunters had no time to react, he snatched spears out of the hands of six of them.  Now holding seven spears, he continued along the path.

The hunters looked at each other in uneasy amazement.  Never before had they seen their Mwami behave this way.  They followed him, but they were not able to match his pace.  And they wondered what he intended to do with the spears …

MWINDO, CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SEVEN SPEARS

In Shemwindo’s compound, each of his seven wives sat alone in her dwelling.  Soon enough, they would be busier.  For among the Tubondo, pregnancy was a time of constant ritual, constant prayer.  Each wife was thinking her own thoughts about the miraculous simultaneous stopping of their offerings when Shemwindo strode into the compound.

The Mwami carried the captured spears, along with his own, like a bundle of sticks.  His face was a stony mask as he stopped at the entrance of the dwelling of Masisa, the Eldest Wife.  Then he took one of the spears in his throwing-hand, and hurled it through the dwelling’s entrance.  The point of the spear plunged deeply into the central pole that held up the roof.  Masisa’s eyes rounded in fright as she stared at the spear-shaft.  And she began to tremble.

Shemwindo went next to the dwelling of Nyili, the Most Favored Wife.  He took another spear and threw it into the central pole.  To all the rest of the dwellings in turn he went, saving Nyirare’s for last.  When he finished, a spear impaled the central pole of each dwelling.

And the spears said: You, Wives of the Mwami … listen well, for to disobey Shemwindo is to die.

All seven wives emerged from their dwellings to face Shemwindo.  Their faces showed unease, dismay – even fear – at the sight of him.  He stood silently at the center of the compound’s courtyard, arms folded across his broad chest.  He was like a dark monolith, impervious to warmth or compassion.

By now, other notables of the Bana-Tubondo had climbed up to the compound, spurred by the news spread by the kiomas.   Sheburu, Mwamihesi, and Muheri came, along with other would-be well-wishers.  But their words of felicitation died in their throats at the sight of the grim expression on the Mwami’s face.

When all had arrived, Shemwindo spoke.

“You, Wives – hear this.  None of you will beat a male child. You will give birth only to daughters.  She who bears a male child will be driven away from Tubondo.  And the male child, I will slay.”

The wives drew back in terror, for it seemed that their husband had succumbed to madness.  For what sane man did not want sons?  The same question passed through the minds of the notables.  But no one said anything to Shemwindo.  For they had seen a similar iron-eyed expression on their Mwami’s face once before – on the day he fought against Mpaca.

“Let the spears remain in the dwelling-poles until all seven of you have brought forth your children,” he said.

Then he turned and walked to his own dwelling, entering without a backward glance.  Slowly, his wives returned to their own dwelling.

“What does this mean?”  Mwamihesi asked Sheburu.

“Perhaps I will know once I have cast the bones,” the mganga replied.

But he already knew the bones would tell him nothing.

That night, a violent thunderstorm broke over Tubondo.  Rain cascaded in endless sheets, and thunder boomed like the beat of a giant’s kioma.  Lightning illuminated the dwellings and fields of the Bana-Tubondo in brief recapitulations of daylight.

Some of the Bana-Tubondo muttered prayers to their ancestors, for the season had not yet come for such a storm.  It was bihunda – a bad omen.

They had no way of knowing that the cause of the storm was a violent disagreement between the Bashumbus of Lightning and Rain over the way the new Bashumbu had been conceived.

One out of seven, Kiruka’s rain hissed.  A pitiful performance!

Better than none out of seven, as you would have had it, Nkuba’s thunder growled.

We shall see.

So we shall.

By morning, the rain had stopped and the thunder and lightning stilled.  Kentse, Bashumbu of the Sun, burned away all signs of the premature storm.  Even so, the hearts of the Bana-Tubondo remained uneasy.

CHAPTER 10

HEDGE OF SPEARS

Nyirare, Least Favored Wife of Shemwindo, lay passively beneath her husband on the sleeping-mat.  She focused her eyes at the darkness at the top of her dwelling.  Her hands lay flat against the raffia fibers of the mat.  Shemwindo’s weight pressed down on her as though the night itself was flattening her against the floor.

The Mwami did not often go to Nyirare’s dwelling.  Her father, Bukumba, had been the only sub-chieftain to oppose Shemwindo’s rise to the leadership of the Bana-Tubondo. Bukumba had warned that Shemwindo’s overweening pride would one day be the undoing of the people. 

Bukumba’s talk had reached Shemwindo’s ears.  The wrathful Mwami’s advisers had managed to talk him out of slaying the skeptical sub-chieftain.  But from the time she had sat across from Shemwindo on the marriage-stools, and seen the sullen glare in his eyes as he licked the mbu from her hand, Nyirare had known that her status in the royal compound would be that of Least Favored Wife.

She waited for Shemwindo to finish.  He had already visited the dwellings of his other wives that night.  Nyirare was, as always, last as well as least.  He brought nothing of his other wives to her.  For he was always careful to clean himself with banana leaves before entering the dwelling of the next co-wife – even Nyirare.

The Least Favored Wife wished that she, not Iyangura, had been the one to go into the river with Mukiti.  As Shemwindo neared his final impersonal thrust into her body, Nyirare imagined warm water closing gently over her head …

Wordlessly, Shemwindo detached himself from her.  In the warm darkness inside the dwelling, Nyirare could hear the soft breath of the wind through the thatch of the roof.  She and Shemwindo were silhouettes in shadow. 

Shemwindo felt a sudden urge to speak to her.  But the words of her father stood between them like a hedge of spears.  He rose and departed from the dwelling.  She continued to lie in the same position, and made no attempt to stem the flow of her tears.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

KITUNDUKUTU’S MESSAGE

Shemwindo walked slowly across the open yard of his compound.  Low-burning fires illuminated his dark skin as he walked past.  Aside from a single string of white clay beads looped around his waist, the Mwami was naked.  And the beads said: Wives, you will soon bear children for me.

He could only shake his head at the irony of the beads’ message as he bent to enter his dwelling.  Two rains had passed since his victory over Mpaca and subsequent ascension to the status of Mwami of Tubondo.  During that time, not one of his seven wives had ceased to make her monthly offering of blood to the Bashumbu of the Moon. 

Shemwindo’s lack of progeny was the only blight on his reign as Mwami.  If he did not soon stem the offering of at least one of the seven women, the whispers he heard behind his back would become louder …

As he straightened inside his dwelling, Shemwindo heard a familiar chirruping sound.  Quickly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he spotted a tiny form clinging to the dwelling’s wall.

“I see you, Kitundukutu,” the Mwami said.

The cricket had begun to visit Shemwindo soon after the downfall of Mpaca.  At first suspicious, Shemwindo soon came to enjoy his conversations with the insect.  For Kitundukutu’s words often contained wisdom.  And Shemwindo knew nothing of Kitundukutu’s association with the Bashumbu of the forest.

“Did you enjoy your visits to your wives this night?” Kitundukutu chirped.

A scowl crossed Shemwindo’s face.  There were times when he wondered whether Kitundukutu was subtly mocking him.  Then he would discount the possibility.  The small one wouldn’t dare …

The Mwami sat down on his stool before speaking further.  In the silence, Kitundukutu sang wordlessly.

“All but one,” Shemwindo finally answered.  “This time, perhaps Elili-Kahombo, the Bashumbu of good fortune, will be kind to me.”

“Kind in what way?” Kitundukutu inquired.

Shemwindo gave the cricket a sharp glance.

“In what way do you think?” the Mwami returned testily.  “Do I not need a son?  And soon?”

Now, the words of Mpaca flowed out of the mouth of Kitundukutu.

“You, Shemwindo,” the cricket said.  “Tubondo belongs to you.  A son will want to divide Tubondo with you.  Two sons will divide it more.  Three sons will divide it yet again.  And think on this: would a son, or two sons, or three sons, or seven sons, not desire to sit upon your royal stool before you are ready to give it up?”

Shemwindo’s brow furrowed as his mind digested those words.  Never before had he considered the prospect of sons in such a way.  He had always assumed he would be Mwami until he died – either of old age, or in battle.  The thought of danger to him from a product of his own loins had never before occurred to him.  His only concern had been that he, rather than his wives, might be barren.

Now, he recalled the history of the Bana-Tubondo, as well as the Bana-Bira, the people who dwelt on the next mountain range and were hostile to Tubondo.  Songs were sung of long and bitter feuds of succession … brother against brother, son against father, family against family.

Deep within Shemwindo, there was a place that the iron that surrounded his heart did not touch.  It was the place where his fears and insecurities had gone to hide on the day he set out to challenge Mpaca.  The inhabitants of that hidden place were beginning to stir.  Shemwindo’s teeth clenched in anger as he realized that place continued to exist, despite all his efforts to eliminate it.

He glared at Kitundukutu.

“I have heard enough, cricket,” Shemwindo growled.  “Be gone.”

Kitundukutu hopped away from the wall, spread both sets of wings, and flew out of the Mwami’s dwelling, chirruping in farewell.  And Shemwindo remained on his stool for the rest of the night, brooding darkly.

CHAPTER EIGHT

INTO THE RIVER

Mukiti and Iyangura stood at the edge of the riverbank.  Fragments of clamshells littered the wet soil.  And numerous hoofprints indented the mud.

They had not spoken during the long walk along the winding forest trail.  Mukiti released Iyangura’s hand from his.  He looked at her, then took her shoulders in his hands.  No longer did she smile.  Tears welled at the edges of her eyes.  She was using all her self-control to keep them there.

“Are you afraid?” Mukiti asked.

“I am trying not to be,” Iyangura replied, speaking for the first time since the sun had risen that morning.

“But you cannot forget what I said before we left Tubondo.”

“No.  I cannot.”

Mukiti laughed.  His hands remained on her shoulders, and his mirth caused his palms to press rhythmically against her collarbones.  Iyangura stared at him.  She had never imagined that a Bashumbu could laugh.

“The words I spoke were for your people, not for you,” he said when his laughter stopped.  “I would never do anything to harm you.  Do you believe me?”

“I am trying to,” said Iyangura.

Mukiti shifted his grip from her shoulders to her arms.  Then, without warning, he leaped into the river, carrying Iyangura with him.  The power in his legs carried them in a high arc, father than any human muscles could have done.  Iyangura’s mouth was in an outcry as they sank beneath the surface.

Water poured into her mouth and down her throat.  Her eyes bulged wide in panic as the Bashumbu bore her further and deeper into the river.  But she did not choke, and she did not drown.  The water seemed to flow through her, as though her skin had become a membrane through which liquid could find easy passage.

She looked at Mukiti, who smiled at her.  Then he opened his hands and let her go.

Immediately, she shot toward the surface.  Streaks of white paint fell from her eyelids.  Red clay spiraled around her like blood.  When her head broke the surface, she gulped air – and gasped as though she had just inhaled a handful of water.  With a cry of consternation, she sank back into the river.

Mukiti took her in his arms then.  His touch was gentle.  A vagrant current eddied beneath her mushuku.

This is your home now, Iyangura, Mukiti said, his words rising like bubbles in her mind. My people will be your people.  You will learn to love the river – and me.

He continued to hold her as they floated downward, downward toward the illumination of the Deep.

In subsequent days, the Bana-Tubondo slaughtered and ate some of the goats Mukiti had brought them.  But the meat had an indefinable taste of the river that rendered it unpalatable.  And the goats the Bana-Tubondo allowed to live never bore young.

CHAPTER NINE

MPACA RECEIVES NEWS

The ....Deep.. ..Forest.... was unlike any other.  Its trees grew gigantically tall, with black bark harder than stone.  Moss hung from their branches like cloaks of shadow.  Lianas grew thick as pythons, and sometimes they could be seen to move sluggishly.  Leaves whispered secrets to each other even when the wind was still.

Animals behaved differently in the ....Deep.. ..Forest...., where strife reigned and peace hid fearfully.  Ngai the gorilla waged constant warfare with Kumbusu the chimpanzee, and sometimes the forest would echo with the ferocity of their battles over each other’s females.  Troops of carnivorous monkeys chased Kibira the leopard through the treetops.  Bongo antelope clashed fiercely with the giraffe-like okapi beneath dark boughs laden with carnivorous fruit.

The forest was a reflection of its Bashumbu, Mpaca.  And it was no place for a creature as insignificant as Kitundukutu the cricket.  Still Mpaca was Kitundukutu’s master, and the cricket served him well.  His tiny green body trembled as he finished telling Mpaca what he had seen and heard in the Butu, and in Tubondo.

The Bashumbu roared in rage as he absorbed the news.  His voice rose louder than the trumpeting of Njoku the elephant.  He swung his hand at a nearby tree.  His long, hooked claws gouged four parallel wounds in its adamantine bark.  Mpaca ignored the tree’s groan of protest.

His open mouth bared leopard’s fangs at Kitundukutu.  The only other feature that could be seen in the hairy mat of his face was his eyes: two circles of crimson bisected by slit, gold-colored pupils. 

“Damn this Shemwindo!” Mpaca bellowed.  “Was it not enough that he defeated me with his tooth of iron?  Now, he becomes kin to Mukiti, and my kin in the Butu want to raise a son of his to be a Bashumbu!”

He roared again, and the leaves on the trees clung together in terror.  Mpaca glared down at Kitundukutu as though he meant to squash the cricket into the ground.  Kitundukutu remained motionless.  He knew Mpaca would not deliberately kill him.  Kitundukutu was too valuable as a spy, a window to the world outside the ....Deep.. ..Forest.....  But when Mpaca succumbed to his mindless rages, anything could happen …

Abruptly, Mpaca’s anger subsided.  He cocked his head to one side.  Then his body remained as still as one of his trees.  The dark, stringy hair that covered his body twitched in rhythm with his thoughts.

“Tell me again what Mukiti said at the end of the ceremony,” he commanded.

“He forbade the Bana-Tubondo from going into the river, Kitundukutu chirped.  “He said if they did, his people would tear out their backbones …”

“He is planning something,” Mpaca interrupted.  “That one never does anything without reason.”

And you never do anything with reason, thought Kitundukutu.  Wisely, he kept that observation behind his multifaceted eyes.

Mpaca’s eyes narrowed in thought.

“What does a Mwami do after the marriage of one of his kinswomen?” he asked.

“He goes to his wives,” Kitundukutu replied.

“That’s when it will happen!” Mpaca roared.  “That’s when Nkuba and the others will try to create their Bashumbu-of-the-Ground!  Haooor!  If waterlogged Mukiti can make trouble, so can I!”

He glared down at the cricket.

“You, Kitundukutu – fly back to Tubondo,” he commanded.  “Wait until Shemwindo has finished with his wives.  Meet him in his house.  And tell him this …”

The cricket listened carefully to Mpaca’s words.  Then he repeated them to the Bashumbu.  Mpaca growled in satisfaction, then sent Kitundukutu on his way. 

CHAPTER SIX

TUBONDO GATHERS

At the foot of the ....mountain.. of ..Tubondo...., Shemwindo patiently awaited the arrival of Mukiti.  With the Mwami were his nobles, advisers and sacred office-holders. 

Foremost among the latter was Sheburu the mganga, the diviner of the wants and moods of the Bashumbu.  Sheburu was clad in a belt of leopard-hide, from which dangled a raffia loin-covering.  Swirls of red and white paint bedecked his skin, and his face was covered by a mahogany mask that was featureless save for narrow, rectangular eye-slits.

And Sheburu’s mask said:  You, spirits … have I not looked upon your faces and remained unafraid?

Mwamihesi, chief of the blacksmiths, was there.  He was a huge man, second only to Shemwindo in strength and stature.  His mask depicted a serene, broad-featured face bordered by thin strips of iron. 

And Mwamihesi’s mask said: The Spirit of Iron is my friend and my shield.

Mushumbiya the drummer was there.  He wore neither mask nor paint.  He sat in a special place beneath the tree from which his kioma-drum had been cut.  His hands coaxed a steady rhythm from the top of the kioma.  The membrane was made from the ear of Njoku the elephant.  Other drummers, scattered through the groves and fields of Tubondo, echoed Mushumbiya’s music.

And the drums said: Come, Mukiti … come now for your bride, great Bashumbu.

Meshemutwa the Kwikwi was there.  He was a child-sized man whose head barely reached above Shemwindo’s belt.  His people lived so deep in the forest that their dwellings were inaccessible to the Bana-Tubondo – the People of Tubondo.  Meshemutwa carried a tiny bow and a quiver of dart-like arrows.  His garments were made of leaves.

And the leaves said: You, Tall Ones … the forest belongs to the Kwikwi, and you are here as our guests.

Muhera the sacrificer was there.  She was a gaunt, stooped woman whose face was painted to resemble that of a grinning skull.  Slashes of white clay resembling ribs and other bones decorated her bare skin.  In her hand, she held a long, curved dagger.

And the dagger said: Death is the sacrifice none of us can escape.

Iyangura stood apart from the rest of the Bana-Tubondo.  The wives of Shemwindo continued to attend her.  She remained silent, for the time for her to speak had not yet come.

Throughout their groves of banana-trees; throughout their plantings of yams and cassava; throughout their palm-orchards, the Bana-Tubondo celebrated.  They sang, danced, and drummed counterpoints to the summoning beat of Mushumbiya’s kioma.

Yet the mood of the Bana-Tubondo was ambivalent.  True, a spirit-marriage was ikasana – an event conducive to earning the favor of the Bashumbu.   Against such good fortune, however, stood the Bana-Tubondos’ sorrow over the impending loss of Iyangura, who was loved by all because she was as beautiful inside as out.

So they revelled and drank nsamba, the potent brew the palm-trees gave them.  And from time to time, they stole glances at the motionless, silent figure of Iyangura.  The clay that covered her gleamed scarlet in the sunlight.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SPIRIT-MARRIAGE

Mukiti’s arrival was startlingly sudden.  One moment, the Bana-Tubondo were dancing to the beat of the kioma.  The next, a thousand strangely mute goats were wandering among the astonished people.  And the Bashumbu who had brought them was presenting himself to Shemwindo.

At that moment, Mukiti and Shemwindo seemed very much alike.  The difference was that one was immortal, and the other was not.

Now they exchanged phrases couched in ancient ritual.

“I see you, Mukiti.”

“I see you, Shemwindo.”

“I see the bride-price you have brought for my sister, Mukiti.”

“Are you satisfied with what you see, Shemwindo?”

“I am satisfied, Mukiti.  Iyangura is therefore yours.”

“Then let her come to me, Shemwindo.”

The Mwami motioned with his hand, and Masisa the Eldest Wife led Iyangura to the two hide-covered stools that had been set out the night before.  Sheburu the mganga brought a large bowl of mbu – banana-paste that had been made by Shemwindo’s wives.

Mukiti and Iyangura sat facing each other on the stools.  It was the first time she had seen him.  Sheburu held the bowl in front of them.  The bride and groom each dipped a hand wrist-deep into the paste.  Then they began to lick the mbu from each other’s hands.

The tips of their tongues danced from finger to finger; explored the creases of each other’s palms; caressed the flesh on the backs of their hands.  The Bana-Tubondo remained silent until the licking ended.

Iyangura looked into Mukiti’s eyes.  For the first time that day, she smiled.  And her tongue flicked across her lips.

Sheburu bent and carefully inspected both glistening hands.  Nothing was left of the mbu.  If a single speck of the paste had remained on either of the couple’s hands, it would have been bihunda – a bad omen.

“It is done,” said Sheburu.

Taking Iyangura’s hand, Mukiti rose from his stool and drew her to her feet.  They stood very close together, skin touching skin.  Iyangura lifted one leg and curled it behind that of the Bashumbu.  Her movement said: Husband, take me.

The Bana-Tubondo erupted in cheers then, and Mushumbiya’s kioma pulsed like the beat of an excited heart.  Shemwindo and the other notables withdrew.  Mukiti raised his hand for silence.  The Bana-Tubondo quieted to hear what he had to say.

“You, Bana-Tubondo … hear me well,” the Bashumbu said, his voice rising like thunder.  “Let no man, woman or child of your kind enter my river after I have taken Iyangura there.  The people of the river will tear out the backbone of anyone who disobeys.”

Expressions of shock and dismay spread over the faces of the Bana-Tubondo.  These were the last words they expected to hear from the Bashumbu who had just become marriage-kin to their monarch.

Shemwindo and Mukiti glared at each other.  Wrath slitted Shemwindo’s eyes and pulled down the corners of his mouth.  His teeth showed like a leopard’s.  Once before, he had bested a Bashumbu …

Then something different insinuated itself into his mind … a voice that seemed to speak from the fire inside his soul.  Shemwindo knew than that in the future, the meaning of Mukiti’s restriction against the Bana-Tubondo would become clear.  And that meaning would be of advantage to him in time of peril.

“Go, then,” Shemwindo said curtly.

Still holding Iyangura’s hand, Mukiti departed.  A single raindrop fell on his head, and in it he sensed Kiruka’s approval, though he did not acknowledge it.

Iyangura did not look back as she walked away from her people.  High above her and Shemwindo, a small form detached itself from the branch of a tree and flew toward the deepest part of the forest, where even the Kwikwi did not dare to go.

Race card, race card, race card.  It is very difficult these days for people of color to speak openly about racism without being bombarded with indignant accusations of “playing the race card.”  Whether it’s school brawls, police incidents such as the one involving ....Harvard.. ..University.... professor Henry Louis Gates, or politics (see the recent ....U.S..... presidential election), the term “race card” will be tossed like a verbal hand grenade.  Usually, the intent of the term’s utterance is to question the integrity and motivations of blacks and other non-whites who so much as mention the words “race” or “racism” in daily discourse.

But what, exactly, is the race card?  Is it a trump, a joker or a wild card?  In what deck do you find it?  What sort of game is played with the race card?  Bigoted bridge?  Race rummy?  Political poker?  Or, perhaps, blackjack?

The race-card notion has come a long way since it emerged in the mid-1990s, in connection with the O.J. Simpson murder trial.  Despite seemingly overwhelming evidence against him, a mostly black jury acquitted Simpson after defence lawyer Johnnie Cochran convinced its members that racists in the Los Angeles Police Department had framed his client.

In the aftermath of that controversial outcome, Robert Shapiro – another member of Simpson’s defense team – had second thoughts about Cochran’s tactics.  In an interview with Barbara Walters after the trial, Shapiro said that “not only did we play the race card, we dealt it from the bottom of the deck.”

“Race card” immediately became the buzz-phrase of the day, and even now, more than a decade later, its power to put a damper on discussions of discrimination is as strong as ever.

But the concept behind the race card is not new – and it wasn’t new when Shapiro blurted the words to Walters.  The race card was invented long before Shapiro, Cochran or Simpson were born.  It was devised hundreds of years ago by a society that attempted to join freedom and slavery under the same roof.  This incompatible cohabitation proved impossible to sustain.  The often-violent struggle to evict slavery from a society that was supposed to be free lasted a long time, and its repercussions echo to this day.

It took a whole deck of race cards to try to keep freedom and slavery in the same house.  There was the “blacks are uncivilized” card, the “blacks are less intelligent” card, the “blacks are prone to violence” card, the “blacks are immoral and promiscuous” card, the “blacks don’t smell good” card, and many more.  These cards are also known as racial stereotypes.

Any way you look at it, this deck is stacked against people of African descent.  And it doesn’t matter whether the cards are dealt from its top or bottom.

Even though blacks have made phenomenal progress since slavery was kicked out of freedom’s house and Barack Obama was elected to the White House, the old race cards remain in play.  Indeed, several new cards have been added to the deck, and it’s growing all the time. 

For example, there’s the “blacks are always complaining unjustifiably about racism” card.  And the “affirmative action discriminates against whites” card.  And the “blacks can get away with damn near anything by screaming racism” card.  And the “all blacks want to do is dance, rap and play basketball” card.  And now, in the Gates incident, the “blacks should know better than to mouth off at the cops” card.

Old and new, these cards represent the lingering aftereffects of the past.  They also poison the present and muddy the future.  Race-card mania needs to be erased.  Let race cards, in all their various suits and decks, become irrelevant relics rather than a means to continue playing a game that is ultimately destructive to people of all races.

In a novel called From the Notebooks of Dr. Brain, science-fiction writer Minister Faust had one of his black characters say this about the race card: “You know in my experience, the jokers … who talk the most about ‘playing the race card’ … are the people who own all the diamonds … who’ve picked up the clubs … to beat down the spades … because they’ve got no heart.”

To which I can only add: Next time you hear somebody talk about “playing the race card,” ask yourself these two questions:

Which race?

            Which card?

CHAPTER 4

MESSAGE FROM THE RIVER

Nkuru the Turtle was the messenger of Mukiti.  As Nkuru ambled along the pathway to Shemwindo’s compound, the men, women and children of Tubondo scrambled to make way for him.  No one coveted the soft meat beneath his diamond-patterned shell.  No one was that eager to risk death.

A swift-footed youth ran ahead of Nkuru to inform Shemwindo of the messenger’s approach.  The Mwami was seated on his royal stool when the turtle finally reached the compound.

“I see you, Nkuru,” Shemwindo said graciously.

“Do you have a sister named Iyangura, Mwami Shemwindo?” Nkuru inquired in a voice as deep as the river-bottom.

“I do have a sister of that name,” Shemwindo replied.

The Mwami was careful to conceal his excitement.  Iyangura had already told him of the unseen gaze she had sensed in the river the last time she had bathed there.

“The Bashumbu Mukiti wishes to have Iyangura as a spirit-bride,” Nkuru continued.  “If you and she agree, Iyangura will no longer be part of the People of the Ground.  She will be of the River.  Tubondo will never see her again.”

Shemwindo nodded.  Then he called to a herd-boy and sent him to fetch a black goat from the royal flock.  Because white and piebald goats were common in Tubondo, a black goat was a rare gift, indeed.  When the youth returned with the bleating animal, Shemwindo offered its tether to Nkuru.

“The Bashumbu does us great honor,” the Mwami said.  “May this gift represent our esteem for him.  Come back to Tubondo tomorrow, and I will give you my sister’s answer.”

Without speaking further, the turtle took the goat’s tether in his mouth and led the beast down the pathway, where it would eventually be swallowed by the river.

Mukiti the unpredictable, thought Shemwindo as the two animals’ forms blended with the foliage far below.  The Bashumbu of the river dwelled as far apart from his peers as he did from men and woman.  Sacrifice and worship meant little to him.  He was satisfied with the loyalty given freely by the denizens of the water.

Now, Mukiti wanted Iyangura …

Shemwindo loved his sister.  They were twins, Shemwindo’s birth preceding Iyangura’s by minutes.  The thought that she would be forever gone from him if she became Mukiti’s spirit-bride pained Shemwindo in a way he did not think was possible.

He would ask Iyangura to consider the Bashumbu’s proposal. But he knew what her answer would be.  He knew what it must be.  And so did she.

Iyangura’s thoughts returned to the present, for her brother’s seven wives had finished her preparations.  Now Iyangura was ready to meet the Bashumbu who would take her away from everything she had ever known. 

On the surface, she was as expressionless as an idol carved from ruby and jet – unattainable, as though she had already taken on the attributes of a spirit.

Inside, she wept.

CHAPTER FIVE

MUKITI RISES

Dim green light suffused the Deep of the river.  It was as though there were a second sun shining somewhere far below, sending its rays upward through filmy skeins of algae and intricate lattices of weed.  The plants danced slowly in the gentle current.

Mukiti ascended from his home, which was as far away form the surface of the river as the Butu was from the clouds.  His body shortened as he swam upward.  His long, serpentine shape altered into manlike form.  Scales fell away from his skin and drifted downward like a rain of silver tears.

The creatures of the river paid homage to their Bashumbu as he passed.  Schools of fish of myriad sizes, shapes and colors spiraled around him.  Nkoli the Crocodile and Ngubu the Hippopotamus deferred their endless warfare to pay homage to their master.  As Mukiti reached the surface and headed toward the shore, Kinkunduri the Crab awaited him.

Mukiti’s mind was filled with motes of thoughts and impressions that darted like minnows of light.  He knew what the reaction of the Bashumbu in the Butu would be when they learned that he had taken a spirit-wife.  Never before had he done so.  He had not shown any interest in the affairs of the People of the Ground.  Long had the mgangas known how futile it was to propitiate him.

But now …

Kiruka, Bashumbu of Rain, had sent a message to him in the form of a shower that pitted the surface of the river.  The raindrops told him of the other Bashumbus’ plans for Shemwindo of Tubondo.  Since he had no entreaties to accept or deny, Mukiti neither agreed nor disagreed with the Bashumbus’ motives.  Still, he knew there was a part that he could play in their schemes.  That part, however, had little to do with the desires of his fellow deities.

When his head broke the surface, Mukiti’s transformation was complete.  He was a gigantic water-serpent with a coat of jewelled scales and unblinking opal eyes when he ventured from the green-lit Deep.  But it was a man who waded to the riverbank.  Water sluiced from his body, leaving dark skin behind.

In human guise, Mukiti was a tall, lean man who – in his own way – was as imposing as Shemwindo.  His head was crowned with brass isia-disks set with hair from the tail of Njoku the Elephant.  The elephant-hairs said: See how even the mightiest of beasts falls before me to provide decoration.

Around his waist was a belt made from the brown-and-white striped hide of the bongo antelope – an accouterment even more rare than Shemwindo’s ncambi.  Fringed loops of raffia girded his arms and legs.

When his feet touched land, he kept his gaze locked rigidly forward.  For he knew that if he looked back, he would dive back into the water that was his home, and abandon his human guise – as well as the reason he had assumed it.

Now Mukiti looked down at the swarm of crabs that covered the riverbank like a much-patched blanket.  Their spokesman, Kinkunduri, waved his claws as though they were hands.

“We are ready,” Kinkunduri said in a raspy tone.

“Thank you,” Mukiti replied.

Then the crabs shivered and shook, and their shells began to splinter and peel away.  From the remains of the shells, other shapes emerged … shapes that rapidly grew and took on different outlines.

When the transformation was complete, a thousand goats stood in place of the crabs.  Not a single bleat escaped their throats.  They stood motionless, awaiting Mukiti’s command. 

Of all the throng of crabs, only Kinkunduri had retained his original shape.  Scuttling sideways, he returned to the river.

Mukiti began to walk along the trail that led to Tubondo.  Silently, the goats that would be the bridal price for Iyangura followed.  Packed closely together as they were, their white and piebald coats flowed like a stream along the narrow pathway.  There was not a single black one among them.

           I’ve just finished watching the ....Staples.. ..Center.... tribute to Michael Jackson.  And I say unequivocally that anybody who was not moved by those two hours has to be made of unyielding stone, and have ice water instead of blood running through his or her veins.  I know I was overcome with all kinds of emotions I didn’t think I had anymore.

            Regardless of what one might think of the various accusations he faced during his life, he was more than just an entertainer – although he was one of the best entertainers who ever lived, starting from when he was just a little boy from ....Gary.., ..Indiana...., thrust into the spotlight of the world.

            I think that the memorial showed that black people matter.  Our ancestors were sold into slavery by fellow Africans who did not give a damn about them, to European colonists who were not willing or able to do their own work.  Yet, under the worst of all possible circumstances, those ancestors helped to build new societies in the ..Western Hemisphere.., from the North Pole to the South Pole.  Without us, this part of the world would have been a more diminished and uninteresting place, and it’s about goddamned time we got some credit for that, instead of having crime and poverty statistics thrown in our faces all the goddamned time with nothing positive to balance those attacks.

I believe a simple, sincere, expression of gratitude for the way African slaves and their descendants developed rather than destroyed the world into which they were thrust would be worth more than all the reparations and Congressional apologies in the world.  But maybe it’s too late for that.  I sure as hell hope not.

CHAPTER TWO

SHEMWINDO

Shemwindo of Tubondo was a well-satisfied man.  He was the Mwami – Paramount Chieftain – of a land comprising seven major villages.  The eldest daughters of the matambos, or headmen, of those villages were wives to Shemwindo and lived in his compound on the highest peak in the country.  He had defeated Mpaca, the dreaded Bashumbu of the Forest, and freed Tubondo from the mad deity’s depredations.

And on this day, Iyangura, the sister of Shemwindo, would become the spirit-bride of Mukiti, Bashumbu of the River.  Conqueror of one Bashumbu, soon-to-be marriage-kin of another – it was no wonder that Shemwindo dared to believe that he himself had become a Bashumbu of sorts as he stood at the foot of his compound and gazed at the land he ruled.

He remembered an earlier time, when fear had ruled Tubondo – fear of Mpaca.  Shemwindo, too, had been terrified by the long claws and hairy, snarling visage of the Bashumbu.  But Shemwindo had hammered the fear out of his heart and replaced it with iron.  He had taken his spear and ventured alone into Mpaca’s realm of tree-shadows and confronted the deity.  Shemwindo’s courage had infused his weapon with a magic of its own.  Again and again, he had driven his spearpoint into flesh that parted like smoke.  The echoes of Mpaca’s howls of shock and pain still lingered in Shemwindo’s ears.  The Mwami smiled.

He was a tall, powerful man, in the prime of his rains.  His skin shone like oiled ebony, and powerful thews swelled along his limbs.  In his eyes, the fierce, uncompromising spirit of Kibira the Leopard blazed like an unquenchable fire.

Shemwindo’s clothing was a praise-poem …

He wore a robe of cloth beaten from bark and dyed red with camwood powder.  Each of his seven wives had participated in the making of the garment.  Nowhere else in Tubondo could its like be found.  The robe said: Only the body of Shemwindo is fit to be clothed by me.

Butea-rings – strings of raffia-fiber used as currency in Tubondo – circled his arms and legs.  The butea said: The Mwami is of high value to his people.

A ncambi-belt encircled his waist.  It was made from the skin of Nsombo the Bushpig, and was decorated with the teeth of monkeys, chimpanzees and leopards.  The ncambi said: The beasts of the forests are meat for Shemwindo’s spear.

On his head was a kembo, a cap made from the skins of the bush-baby and the flying squirrel, two of the most elusive creatures of the forest.  The kembo said:  Nothing escapes the eyes of the Mwami.

The spear he had used to vanquish Mpaca was Shemwindo’s scepter.  Its wooden shaft was covered with carvings, and its iron point captured the sunlight and flung it back into the sky.  The spear said: Fear me.

Weapon in hand, Shemwindo began his descent to the place where his sister was being prepared for her spirit-marriage.

CHAPTER 3

IYANGURA

Iyangura stood still and patient while the wives of her brother painted and clothed her.  The preparations progressed beneath a raffia mat supported by four tall, slender poles.  The structure had no sides.  The women of Tubondo gathered around it to sing praise-songs to the woman who was about to become the bride of a Bashumbu.

In all the land, no one – not even the seven wives of Shemwindo – approached the radiant beauty of Iyangura.  She was like a fragment of night sculpted to perfection by Ongo the Creator. One day, Mukiti had seen her bathing near the Deep, the part of the river that had no bottom.  He saw drops of water glisten against her skin like start in a midnight sky.  And when he looked at the rounded glory of her face, it was as though all the water between the surface of the river and the Deep had suddenly vanished, leaving only the woman and the Bashumbu.

Mukiti had been certain that Iyangura was aware of his presence.  But she gave no sign as she stepped out of the river and wrapped a skirt of bark-cloth around her waist.  His eyes had followed her even after she disappeared into the trees.

Soon after that first sight Mukiti rose from his river and sent a messenger to Tubondo …

The wives of Shemwindo smoothed an ointment made from mbea-oil mixed with red clay onto Iyangura’s skin.  When Mukiti came for her, the ointment would say: Husband, my skin will slide like butter beneath your hands.

Nyili, the Most Favored Wife of Shemwindo, carefully daubed white clay onto Iyangura’s eyelids.  The clay said: Husband, even when my eyes are closed, I shall see you.

Masisa, the Eldest Wife of Shemwindo, braided Iyangura’s hair into long, horizontal rows.  Then she attached butea-rings to the ends of the braids.  And the butea said:  Husband, am I not of worth to he who has given me to you?

Nyirare, the Least Favored Wife of Shemwindo, secured the mushuku, a small piece of bark-cloth, to the raffia belt that rode low on Iyangura’s hips.  The belt and the mushuku were the only garments Iyangura would wear this day.  And the mushuku said: Lift me.

Iyangura remained silent throughout the long, ritualized preparations.  On this day, her body would speak for her.  But beneath the calm expression that rested like a mask on her face, she remembered …