Prologue

The glint of a machete flashed through the head of a man. He rose and ran to a thick forest, pushing leaves along the way. He darted towards a tall tree that stood in the center of the forest and stopped. He looked behind him and saw an older man running speedily with a machete over his head. Soon he would have to face the old man and fight, for he knew it was the only way out from this unending chase. He clung to the tree, his feet slipping and sliding over the trunk, and bore in mind his fate depended on his ability to wave through difficult obstacles like this. He tried again to climb, but his feet failed and slipped back down, his heart pounded harder. 

He stopped and looked back. He saw a lurid glare of the palm oil lamp the old man was holding. Ought he to continue climbing the tree? No! It would be too dangerous, and the man would turn him into a pile of rubbish. History! He had to run and find a place so he could hide, think, and plan properly. He ran deeper into the forest, past the looming bulk of mango and palm-trees, which convoluted his memory, then he stopped, perspiring. Within him, he could feel his life being sucked away from his body, and he felt the pressure of fear surrounding him. He stood for a while, feeling the movement of his eyes hurtling around the forest, reasoning if he had not run into the forest but followed the direction to the stream, he would have dived into the water and be safe, because the old man feared water. 

Instinctively, he got hold of the trunk of a nearby tree and hid behind it. This was the time. There were no more places where he could run and hide. He looked back, and the old man was still coming with the palm oil lamp in his hand. The man coughed and looked at the trees ahead of him. If he continued going deeper into the forest, he would meet some wild animals he had heard of, and that would be his end the end he had dreaded. He turned to steal a gaze at the old man. The flashing torch was no more. Everywhere was dark. He remembered the warning of the old man and how the old man had vowed to kill him whenever he saw him with the woman he loved. He crouched.

Dizzily, he drew back from the trunk. There was a path to his left, which led to the sacred Igweka-ala’s shrine. If he ran towards the shrine and reached its threshold before the old man got a hold of him, there would be a possibility of him finding the chief priest and thus, preserving his life. Slowly, he caught hold of the tree and stood up. Once again, the zeal to survive was in him, roaring like a fearless lion.

He fixed his gaze at the direction of the path to Igweka-ala’s shrine and pulled his legs. He ran a short distance and took shelter behind another tree. He was a few strides away from the shrine, and he could see the forest vividly. The old man’s location was unknown to him, and he could only hear the sound of feet scrubbing against leaves. He sighted a stone, raised it, aimed, and fired. The scrubbing feet stopped, and the restless noise slowed and died down. He reached forward and grabbed another stone. He aimed and fired. A loud rumble followed, and abruptly ended.

He saw a dark image running past him. It was the old man. He cursed. Perhaps, he had to rethink his decision of going to the chief priest? Maybe, he had to stand and fight the old man? He trudged away from the tree and roved his eyes towards the direction the old man had gone. He flexed his hands and felt the strength of his chest. They were large and fit for combat. 

“Stop running. The eyes of a young man cannot be deceived by the movement of old legs,” he yelled. 

He saw the old man run past him again in the darkness. The man did not move; he stood still, prepared, and unarmed. Then, he drifted and heard the sound of a loud thud. His courage left, and he felt a dull weakness in his body that spread and engulfed everything in him. He opened his mouth and gasped. Fresh free air flowed from his mouth and descended around his body. He felt a tug from behind him, and he turned back. Quickly, a blade darted through his head, and he ducked. Enormous sweat flowed all over him.

“The gods won’t let you escape from my hands,” the old man yelled.

The man gritted his teeth. Little drops of water hit him. It was rain, and it was falling slowly. The cold of the rainwater crushed him like the fury of heated fire. He felt weak. He was in front of the old man now, facing him and imagining the impact the machete would have done if he had not ducked. 

“This is your end!” the old man shouted.

The man began to move rigidly. The old man was armed and was aware that he wasn’t harmed. Was it a fair fight? Why didn’t he run to Igweka-ala’s shrine? 

He backed away as he saw the old man raise the machete, ready to attack. Twice, he heard the rough slashes of the blade that he dodged as it cut through the air. He moved backward and stared at the old man who was languishing with the machete. Why can’t the old man fight without the machete? Why won’t the old man leave him alone?

“There’s no hope, son,” the old man flashed the blade, slashing silence.

The man moved backward, again, as he saw the blade of the machete moving closer towards him. He did not feel fear anymore. It seemed as if fear had left him when he wanted it most. 

“There’s no hope, son.” the old man yelled again.

He let the ridicule of the old man fill him and cover the empty spaces within him. Slowly, he got hold of a trunk —another trunk of a tree. Something spoke in him, real and sincere; it was pushing him more than he could go. He squinted and looked down. An old machete was resting behind the trunk. He smiled a faint, wry smile. Yes! Take the machete and scuffle, let the blade hit the old man. 

Speedily, he hoisted the machete with his hand and spiraled his hand around it, forming a grip. He was secured. He moved left, spun, stopped, and faced the old man. 

“Throw your machete. It is useless to use a machete at an experienced old man who has fought a lot of battles,” the old man cursed.

“There’s nothing wrong if the tortoise decides to present a match to a lion,” the man retorted.

“The lion roars in laughter and mourns for the loss of the tortoise.”

“Let us watch and see if the lion can outsmart the tortoise in cunningness.”

The challenge had been made, and the man was ready to implement it. He held the machete firmly with both hands and lifted it above his head. The old man followed. The man’s chest heaved, and he knew from the feeling within him that it would not be too long before the head of a man would fall and crash on the bare sand. It would either be him or the old man. 

He felt more irritated as the rain poured heavily in quick succession, ululating in a groaning voice as it watched them in the forest, preparing for combat. He relaxed a bit and let his shoulders fall down. He waited to see the old man come forward with a fierce attack; the old man did. The old man raised his machete and slashed. He raised his own and deflected the attack. Metal hit metal and a weak clanging noise followed. The old man fuddled but managed to reinforce himself. The rain poured hard, strong with a great moan. It seemed the old man would lose, that he would be crushed and chopped off into pieces like fire-wood.

“Save your strength and prevent a defeat,” the old man blurted.

“The tortoise cannot run away when the lion has just attacked.”

“Who told you?”

“You told me.”

The man looked at the old man, he felt his mind being coaxed by the old man, but he resisted and shoved the thought away from his mind. He had gone too far to stop.

“Throw your weapon and accept death!” the old man yelled again

“No! the tortoise chooses if he wishes to continue fighting!”

“The lion roars in anger and is ready to strike.”

“Let it strike, and let the tortoise feel the pain of its paw.”

“Who taught you that?”

“You.”

The man stared and watched as the old man raised his machete and struck. He parried the old man machete away, and it fell on the ground. There was a short pause as the old man turned his eyes to the machete that laid down on the ground. “Will you fight an old man who’s unarmed?”

“No. I will let you guard yourself.”

The man followed the old man’s movement with his eyes. He watched as the old man stooped and grabbed his machete. The machete quickly slipped in the old man’s palm, and he smiled. They circled again. The fight was fierce, and in the end, the man’s blade struck the old man’s neck. The old man staggered, the blood flowing from his neck. The blade slowly fell from his hands. He whimpered and fell to the ground. The man rushed towards him, crying.

“I am sorry, father,” the man cried.

The old man did not answer. He turned his head and stared at the moon. The rain was still gushing with loud rumbling sounds. The old man held his neck. More blood was flowing out. He squeezed his neck and yelled,

“Nwando, your son shall be cursed. He shall suffer to have children. There shall be hatred and bitterness among your children. Your generations shall fight and kill themselves. The spirit of the evil ones shall dwell among you. Nwando!” he paused then said, “You have killed me.”

The man watched as the old man pulled a charm from his thigh and struck it on the ground. It rebounded and vanished. He looked at the old man until his eyes sunk deep into permanent darkness. He cried and screamed. His father was no more. Worse, he was cursed.