Was the child they intended to sacrifice in there? Whose child was it? Had this child played with Okee and Acii?
“Sadaka! Sadaka! Sadaka!”
Kera ran fast back to the workshop. He stood just inside the gate for nearly ten minutes, listening to the screaming, allowing his heart to gradually slow down. A bitter taste stayed in his mouth, as though he had eaten a lemon rind. He wanted to spit, but his tongue was too dry. He heard the sound of marching and chanting start to grow faint. The crowd was moving. They had probably had their sacrifice and were now heading out to make the offering.
Save that child, Kera heard a voice say. He thought it was Baba, but it could not be Baba, for Baba was far away at home, and Baba’s telepathy was effective only in a radius of a few metres.
He could not let them kill the child.
He ran about the workshop looking for something to wear. The only thing available, that would look acceptable to the mob, was a jute sack. His hands trembled as ripped it apart using a shard of broken glass to make a skirt. It pricked his skin when he wore it.
The section of Main Street near the police station was empty. The crowd was about five hundred metres away, pouring out of the western gate, probably heading toward the valley. They no longer chanted sadaka, but were singing a song that would have accompanied boys going to face the knife in a circumcision ritual. Though he was too far to make out their movements, he knew they were stamping their feet and clapping and twisting their waists in what was supposed to be an erotic dance.
Kera ran after them. He soon overtook the stragglers. They limped for they had grown up with shoes to protect their soles, and now with bare feet they staggered in pain.
Kera shoved through the mass of wriggling bodies, over the drawbridge and fire moat, and out of the town. The larger part of the crowd was already going down the slope, into the valley. Vegetation obscured the front of it, but Kera grew increasingly certain that it was a child.
He could save that child. If he got his flash gun, and soared into the sky, he could kill Teacher before he made the sacrifice. The he could etch messages onto the bark of trees, or on the wall of the town, to change the course of the river Teacher had let loose.
Only when he got to the front of the procession did he see it was not a child but three adults. Father Stephen and the two nuns, each stark naked, each tied to a cross, each cross strapped to a cart. Men pushed the carts down the slopes. The sight brought a strange kind of relief. At least they were not going to kill a child who might have been friends with Okee or Acii. Yet the horror only deepened, for they were going to kill three innocent adults.
“Forgive them father,” Father Stephen was praying loudly, his voice competing with the roar of the fanatics. “They don’t know what they are doing. I don’t want to die like your son but these heathens mean to kill me like that. Forgive them, forgive them, forgive them.”
The nuns were crying and trying to sing a hymn.
Kera stopped running, and watched the carts go slowly down the slope. People brushed past him as they danced. And then someone grabbed his hand. He pirouetted to face the mayor and Teacher. Like the previous night, Teacher wore a robe of bark cloth, but this time he had a headdress as well, which made Kera think of a crown. At its front was some kind of insignia, an arrow, the sun, the moon, and stars. Was that supposed to be a representation of Kibuuka, the arrow shooter in the sky?
“There you are,” the mayor said, “we were wondering about you. How is your father?”
The mayor too wore a robe of bark cloth, and he had a headdress, though it was not as tall as that of Teacher. His looked like a skullcap. It had the same insignia, of an arrow in the sky. Kera felt a chill of disappointment washing through his veins. He had thought that if he succeeded in killing Teacher, the mayor would have taken over leadership, and probably would have stopped the madness.
“Glad to see you with us,” Teacher said. “But jute is not African. I’ll ask Okello to make you a robe. Since you are the son of Baba Chuma our distinguished prophet, you’ll get a high seat in the council.”
Though they wore wooden shoes, both limped. Kera wriggled away from the mayor’s grasp and bolted.
“Kera!” the mayor shouted, but the roar of the mob swallowed up his voice, and Kera did not hear any more.
The grass cut Kera’s legs as he sped across the valley. Unlike Teacher and his men, he did not feel the pain of running barefoot. His soles were calloused. He had worn his first shoes only a couple of years ago, and many times when he went down to the valley to herd goats, he had to do it barefoot, or with sandals cut out of car tyres. He soon left the mob far behind him. He could only hear whiffs of their voices.
He retrieved the bruka from the cave where he had hidden it, and flew to the swamp. He no longer cared that someone might see him. He cursed himself for keeping the gun far away. It had seemed like a good idea in the night, but with lives at stake it now felt like a mistake. He prayed that Baba had not got the gun. He pedalled fast. Hunger clouded his vision. He had not eaten. He felt his energy failing. He cursed Baba for not building an engine powered bruka, but Baba’s reasoning had been that engines pollute the environment.
Please Baba don’t destroy the gun. He prayed, he hoped, he pedalled, he huffed, the wings of the bruka made swooshing noises as they beat the air. He held his breath, knowing his world would collapse if he found Baba had taken the gun, knowing he would never have a good sleep if he failed to save the wazungu. He hoped Teacher would hold a lengthy ritual before drawing blood. That would give Kera enough time.
He reached the swamp, and swooped down on the island, which was nothing more than a rock jutting out of the water. A thick growth of papyrus ensured the rock was visible, and accessible, only from above. Kera saw the bundle of banana fibres in which he had wrapped the gun. He landed, expecting to find the bundle empty, but after all, Baba had not taken the gun.
Kera jumped onto the ornithopter, invigorated, and soared, but now that he was facing the town, he saw three pillars of smoke in the distance. The miasma of failure brought out his exhaustion. His muscles ached with fatigue. He could feel the weight of his own bones. Still, hoping the smoke was no indication of three burning wazungu, he climbed into the clouds and used the telephoto dial to zoom in on the fires.
Father Stephen and the two nuns smouldered on the crosses. Kera thought he could smell burning flesh. The mob stood in a semicircle in front of the fires, screaming, chanting, singing, though Kera could not hear a word.
It had to stop. He had failed to save the wazungu, but he could still put an end to Teacher’s madness.
He aimed the gun at Teacher. His thumb trembled on the trigger button. A light press, and Teacher would vanish into thin air. He could not do it. It had been easier with the soldiers, who were strangers, easier to liken them to CGI characters in Shooter, but here was a face he had seen all his life.
He could not do it.
And even if he killed Teacher, he could not be sure the madness would stop. There was the mayor, who he once thought was a good man, but who now seemed to be screaming the loudest with a face distorted in rage. Being a politician, seeing he could not fight Teacher, the mayor must have made a political decision to discard everything he believed in. Even if Kera killed both the mayor and Teacher, someone else might step in. Maybe he could float down into their midst, and tell them that Kibuuka had possessed him. But would that take any power off Teacher? Would that not betray the secret of the flash gun, and possibly of the hissing creatures?
A better option would be to write messages on the town’s wall, as he had done in the barracks. They could not argue with such writing. He burned two lines above the western gate. I hate human sacrifice. I love wazungu. The two guards atop the gate had no idea what was happening. They chewed sugarcane as they watched smoke rising out of the valley.
Kera did not return to town until after dark. Again, he passed through the gates with the fishing alibi. This night, there were a lot
more people in the streets, some stood in clusters talking in whispers, others had lit small fires and were engaging in rituals. Kera noticed many still wore cotton clothing, t-shirts, jeans, coats, ties, khakis, kitenges, dress that Teacher’s revolution denounced as kizungu. It warmed his heart that not everyone had joined the madness, but how long was it before Teacher turned his fury on them? Would he burn to death those who refused to denounce Christianity or Islam?
He paused at the door, sniffing for the smell of decay. Nothing. Then he noticed there were no blankets on the windows to block the light.
“Baba?” he said.
He tried the door. It swung open. The living room was empty. He listened. Nothing.
“Baba!” he shouted, as he ran from room to room, flipping on lights, but his father was gone. In his parent’s bedroom, there was a hole in the ground, and beside it an A4 sized book.
“Baba!” he shouted into the hole
He shone a torch. It was only a few feet deep. Baba had dug a tunnel to the world inside rocks and sealed it behind him.
Kera tried not to cry. I’m a big boy, he told himself. I am Luanda Magere the man of stone. I am Kibuuka the flying god of war. That did not stem the tears. The sound of mourning echoed in the room like a disembodied voice. He listened, as though it were someone else crying.
Knocking on the door roused him and he saw the letter Baba had left in the first page of the book, in the large and careful font of one learning how to write. The letters were spaced out neatly, almost as if the book was printed, rather than handwritten. It was in Luo, so Kera had to read each sentence twice before he could grasp the meaning of Baba’s words.
“I was wrong,” Baba said. “I thought only weapons stir evil, but Teacher used building machines to gain his power. Maybe you are right. Maybe in the right hands technology can help our people. In this book you’ll find designs and instructions on how to create many useful things, but any technology, even something like a plough, can be used for evil. I leave everything in your hands. I hope you are wise enough to discern good from evil.”
Kera had flipped through the book, and he saw designs for solar powered stoves, automatic ploughs, pots that could generate water even in droughts. He was reading the letter for the tenth time when the knocks came again.
He tried to ignore it. The knocks persisted. Whoever it was could simply push open the door, but they did not. Reluctantly, Kera staggered to the door, and found Teacher, the mayor, and a dozen others, all dressed in bark cloth. Kera had exchanged his jute skirt for jeans and t-shirts. Now, he regretted it.
“Hello Kera,” Teacher said. “What happened to your skirt?”
Kera did not respond. The others glared at him. He felt their fingers twitching with the urge to undress him.
“See?” Teacher turned to them. “I told you, he is a fake. If he was the true Kibuuka, he would not be wearing these clothes.”
“We had you followed,” the mayor said.
It must have happened as he ran to the cave to get the bruka. He should have looked over his shoulders to check that no one had followed him.
“Where is your father?” the mayor said.
“This pretender stole Baba Chuma’s aircraft,” Teacher went on. “Baba Chuma is the true messenger, but this one, the Christian demons took possession of him and made him write that blasphemy. Our ancestors can’t love wazungu. No way!”
“Where is your father?” the mayor asked again.
Kera quickly stepped back into the house, and slammed the door shut. Before he could bolt it, Teacher and the mayor pushed the door open, overpowering him. He gave up, and fled to Baba’s bedroom. He had to keep the book. He could not let them get it. He wished he had his flash gun. He could have vaporised them all. He wished the bruka was nearby. He could then fly away and live in the clouds where no evil existed. He ducked into Baba’s bedroom, and again tried to close the door, but the mayor and Teacher were right behind him.
Teacher had a machete. He wondered why he had not noticed that before. The blade sliced through his belly. He did not feel pain, but he felt a warm liquid soaking his t-shirt, soaking his jeans. He tried to stay on his feet. He failed. He crumpled to the floor, falling face downward. He tried to get up. He could not. He was paralysed. He thought he heard a trickling as his blood flowed into the hole Baba had dug.
Someone turned him over. He saw a lizard scrambling across cracks on the ceiling. Faces stared down at him. He tried to speak. Blood filled his mouth and blocked his nostrils, choking him. He could not cough to ease the discomfort. The mayor was flipping through Baba’s book, saying something. Kera could not make sense of the words. All he heard was the steady roar of a river.
Dilman Dila is a writer and filmmaker. He recently published a collection of short speculative stories, A Killing in the Sun. His works have been honored in many international and prestigious prizes. He is currently working on a scifi novel and feature film. He keeps an online journal of his life and works at www.dilmandila.com
VIII
Andrew Dakalira
1
Lake Malawi, Mangochi district, 2023
The lake was calm that day, perfect for hanging out by the beach. Not that it mattered. There was nobody within the group on the beach who was thinking of going for a swim. All eyes were on the sky, waiting, hoping the latest satellite tracking system was as good as the United States government said it was.
Colonel James Banda and his troops had been at the site for nearly six hours. He had never seen a spaceship personally, and he was sure his men had not either. But these Americans have, the colonel thought, looking to his right. The two agents from the CIA were engaged in a serious conversation with their local embassy’s security chief, two scientists from NASA who had flown in that morning, and Lieutenant John Phiri of the Malawi Defence Force. The two scientists looked out of place with their lab coats, surrounded by scores of army men.
“What’s the word, Lieutenant?” Colonel Banda asked even before his junior opened his mouth.
“Any minute now, sir,” replied Lieutenant Phiri.
“Tell me something, Lieutenant. Is the intel reliable? I have over two dozen men on this beach. I do not want the military picking up pieces of their dead bodies just because this spaceship crashed on the beach and not in the lake like they said it would.”
“Well, the information is quite reliable, sir,” began the lieutenant. “According to the digital satellite trackers, the trajectory the spaceship has taken is going to end here, on this particular side of the lake. And their technology is quite good.”
“If the technology was quite good, Lieutenant, they would know why this thing altered course in the middle of its mission and why the crew is not responding,” the colonel pointed out.
“Yes, well, as a precaution, sir, all the villages within a five-mile radius have been evacuated. The only civilians around are the Americans. Needless to say, the press will be on this. I expect this will make the front page of many local papers.”
“Do not worry about that, Lieutenant. It will be taken care of. Now, tell those buffoons to stop moving the canoes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant left and the colonel turned back to the lake. Their country had never dealt with this type of situation before. Things like this only happened in the United States and other superpower countries, he thought. What made the spaceship change its course, and the astronauts to lose communications and control of their own shuttle?
It came from the sky, silent, like a once graceful bird about to meet its end. And in this case, the bird was losing feathers as it fell. The colonel and the other personnel on the beach could see parts of the spaceship ablating from the hull right until the ship hit the water. It crashed into the lake like glass against solid rock.
Colonel Banda and his men were already on the move, the colonel only reminding his men to stay alert in case more debris fell from the sky. Lieutenant Phiri was in the same speedboat as the colonel. They rea
ched the point where the spaceship had crashed about a minute before the rest of the speedboats and trawlers did. It seemed quite clear that no one had survived but the colonel sent divers down to the wreck anyway. Beside him, the two scientists looked on, talking excitedly.
State House, Lilongwe city
For the first time that day President Moto had time to himself. Done with back-to-back meetings, he was about to call his wife when one of the phones on his desk rang. It was the phone that rarely did.
“Yes, what is it?” Moto asked, warily.
“It was as our American counterparts said, sir,” said Limbani Maloto, Principal Secretary in the Ministry of Defence. “It crashed into the lake about three hours ago. Our divers have managed to recover the bodies.”
“Three hours? Did I not make it clear that I want to be informed as soon as the vessel crashed?” Moto fumed.
“I asked the colonel to hold all communication to State House, sir. We were hoping to clarify a few things first. Unfortunately, we have not.”
“Well, do not keep me in suspense, Secretary Maloto,” the president spoke, agitated. “What is it?”
“Well, sir, while retrieving the bodies from the wreckage, the men discovered something else.”
President Moto listened, becoming more puzzled as the principal secretary of defence went on. When he finally put the phone down, his face was grim. He then picked up the phone again and said words he had never spoken before, “Get me the White House.”
2
Chileka, Blantyre district
“Not too close to the bushes, child! They have thorns,” Sir Gregory said. He stood and watched his twelve-year-old stepson Joel guide the goats away from the thorny bushes, smiling as he chased after five kids. The last born of his three stepchildren, Joel had the responsibility of goat-herding during weekends. The boy loved it almost as much as he loved Sir Gregory himself.
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