Behind the Eclipse

by Pramudith D. Rupasinghe

  ‘All inside the huts!’ Broh yelled at curious children who thronged around him including me. I was thrown into our hut as if I was taken by a cyclone. The fear induced by the presence and the voice of Broh was incredible. His word was the final in any matter that went beyond the human control in our communities.

  I could not resist my urge to see what was going on. But I was afraid to be noticed as I could not forget what once Oldman told me that Broh could see things through the walls and he could walk around unnoticed. When the drums started beating louder, and Broh`s voice had reached its climax, he sounded like he had been strangled. It grew sharper and louder, and my fear had already overrun with curiosity. I crept patiently to the small opening in the hut left for ventilation like a mamba that was creeping into a birds nest. Through the crowd that was anxiously waiting to hear the last word which would determine hope or despair, I saw Broh on the floor moving his head like a tree top which caught in the raging winds that hit the Lofa mountains in rainy seasons, swirling faster than a beheaded cockroach. After a while, he stopped still. I was wondering whether he died. The way he was turning his head was scary. He stood partially like a chimpanzee, turned towards the bush, whistled at the top of his voice and ran vigorously into the bush. The men followed him, and women surrounded my grandmother as if to give her reassurance. It was a beginning of another waiting-a hopeful one seeking a relieving ending.

  02

  After a long night, half of another day had already come to an end with the fast descending sun as if it had already given up waiting. Despite grandmother who was sobbing, all the other women were silent, including Kumba whom Oldman was fond of like an ant to sugar. We were already back to play as if nothing had happened.

  With the cold breeze from the bush,‘Ohyo yooo, Ohyo yooo…,’ and the drum beating with the whistles started mixing into the air from very far deep in the bush. The sound of singing, drumming and whistling reached us from time to time only when the breeze was a bit stronger.

  ‘Looks like there is news,’ one of the women said as if to warn that Oldman had been found dead or alive.

  ‘Oyoo, Oyoo…,’ was a bit closer and consistently we started hearing the drum beating.

  ‘They are over the hills,’ Kumba said in a voice full of anxiety mixed with restlessness, probably induced by the uncertainty and fear. It was evident that she was searching for good news since she would be the most unsecured as she was an almond chewed by an old man that no young man would want to put in his mouth. Besides that, she had stayed enough with him for his seeds to be germinated in her newly matured womb.

  As the beating of drums and whistling got closer, grandmother stood up all in haste and rushed towards the pathway that led to the bush singing and clapping with the usual dance. So did the other women. It was a moment of joy to know that Oldman was alive. But, no one had a clue of his condition because the men had not still reached the village. The beating of drums and the whistling had already convinced everyone that Oldman was breathing. Grandmother and the other women were praying for the souls of our ancestors and the Creator.

  Worshiping ancestors used to be the most dominant element of Kissi belief system. We believed that our ancestors were the intermediates between the villagers and the Creator. At times of difficulty and hopelessness, we prayed for them and when we were happy we thanked them. Usually sacrificing animals in the river and in the bush for ancestors remained one of the rituals widely practised as a gesture of thanking. Besides that, whenever someone saw a dead relative in dreams, sacrifices followed. The fact that Oldman was alive was a reason for feasting not for our family but the whole village, though we did not still know whether he had all his limbs intact; he could utter a word, or he could stand. Emotions and their very nature of fluctuation were the key driving forces of our simple lives in the village. They ruled the life. They were as colourful as the rainbow which showed that there was something except the monotony of the bright blue skies and cold-blooded gloominess on rainy days. We knew that as the sun shone after every pouring rain, every cry and tear deserved a smile and a current of happiness. It would never rain until the end of time and so would the sun.

  Those who were crying for hours a few hours ago in the sorrow of the perceived departure of Oldman were rejoicing the clues about his existence. All of a sudden, as herds returned in the evening, the group of men who went in search of Oldman, appeared from the bush. It was visible in the distance that they were carrying him on a wooden stretcher that we used to make by using fresh wood sticks whenever we had to carry a patient who couldn’t move.

  As two armies were approaching each other in a valley, women and children started moving vigorously towards the men who were carrying the stretcher and merged into one group. I was waiting on the way with my grandmother who was already too weak mostly because of emotional draining.

  ‘My man, my man, my man, oooooooo…,’ she was murmuring over and over again just like a little child who was struggling to talk by repeating the sounds that were often heard.

  With each foot the crowd was taking towards us, our pulse rate started increasing and when the horror of reality was revealed by the sight of Oldman who was lying immobile like a fallen tree, women, and my grandmother started crying louder than they were mourning a while ago. ‘Death has different forms.’ It was Oldman who said one day, referring to one of the neighbours who got completely paralysed after he had fallen from a tree. Seeing Oldman lying on the stretcher almost like a dead body; hardly breathing with blood everywhere, reminded me of his words.

  ‘Elephant,’ I heard from the crowd.

  ‘Both legs are trampled,’ another added.

  Men were happy about finding him alive. Their drumming and whistling were no longer heard since the mourning of the women was heard over everything else.

  ‘And one hand too,’ my uncle said in a very desperate tone as though he had already given up hopes on Oldman.

  ‘He has been thrown to the bush after being trampled, man couldn’t even talk; we tracked him down following the elephant dung.’

  He was one of the closest friends of my father who was also a known hunter. He knew the bush very well. Sometimes, Oldman used to go with him.

  They carried Oldman into the hut, placed him in the open veranda with his stretcher and everyone except Kumba and grandmother allowed Broh to reach the patient. Kumba was crying like a child. Grandmother was not second to her as if to show who loved Oldman the most. The other wives were silent but with fresh tears in their red eyes that were already tired of waiting and crying. Broh walked in with heavy steps and in a serious mood. He kept on looking at Oldman for a few seconds. He was pensive while Oldman was silent. It was the first time I saw Broh in such a serious mood. He was loud and a kind of pompous character. He talked about his miraculous healing ability which was given to him by his forefathers. He often saw himself just below the Creator and everyone in the village except one man who was outcasted, feared him a lot more than respected. Some said that he used to kill a child girl for sacrifices every three months to maintain his powers. That was why he used to go Low-country where a lot of secret rituals were done in utter isolation. The Pajibor people from Maryland county were noted for witchcraft. Broh used to go there often and return with a bag full of stuff for rituals that only a few knew what it was.

  President Tubman had identified that Liberia had been split into various clans that practised different rituals and believed in secret societies. Hence, he introduced a programme called ‘Unification programme’ through which most of the clans and the tribes were able to move out from their secret cells and mix. There were a few Pajibor and Wreh families from Maryland in Lofa. Broh was one of them. He took Kissi wives and became more attached to our village than to the little settlement where their families had been living. But he never gave up his tradition but instead brought it to our village and made many people believe in it.

  ‘Bring
my sack!’ He ordered the man who had come to support him.

  Everyone was curious about what would be next. Muttering between people made it look like the old man`s life was in a critical condition.

  ‘He is almost dead.’

  ‘I guess the man is hardly breathing,’ one woman added to what someone abruptly said.

  ‘May the Creator spare his life!’ One of the best friends of my grandmother said aloud.

  ‘Here is your sack,’ the man who was supporting Broh said in a very loyal and submissive voice handing over the sack of medicine to Broh. His fear induced by respect not only for Broh but also for the old sack which was made out of cow skin was very well manifested in his every gesture and word. He dared not lift his head or straighten his backbone before Broh. So did many of our villages except my father and a few of his friends who were known as hardheaded among the community members.

  Broh sat near Oldman and checked his pulse keeping his fingers on the neck. He wrinkled his forehead and looked at my father. His glance brought my father to him sooner than he used to go to the kitchen when he was hungry. Even though some people did not believe or had different opinions against the magical healing of Broh, they too often had an unconscious fear of his crafts. One day, a friend of my uncle who always had something to tell against Broh came shivering and perspiring with fear having heard that Broh had threatened him to make him transfixed for one month in the bush and take his sight and voice away for the lifetime. Broh was always a sign of hope for his followers and cause of unnerving fear for his enemies.

  My grandfather and Broh had an unusual relationship. They used to argue whenever they met. Then they almost fought verbally and finally they laughed. Whenever Broh was passing our huts, he did not forget to stop to have a word with Oldman. They used to talk for hours, and no one in the family asked what they discussed. Those were senior and leadership discussions that remained secrets and off zones for the rest of us. The Tamarind tree in front of Oldman`s hut might know all that they talked about, and it had already started dying as if it did not want to leave a single trace of secret discussions between Oldman and Broh.

  ‘You all, go back to huts!’ It was my father.

  Only a few males including the supporter of Broh, my uncles, and a few neighbours, stayed back and others headed back to the huts. The whole night my mother did not sleep. She was sitting on the doorstep looking at the busy hut of Oldman. I was beside her expecting the first Pepper bird to sing. Despite the mysterious sounds of the bush owls and creaky wild rats, Pepper bird did not sing. It did not sing for a long time, almost for half the whole dry season.

  When Oldman started to move his limbs, nearly six full moons had passed from the day he was brought in on the wooden stretcher. Grandmother had grown older than she used to be when Oldman walked by himself the last time. And Kumba was no longer a fragile young woman; she was carrying an unborn baby whose father was iffy. Our lives had changed unexpectedly. My mother, who was the only woman of my father, had started feeling jealous of Kumba because she had already stolen love from my father leaving only his responsibility for us. I had begun to dislike father and get more attached to my mother. It was when my father came and told me that the time had come for me to go to the bush for Poro.

  ‘Get him ready, time has come for him,’ he said to my mother in a cold manner.

  He was not the man that used to love my mother a few full moons ago. I felt that he wanted to send me away from home having noticed that I was following Kumba when she went to the river. With mixed feelings, I went to the backside of the hut and cried like a baby. I knew Kumba would never hear my monologues laden with sorrow. ‘She would not want to hear them.’ I thought.

  ‘After Poro, you will return to the village as a man,’ my father said to me. It sounded like a challenge.

  ‘I also become a man like you?’ I said to him but my words did not come out.

  ‘We will be equal very soon,’ I thought.

  03

  It was a rendezvous in the middle of the bush, in the heart of darkness and at the peak of a dry season. When the sun was about to finish its journey down the peak of the mountain, men and women were busy making the groups of girls and boys eligible for Poro and Sande. They separated us into two groups: girls and boys. I was able to recall them taking my cousin into the bush a few years ago. At return, he did not want to tell me anything even though I repeatedly asked what he did in the bush.

  ‘It’s a sin if I disclose what happened; secret should remain a secret!’ He commanded with a proud tone, yet a feeling of fear was visible underneath. After that, my interest and the curiosity vanquished in time. Like air bubbles coming out irrespective of the depth where the fish was in waters when my father told me about sending me to the bush to make me a man, everything I wanted to ask from my cousin popped up fresh.

  ‘This is my turn.’ I thought. Nonetheless, I could not imagine a ritual without pain, transformation, and shock in life. I witnessed the boys keeping their wraps lifted and screaming when they were peeing. Some of them fell sick over and over again, but it was very seldom that one would die.

  ‘Let`s go!’ The man who was dressed in ritualistic costumes rather ordered than asked us to follow him. His very first words hinted me that we were going to have a regimented time. We walked along the pathway till we reached the thick bush. Then we had to walk paving our way deep into the bush in quasi-isolation. Despite the warning sounds that the monkeys made to signal the human presence or in other words the threat of strangers in the wild or a bird that called its partner, a mysterious silence was dominating in the unknown world hidden under the evergreen canopy.

  After almost half a day walk, we reached an enclosure built on an open plain in the middle of nowhere, separated into segments by mats made out of palm leaves and roofed only by the overhanging trees that were just like a sunshade.

  An old man in a prestigious yet a bit strange attire looking like a smiling devil came out of one of the temporary huts near the enclosure. His steps were rhythmic, and the look was majestic. He moved a few steps towards the boys and stopped. The man who led us there rushed towards the old man and muttered something with a gesture of loyalty. Without my knowledge, my mind was rather preoccupied in trying to understand the deal that they were discussing in secret than thinking of what would be in the store of future for me in the thick jungle. ‘Secret should remain a secret!’ I had heard many times. ‘This should be one of them,’ I thought.

  Suddenly, the rugged voice of the old man disrupted the infinite pensiveness I was drowned in.

  ‘You all have come here for the most important thing in your life,’ he started his first words in a bossy and a pretentious way.

  I could not but keep looking at his attire which was full of many things including dead animals, animal parts, strew and much more. He acted royal and powerful as if he possessed the great might of the Creator.

  ‘You will go back as perfect men at the end of the period, and you will know what men should not repeat with others,’ his tone became gradually intense and firm. Despite his old age, he looked very determined and powerful.

  ‘The men are not just born; the real men are made with learnt skills. They are filled with blood full of perseverance, thoughts full of courage, minds full of consciousness, muscles full of strength, eyes full of foresight, ears full of vigilance and mouth with a fence of teeth that does not allow secrets to come out. Boys are reborn into men here.’ He continued and started moving towards us with heavy steps while maintaining an open eye contact with everyone gathered in the enclosure.

  ‘You all will have heavier heads and responsible minds now on,’ he groaned.

  I looked at the boy who was next to me. He was one of my playmates. He looked utterly confused yet kept on looking at the old man as if he was spell-bound. I hit his hand slightly to get his attention. He did not move his head. As the old man kept walking to
wards me, I pretended to be paying full attention to him. With each step he took towards me, I started to hear my heartbeat increasingly louder.

  ‘You are still a child.’ He stopped opposite me.

  ‘You have a loose tongue, playful mouth and a sack that gathers dirt.’

  I looked at his shining eyes.

  ‘I will bind your tongue, fence your mouth and cut your sack. Then you will be hard and clean to be a man.’ His words pumped adrenaline into my blood.

  I was literary frozen out of fear. I felt a sharp pain along my spine.

  ‘Time we are going to spend here won’t be easy,’ I muttered without my knowledge.

  After a long lecture which was more like a set of rules, we were told that we would be trained in life skills required for almost every single function in life in the tribe as well as very important things that no one should ever share with anyone else.

  ‘You will never open your mouth,’ his words were firm.

  ‘I will fence it.’

  The old man constantly maintained the fear and authority among the crowd of boys.

  ‘Come one by one,’ he called the boys one after the other and had a short chat with everyone.

  ‘Your name?’ He asked.