Behind the Eclipse

by Pramudith D. Rupasinghe

  One night, Broh came to see my father and they discussed till early morning. Next day, my father had come to my mother and told that he would go with Broh to the neighbouring villages to treat people who were dying like cattle caught in the plague.

  Times of misfortune and fear were a part of village life. When an epidemic hit the village, the healers or in other words, the indigenous doctors became the centre of attention, and they became the most prominent persons in the village. The chiefs depended on them a lot: to win the heart of a woman, maintain a better sex drive and erection, treat impotence, diminish the power of enemies, craft a charm for protection and on many other diverse reasons. Apart from all of those mysterious demonic rituals that the commoner feared to talk about, the traditional healers did a lot for condensing epidemics as well as treating the patients with different ailments that ranged from infectious diseases to chronic illnesses. The villagers did not rather dare to question their treatments though they wanted to.

  Many of them might have had doubts when the same dose of the same medicine was prescribed for different diseases. However, the heavy hearts laden with an utmost faith of the innocent and ignorant villagers who had been moulded not to question adults or those above their level in the social hierarchy, usually enhanced psychic energy to boost the immunity supporting the process of curing rather than the medicine alone that helped the recovery.

  ‘Before the rise of the sun, we have to leave,’

  ‘Hm,’

  ‘Otherwise, we would not reach the place before the sun set.’

  ‘Good,’

  ‘I crafted a charm for both of us to remain untouched by the evil spirits that destroyed the village.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Stay pure tonight!; That is the most important thing.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘No man and woman business!’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘I’ m leaving now and I expect you to come to my hut before the first bird sings,’

  ‘Yes,’ both men nodded and parted.

  I felt my father was quite shaken by the fact that the sickness was deadly but he also knew that the mission with Broh would be an important one; not merely because of recognition among the villagers, but mostly because of the amount of things he would get as his share.

  One time my father went to Sierra-Leone with Broh to treat people hit by an outbreak of a disease from which many people died vomiting and defecating blood and later both of them returned sick. That time, Oldman was very active. He and my uncles made a small Palava hut for my father and kept him there for two weeks. Thanks to the Creator and our ancestors looking at us, both of them recovered. After the incident, my father was a bit reluctant to go for such risky adventures with Broh. But this time, it was not his choice; he had no choice except to please Broh as he was the one who saved the life of Oldman—The grandfather who always admired my father.

  ‘You are like me. You are like my soul,’ Oldman used to say many times.

  In such instances, my father remained silent, but his body language and facial expressions said a lot about his pride and happiness.

  ‘Do you want me to make some food for you?’ It was Kumba`s voice that startled both my father and me. She had already become the bridge for three generations; Oldman, my father and me. She had become the reason for our growing hatred, but she had something that knitted us together which I could not understand. I think neither Oldman nor my father was able to figure out why she became the thread that held three generations together; a fire that burned the three of us and our identities into ashes.

  ‘No, I have already prepared food for them. I will heat them on the fire in the morning,’ my mother had never become that defensive before. She had always been closer to Kumba. I then realised that the relationship between by father and Kumba had cascaded to many layers in no time. Probably, my mother already knew about my tasting his secret pot of palm wine when my father was not around.

  When I got up to the Pepper bird`s song, men had already left the village. It was almost ten hours of walking, and they usually used to take a route that was away from the dangerous animals, but the wild would be the wild. No one could predict when a paw would hit the back; a set of sharp teeth would pierce the throat, or a horn would go through the belly. Every single step in the wild was associated with an extreme fear and thrill which sometimes was the addictive side of some of the activities that the villagers practised.

  ‘When there is no risk, there is no way forward!’ Whenever my mother tried to stop my father from going with Broh, he used to tell. But after Kumba`s arrival between them, my mother almost switched off her emotions manifested to my father, and she looked happier when he was not at home.

  The cloth seller, who came from Guinea was the first stranger to sleep in my home. He used to come every other month to our village. As per him, he used to go to every neighbouring country for trading.

  ‘These are from the North.’ Every time he showed a piece of cloth to someone, he said raising his eyebrows.

  Whenever he came to our village, women thronged around him for hours, but they rarely bought clothes.

  I noticed Kumba touching a Lapa. Her eyes were so bright, and face was full unlike the other women, including those of my mother. They just admired the collection of clothes and released an empty sigh because they were not able to afford them. When Kumba started to fold the piece of cloth, everyone started looking at each other as if they heard bad news. She unknotted the corner of her old Lapa and took a kissi-coin out and placed it on the palm of the cloth seller. When her pearl white set of teeth exposed between her ebony lips, my mother`s eyes were about to come out from her eye sockets. She kept on looking at Kumba for a few seconds; a look of detest that could burn anything down and then she rushed to the hut. Later, I noticed that she was crying. After that, not only they did exchange a single word, but also became like a hyena to the lion, declaring a life long war.

  ‘When sympathy turns to detest, it reaches its very profound bottom and highest peak making two individuals the worst enemies for life,’ it was Oldman who told me one day.

  ‘Men, women, and children die one after the other,’ cloth seller said while he was lifting his heavy bag of clothes.

  ‘I will not go to Guinea till the rain ceases,’ he added leaving the compound.

  The following morning, my mother was not at home when I got up. She had left the house early in the morning. It was not difficult for me to speculate what she had done. She must have gone to the river at dawn before the first bird sang.

  ‘Let your curse grow with the rising sun and burn your enemies to ashes. Winds of your sighs will take their ashes beyond the horizon where the demons craft the spells behind the setting sun,’ this I could never forget as Broh used to utter every single time he visited Oldman. One night, Broh came to see Oldman and told ‘Before the first bird becomes hungry.’ Oldman nodded in agreement. At dawn the following day while I was out peeing, I saw both of them walking with careful steps as if they were on a secret mission.

  It was sharply after the sun had shifted from the centre to the west. My mother returned home with a contented expression on her face that was dark and sad last night. The burning fire that she was trying to hide underneath her skin had already diluted into an anxious expectation. By the way, I knew what she was expecting was the result of what she did out of wrath. However, she no longer manifested her frustration or sadness that was dominated by her passive aggression.

  I felt that Kumba was in danger whose touch I would never forget. The woman who made me a man and the first female who discovered me in danger, and I was unable to drop a word or take any action since the traditions and hierarchy did rather rule our lives than human feelings or loyalties.

  Kumba was like an iron chain. Oldman, my father and I were like the small links of it. We liked each other inseparably, but whenever th
e chain moved, the links, they crashed each other but never broke apart. She was the centre of three generations into which love, lust, anger, detest, and greed gathered from every direction and turned into an eye of a cyclone that would destroy every living thing. I had an urge to see her: an urge that was unlike most of the time. When she was passing behind our hut, my mind forced me to do something to prevent her from being poisoned by my mother. It was one of the rarest moments in my life. I felt that I was going against my own blood. I was going against my own parents. I was going to surrender to my desires against my origin.

  ‘Did I love my mother?’ I asked myself, but I could not find a sincere answer.

  ‘My father?’ I liked him.

  ‘Oldman?’ he was almost gone.

  ‘Kumba?’ I burnt with flames of desires when I lay down with her. She was still a girl who was fresh in her warmth and vibrant nature.

  ‘Do I love her?’ I found no answer whenever I asked that from myself. For sure, I knew she had fully conquered my needs as a man: a man whose youth was at its peak.

  ‘My woman,’ she was surprised to be called as such by the grandson of her husband.

  ‘You?’ She said in astonishment.

  ‘Yes, it is me,’ my tongue held my words.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I say…,’

  ‘I say... you be careful!’ I gently fondled her head. It was full of soft curls. My hands slipped along her greasy hair and fell on her full bosoms. She was still looking at me wordlessly and immobile just like a fresh flower dumbfounded by the painful pleasure at its first encounter with a honey bee. An ambiguous stage between fear and desire was taking control over every single breath.

  I made love to her.

  I made love to her.

  I made love to her repetitively as if there wouldn’t be any more chances. Our desires rose up just like flames that kissed the air that was flying high, and we remained completely intoxicated by oomph of lust.

  I deliberately avoided telling her what was about to happen but it was not that I had forgotten about it.

  ‘My man,’ I realised that I had fallen asleep at her hut when I heard Kumba`s voice trying to wake me up.

  ‘My belly hurts o,’ she was struggling to stand up, but she was not able to move. Her pretty face was shrunken with pain and rage as though she knew who did this to her.

  ‘Your mama,’ she grinned her teeth clenching them till they creaked.

  ‘Ever since she had the chip on her shoulder.’ I said.

  ‘I know. She returned from the river this morning,’ words slipped without my knowledge. Kumba was watching me just like a half beaten Cobra, and I did not know what else to say or do. I suddenly felt that it might be our last meeting. Kumba was dying with her belly. I did not know if it was for Oldman or my father. My chances of being responsible were very minimal. But she was carrying an unborn for one of us who had the same blood. Was it a feeling of guilt or sympathy? I did not know. But, I was sad. Might it be the place where I was positioned in the relationship with her or mere human feelings that are common to everyone? I did not have much more time to question my feelings than to run to the next cluster of huts to tell my uncle who was pretty close to my father and Oldman whom I could rely on. Unfortunately, Broh was not around, and it would take a few weeks for him to return with my father. By that time, whatever was to happen would happen. When we entered the hut, Kumba was completely raged by the spell. She was on the floor mourning and battling with pain. A fresh blood stream that had gone along the mud floor hinted us that her baby was no longer alive. She was going through a miscarriage which disconnected the direct flesh and blood bond that Kumba had built with one of us.

  ‘She is poisoned,’ uncle`s words confirmed my doubts.

  ‘Witch!’ I determined to go to the river the following evening.

  I knew that my uncle would not support my ideas if I told him I wanted to go to the river and craft a spell against my own mother. Adults were always right in my society even though they did not live by example. I decided to go alone, and I knew what was needed, but I had no idea of the procedures of the ritual.

  When the sun fell behind the bush into the sack of dusk, when the crickets hindered the sounds of dry leaves being trampled by the paws of hungry leopards, when the wildflowers suppressed the odour of evil spirits haunting along the river bank and when everyone thought it was time for calling it a day, I crept into the bush heading to the river with a rooster I had stolen from my grandmother. The sky was in its sombre mood; the river was calm and mysterious despite the crickets that were loud, I heard my heartbeat. I felt that I was in the hands of the unknown. In every nook and cranny in this tropical forest, there should have been spirits who were looking at what I was about to do, and among them were my ancestors who never wanted to hurt feelings of any male child among their descendants. I firmly gripped the piece of sharp metal in my right hand and the rooster in the left.

  ‘Kumba…You can’t die,’

  ‘You can’t leave,’

  ‘Kumba wait till my father returns!’

  ‘Kumba wait till Oldman passes!’

  ‘Kumba bear a child for me; then you can go!’

  I pleaded for my ancestors and the Creator to spare her life.

  After some time, all the struggles came to an end, and the body of the rooster became still yet the warmth was there.

  ‘Death does not come easily and freely,’ I thought.

  05

  The stars were twinkling in the sky over the canopy of the mango trees in front of Kumba`s hut. Almost three days had passed after she fell sick. She was still not fully recovered, but there were rays of hope visible which gave me a solace despite all the rumours spreading like a wildfire that I had been on her mat when she was found sick.

  In many countries in West Africa, the societies are driven by rumours. They determine the relationships. They are firm shreds of evidence for convictions and serious judgements. They even take the lives of people and everyone believes them.

  ‘Without fire, there cannot be a cloud of smoke,’ I heard my mother say to my grandmother. I knew it was about Kumba and me. But I pretended as if I heard nothing as I knew that she was in a constant attempt in diverting her guilt into someone else`s account which made her forget that she was accusing her own son.

  When everyone’s attention was centred on Kumba, Oldman had already started his final journey in silence. No one knew that he had already left this world while the women were tangling.

  ‘My Oldman o, my Oldman o,’ it was my grandmother who just entered her hut crying.

  ‘The most expected often comes in most unexpected times,’ what once Oldman had said came to my mind.

  ‘Without Saa, we cannot prepare him,’ one of my uncles said in a tone of ambiguity.

  ‘That is what I was thinking too,’ it was my mother. But, her voice was not as firm as it used to be before when she talked about the issues that were strictly related to my father’s hierarchical rights. As I expected, she added, ‘Fayiah is there anyway.’ In the absence of the first male child, the responsibilities will be automatically transferred to the next male child down the line. The third son of Oldman, Fayiah, my uncle had never been close to Oldman. Oldman often had disagreements with Fayiah because he believed that his son had not grown up into the virtues and decorum that Oldman expected from his offsprings, but Oldman wholeheartedly accepted my father. The second son who was also called Tamba had already been among the ancestors as the river took his life away a few years ago.

  ‘Fayiah?’ It was my grandmother who raised her cemented voice wiping her tears. I knew it was not her wish.

  ‘You do not remember the day before Oldman disappeared in the bush?’ She yelled at my mother.

  ‘This woman always stood for the right,’ Oldman told many times.

  Just before the d
ay, Oldman disappeared in the bush, Fayiah came and quarrelled with him. He had almost pushed him to the wall of the hut and had behaved disrespectfully.

  ‘I never want Fayiah`s hands on the body of Oldman again, never again,’

  ‘He hurt him plenty,’ grandmother kept on insisting.

  Death, despite being a dreaded and sad event, it could be perceived as the beginning of a person’s deeper relationship with all of the creation, the complementing of life and the beginning of the communication between the visible and the invisible worlds. The goal of life was to become an ancestor after death: to become a helpful soul. That is why every person who died should be given a ‘correct’ funeral, supported by many religious ceremonies by the right person as per the customs and traditions of each tribe. If this was not done correctly, the dead person might become a wandering ghost unable to become an ancestor; therefore it was a danger to those who were alive. It might be argued that proper funeral rituals were more a guarantee of protection for the living than to secure a safe passage for the dead. However, ensuring a proper and a respectful death ceremony was more important than any other ceremonial moment in human life. Therefore, the close cycle of relatives of the dead dots the I’s and crosses the T’s to make sure that the process of transition from death to the afterlife was facilitated.

  Usually, the dead body was supposed to be washed by the first male child and then, the other rituals ought to be executed. But, as my mother brought her hatchet to the funeral of Oldman, things turned out to be quite messy and nearly impossible.