Behind the Eclipse

by Pramudith D. Rupasinghe

‘How?’

  ‘I came hunting with my father,’ the old man said and then remained pensive for a while looking at the empty sky.

  ‘That night, the leopard tracked us; we did not have a clue that we were being followed,’ the man was thoughtful. His face filled with sadness just like how the bright sky could suddenly be populated with grey clouds in the rainy season.

  ‘It hit my father; right on the neck. I saw how he was dying. I screamed, but no one heard. Not even the spirits that we have been worshipping for centuries; not even our ancestors who could have chased the big cat. But, all of them wanted my father to join them beyond the line of life. When I realised that there wasn’t anything I could do, it was too late to save his life. Also, as a small boy whose limbs were not even grown strong, I could not but scream aloud in the middle of nowhere nobody except the predators could hear. Then the beast loosened the grip on my father’s neck and threw a threatening look at me who was throwing stones at it. I could remember it groaning like a devil and the following moment, I was found in this village where I have been living since ever,’ he sighed.

  Suddenly his mood changed, and he sat next to me. ‘I was a Kissi boy, but now I am a Toma man,’ he looked into my eyes and told. Then he laughed loud.

  ‘I don`t know how to get back to my village, but I know these people saved my life,’

  ‘I was born a Kissi and live a Toma life,’ he repeated.

  ‘Shelter of these trees, infinity of the blue skies, rough soil on the earth, healing waters that run and fall and the cooling breeze that wraps around anyone, are for everyone; they do not treat Kissi or Toma differently.’ The wrinkles of his old face embellish his smile which said a lot more than he talked while his eyes were gazing at the valley below the mountains.

  ‘You will stay here, there, people are dying from curses!’ he touched my head. I nodded.

  08

  Cold breezes crept into the hut at midnight waking me up with chills as if I had Malaria. ‘Whoop,’ the mysterious call of an owl was the only evidence of a life to be found in the surroundings. I couldn’t but let hot tears ooze down my swollen cheeks. Even though I was considered as a man in my society, life was still challenging me in many ways. The utter isolation in high mountains hidden under the canopy of trees gave me the impression of an estrangement. Our communities were never on the mountains; we randomly crossed the high hills of Lofa. Except for saving someone who got lost in the bush, we did not have other reasons to cross the highlands.

  I rolled left and right on the mat. The ground was harder and more uneven than the one in my parental hut. The first night, I was tired and sick hence I did not feel the difference. But, when my physical pains started to lessen, I started wondering why I was in this strange place where nothing was familiar to me. I decided to walk out rather than attempt to sleep. Even though I dared not go out of the hut in the hour of the demon when I was in the village, I went out and sat on the little piece of rock that had been just next to the hut where I was sleeping. The whooping of the owl was brought by the breezes that were filtering through the nocturne flowers. Just like the call of the mystic bird did not go with the soul binding floral fragrances, everything in the immediate surroundings was mismatching and frigid.

  Having been obsessed by the calling of the owl, I was unable to free my mind. All of a sudden, a single drop of tear started running down my cheeks. My father: he must have already been among the ancestors. It was quite a while since I left the village and his last breath should have been released to the empty air by this time. There was no way that the Bush-curse would have kept someone alive for so long. However, it was good that I did not go to witness the woe-struck faces over and over again. I could still remember how woeful the villages had been. There was nothing but the signs of death, fear, and sorrow except for some traces of life that had been there a week ago.

  The decomposing dead bodies of domestic animals and the foxes fighting for the easy meals in the village of Oldman`s brother had not still erased from my memory. When we were passing, one dog came running towards us seeing the human presence. It was just a moving skeleton by having starved for days or most probably for weeks. Even though it was hinted that we had nothing to give, it was happy seeing human lives around him. Now, I could imagine my village nothing more different from what I witnessed in the village of Oldman`s brother. My father, probably, along with my grandmother and many of those who were close to him, might have been gone by now.

  ‘Bush-curse takes lives in circles. First round, it started with my father and, probably, it will end up with a few more lives. After a short silence, another will be isolated in a dark corner of a hut with no appetite to eat a piece of monkey meat or a chicken foot which will be followed by weakness, diarrhoea, and vomiting. When the demon takes the fullest control of the life, blood starts oozing out of every single hole of the body, even from the eyes, turning the human face into the face of a demon. After that stage, no human can make miracles. With the help of the curse, the demon gets into the body and starts eating it. That is why blood comes out. When the first drop of blood comes out, everyone leaves the place. A single drop of possessed blood can cause death to a whole village in a few weeks. Once, the demon finishes eating what it wants; it spreads the curse to others so that he can consume one body after the other.’ Oldman kept us in a cycle and told stories about historical events. A long time ago, his parents had fled their village in Guinea where the Bush-curse killed people like rats.

  ‘Human life is all about remembering the history and knowing that past is future. The present is just a passage where we can play our roles in changing what is in its store to be repeated,’ I thought.

  I was unable to execute my traditional role in facilitating my father to join the ancestors just the way he was unable to do when Oldman passed. I couldn’t forget how everyone was worried about the afterlife and funeral rituals; it was important not only for the deceased but also for those who were alive to ensure that the souls of the deceased loved ones join the ancestors to whom they could pray and plead, seeking answers to their problems and consolations to their worries. In case the transition was not facilitated, the family would be disgraced in the society; people would badmouth the living ones, and the soul of the deceased would remain in the village as a haunting spirit which might even harm the living. I felt sorry for my father and was ashamed of me. Being his eldest male child alive, I could have stayed back and helped him pass freely. But at the same time, I had a notion that he would have made it. I was convinced that, if he had got the right medicine on time, he would have survived the curse. At the end of the day, as Old man always used to say, ‘demon is waiting to destroy all that the Creator creates.’

  Just like a clap of thunder that struck in no time, at an unpredicted time, ‘Kumba’ came to my thoughts tearing my mind into two pieces. I was not sure whether she was alive or not. Probably, she might have escaped the curse. I felt as if I was caught in a current in the waters. I wanted to swim upstream whereas the water was taking me downstream. A burning desire to go back and check what could have happened to Kumba was resisted by a chilling fear for confronting the reality of what might have happened to the village. I could not but feel it was the weight of one individual against the weight of a tragedy a family encountered. I was so much lost in a multitude of weird thoughts that I did not realise the maiden sun-rays were peeping through the canopy of trees.

  That was the same sun we were waiting impatiently to see over the mountains. But instead of the usual warmth of the sun, a sickening cold breeze always reminded me that I was not at home. I had a reason to go back, and a reason not to go back. However, at least I was safe with human beings.

  ‘You are up very early?’ Kissi words startled me.

  ‘Oh you!’ I said seeing the old Kissi man who talked to me the other day.

  ‘How was your night?’ He asked me empathically as if he knew that I had not slept. P
robably, he might have had a similar period of adaptation when he first arrived here.

  ‘Mountains are not like the valley. Life is harsh but, do not forget it is higher than the valley!’ He paused.

  ‘You will see the valley below you.’ He looked into my eyes for a few seconds as if he was expecting me to say something.

  ‘It is important not to forget the valley as you climb the mountain,’

  ‘You can’t forget where you were born, where you played, where you spent your childhood,’ he sighed.

  ‘They say I am a Loma now, but I was born a Kissi.’ He smiled at the sky and then looked at the ground. He remained silent, but his fast breathing hinted that he was not calm. Something in his life seemed to be triggering his reaction.

  ‘These mountains know how much I cried when I first came here. These rough soils silently absorbed my tears when the sky was looking at me indifferently.’ He paused again.

  ‘It was always a struggle to restart. Especially, when you have left your bonds behind.’ I was silently listening to him. He was talking as if he was reading my mind. But I did not want to speak to him about what was going through my mind. I was afraid to be confronted or advised. I wanted my opinion to remain ultimate.

  ‘But once you made a move, there is no way you can turn back.’ He looked directly at me for some time and walked downhill.

  An old woman came downhill with a sack and stopped by me. She smiled showing her wide mouth without teeth and told me something. I speculated it was a greeting. Her facial expressions and intonation were kind and welcoming. I smiled back and nodded hinting that I was alright. She smiled at me again and instead of talking in Löömàgìtì that I did not understand a word; she used gestures to indicate me that she was going downhill to fetch water.

  Over time, I caught some words and started to talk to the children who were playing downhill. Sometimes, I kept on observing the strange games they played. They were loud and fast unlike the children in my old village. We were not used to very fast movements, but Lomas were very energetic and sure footed on hills.

  ‘Oh,’ a child came to me. He told me something in Löömàgìtì that I didn’t understand at all. I crossed my index fingers together to show him that I did not understand what he said. He ran back as though he did not want to try anymore to convince the Kissi man to come and play with them. I did not understand their language even though there were pretty similar sounds and words; the meanings seemed to be completely different. It was not merely the difference of altitude where two tribes lived. It was how they evolved separately. We all were Mande people, the largest ethnic family in West Africa, but our nuances had grown into vast differences and created barriers between us. But, as long as we all were living beings, despite the linguistic differences, I was able to understand the feelings behind every nonverbal interaction. Over time, I learnt to respond to them in such a way they understood what I said. Sometimes, whenever the old kissi man was around, he translated for my sake. Nonetheless, a fear that was latent yet quite dominant always remained within me. It was a reminder that kept me awake all the time to be vigilant about what was happening in the surroundings.

  ‘Some tribes consume other tribes in rivalry. Sometimes, witchcraft rituals are performed by sacrificing people from powerful tribes like Kissis. People from South-west believe that when they sacrifice strong Mande from northeast, the power of the craft becomes stronger.’ Oldman used to say those things all the time. He did not like the boys and girls to walk alone in the village.

  One night I heard someone preaching hysterically which was followed by some light drumming and wailing. I woke up all of sudden and ran into the bush behind the hut. The hut I was given in the village was one of the abundant huts used by the village chief. It was pretty close to the main hut of the chief, and from where my hut stood, it could be observed clearly, and so I could see every single thing happening in the compound of the chief; therefore, I did not wait for the last moment for my escape. I slowly crept into a bush and kept on watching what was taking place. They were doing a ritual of sacrifice. There were three monkeys; one baby monkey and the other two looked like the adults. I assumed it was the baby and the parents. The witch priest was dancing around the flames, and three of his supporters were holding the monkeys. A woman whose upper body was naked was sitting near the three men. The villagers except for the children were surrounding the healers. I felt my hair follicles popping up. An intense fear that was injected by my own tribe towards the traditional practices of other tribes had possessed all my thoughts. I could not but see that I was just a potential prey of those practitioners, and I had to run away from this place. I felt like an alien from a place that belonged to history: trapped in a mysterious tribal village in the middle of nowhere, on top of cold mountains.

  ‘Iiz.…’ Repressing the loud drums and the voice of the priest, an unnerving creaky sound emitted to the dry the air. When I peeped through the human shield, the head of the baby monkey was in the hand of the priest. After a while, the last breath of the other monkeys added to the air proceeded by a similar nerve-wracking cry. And I found myself shaking with cold. I could not realise if it was because of low temperature in hilltops or fear.

  09

  Early morning the next day, I reached the hut. I was tired, terrified and weak as I did not have enough sleep. The whole night I was engrossed in nothing but negativity and fear. Above all, there was sufficient evidence that the mosquitoes did not want to leave the rare opportunity of feasting the human delicacy without encroaching into human huts.

  In the morning, the village was normal just like a moody woman. As if nothing had happened last night, all the daily activities were already underway. Women were cooking; men were sitting and talking before they went downhill and the children were going downhill to fetch water. The sudden shift of the atmosphere was strange to me. Whenever there were rituals in my old village, people used to talk about them for days, sometimes, till the following full moon. Lomas behaved as if they had two lives and two souls—one for the night and one for the day.

  The old Kissi man was on his way towards the downhill as usual. ‘How the body?’

  ‘Small small,*’ I replied giving him a clue that I needed to talk to him.

  ‘What happened last night?’ Even without greeting him back, I asked him.

  ‘You say... Night?’ He looked at me as if I asked something which was not allowed to discuss in the day time.

  ‘Yes…. There were dancing and sacrifices,’ I hinted that I saw it.

  ‘How come you saw them?’ The man looked puzzled and unhappy.

  ‘I saw it from my hut; it was in the compound of the chief.’ I replied.

  ‘They are their secrets. It is a sin to be exposed to them as it is ours,’ his words contained an unexpressed anger, blended with a suppressed fear.

  ‘They do not want outsiders to witness the secret rituals and neither do we. It curbs the power, and it can also harm us,’ he kept on explaining, reminding me of the old man whom I met during Poro.

  Secrecy is the core of everything. Every tribe has something to hide from each other. It is their heritage and existence. It does not matter how long you stay with them or how helpful or close you are to them, secrets remain secrets. Those are the unique identities of each tribal group.

  A decision was apparently left in my hands; I should either be a drop of oil in waters or a pest on a goat`s head. And there were no other options available for me. But I did not want to be in a society where I was not a part of it.

  ‘They are Lomas, and I am a Kissi,’ I said to myself.

  ‘We all are Mande,’ I heard the voice of Oldman who was now dead. It was just an echo of what I was thinking. Then I realised that the wisdom of the old generation was greater than ours, but unfortunately, they were restricted merely to words. Otherwise, we would see each other like Mandes who were created by the same Creator.
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  Children came down to play, and I was sitting on a tree route thinking what my next destination would be. It could either be just the bush till the Creator decided to take my life back or go back to the village and see what I would be able to do. Sorrow and grief on the loss of my family members had already thinned my courage to a greater extent. The hope of hearing news from Kumba had already become an obsession and also the feelings of alienation in Loma community pushed me to leave the mountains.

  On the other hand, the demonic animal that chased me was haunting in my dreams whenever I tried to sleep. Many times, I was awakened screaming at night. Sometimes, I felt being trampled by its huge log like legs. At such moments, I felt the pain as if I was going through it. Whenever I wanted to go out of the village, I felt an overwhelming anxiety and intense fear. And often, I felt that I would surely be attacked by the same beast again which always prevented me from putting my thought of escaping into action. Many times, I thought of escape, but my fears evoked out of my experience in the bush force stopped my foot for a second.

  Every full moon, I used to walk out of the hut and imagine my childhood I spent in Kissi village. Women were busy arranging things for rituals to communicate with the ancestors. In the meanwhile, men used to go to the river and sacrifice animals to please the Creator and the ancestors. Thinking of the liveliness of rituals and activities that happened in Kissi village on full moon days, I felt that I was connecting with them whenever I was looking at the full moon barely appearing through the thick canopy of trees. Many full moons had risen and set behind the Lofa mountains without a count behind my age and before my eyes keeping me connected with my good old days in the Valley.

  It was the beginning of another rainy season. My hut was too old to be standing straight against the wind that blew with the pouring rain like a curtain of water. In the middle of the night, it fell on me as if I was notified to leave the village right away. I was completely wet, and there were a few scratches on my face and the back because of the wet Palava roof that fell on me.