FLESH AND THE DEVIL by Kola Boof

by Kola Boof

  “Namibia...” he said to the girl now. “I am sorry to have left the way I did, but I’m sure you can understand my disenchantment about the way we were forced to join in marriage.” He made sure that he looked at Ife Ife as he said, “To this day, I’ve never touched you. I don’t even know you, my father chose you, not me.”

  Silently, Namibia bowed on her knees and kissed his royal feet. Then she stood up, and without looking in his eyes, she said, “I know that you have no love for me, but until the day I die...you are my husband, my master and that is all I have been told. It is not my right to question the Kofi. I ask for nothing in this marriage but to sleep at your royal feet as a servant, both your devoted wife and maid.”

  “A very good woman”, commented King Katanga. “I am sure she will give you many sons and a life of quiet and comfort, Shango. I wish you both the best.”

  Shango, of course, continued looking at Ife Ife as though he owned her, but then Katanga cracked his ebony cane across the boy’s shoulder and shouted, indignantly, “Are you such a beast that you stare with lust at my daughter’s countenance not only in full view of her royal mother and father, but also in the presence of her own husband!?”

  Husband!?

  Shango’s eyes searched Ife Ife’s face, but she dropped her gaze to the floor, tears rolling down her cheeks as Dinari Zezuru came to take his place at her side.

  Dinari was just bowing his head to the guests, when out of nowhere--Shango lunged at him, attacking him viciously! The women gasped and screamed as Shango forced Dinari into a headlock, his mighty arms going against the might of the architect’s neck muscles, but within seconds, Katanga’s guards tore them apart and threw Shango to the floor, admonishing him to remember that he was not a God and would be killed if he attacked one again.

  “Ife Ife belongs to me!” roared Shango when he got back to his feet. Ambi’s pet leopards stood ready to pounce, but the queen tugged the leashes, indicating they were to stay out of it. It took Shango’s mother, grandmother and Namibia to hold him back as he shouted, “I said get your hands off her!”

  “This my wife, you dirty Ajowan beast!”

  “You’re not even a man!” Shango retorted, violently. “Your flesh is softer than Ife Ife’s!”

  “Enough!” shouted Queen Ambi, suddenly. She stood up and decreed, imperiously, “We must all say goodbye--but not without dinner and wine. Let us settle these matters of love and loss in a civilized manner. Boobiyah...prepare the dining sanctuary.”

  “Yes, Queen.”

  Ambi looked over her shoulder at Katanga and said, “My husband, dearest one--perhaps when it comes to our daughter’s marriage, we have a few things to reconsider?”

  ••

  The Wolof tribe had a saying in those days--”When two people are under the same spell, there is no more world and the Sky and Sea become naked to the Moon.”

  Namibia found out how true it was, because she tried to ply Shango’s stare away from Ife Ife by bringing up--the baby. Bono. Moon miracle of the Ajowans. For it seemed that King Katanga and Queen Ambi were astonished to hear of it, their hands halted from eating as they hung on the girl’s every word in a state of confounded, entertained disbelief, but Rain Iyanla and Mother Iyanla proudly backed up the story as Namibia spoke of a white fleshed, blue eyed child with hair like a rodent, referring to it as “our son”, and looking all the more deserted, because Shango and Ife Ife seemed to ignore everyone in the dinner circle. They languished in a sad, desperate limbo, their reality possessed by fantasy.

  In a circle, their party sat about the floor as servants filled the giant kente-clothed space between them with heaping bowls of rice, pineapple and coconut glazed goat’s meat, boiled pig, smoked yams wrapped in greens, flakey white fish seasoned by black ash fresh burnt bark, and as always, the hallmark of African dining--kola nuts, pot liquor (from the greens) and palm wine, a tint of blue smoke rising from suri lamps and pale gardenias against intricate walls of bamboo, terracotta and inlaid tribal affectations. The room sat upon the river, gently relaxing them, filling them with butterflies.

  Finally, Queen Ambi said to Namibia, “Perhaps you should be Shango’s concubine and not his wife. It’s no secret that his heart lives in a dream about my daughter”. Namibia froze, her cheeks unable to chew, as the Queen then shot a lance back and forth between Rain Iyanla and King Katanga, saying, “My husband, my master...” And she smiled manipulatively, using the title “master” on Katanga whenever she wanted a very great favor, which is why he rolled his eyes, but Ambi went on saying, “...is against the idea of a God princess marrying an Ajowan prince without the precedent of war and peace treaty, but...look at them...look at how miserable they are to be separated by the marriages that confine them. Somehow, I don’t think it’s right for these two to be apart--it’s like separating the Sky from the Sea.”

  “I quite agree”, mumbled Dinari Zezuru with his head down.

  Namibia looked to Mother Iyanla, her eyes pleading desperately, but to her horror, the old woman seemed to be in agreement with Queen Ambi. Her look of pity further withered Namibia, her black jowls indicating that not even the miracle of a white moon baby could compete with the power of “fantasy” that consumes men and women, and even more troubling than Mother Iyanla’s expression was the one on the face of the man seated next to the old woman--for he stared into Namibia’s eyes with such and indecent rage that she almost fell backwards from it.

  This was Nkrumah. The good man who had recently lost the hand of Princess Ife Ife in marriage, but remained a friend of the family. Any fool could see that he was still heartbroken about not being chosen, in fact, deeply bitter about it. The queen had mentioned something about him being from humble beginnings, and because they had that in common, Namibia had made it a point to ignore him all evening, but now all of a sudden, he dominated her. The power of his very soul upon her as his gaze held her hypnotized, pure sorrowful hate daring her to look away.

  “I object”, said the King, dryly. “My foot has decreed my daughter’s fate, as well a father’s foot has that responsibility.”

  “But massssterrr...” Ambi cooed.

  Katanga banged his fist against the meal pottery and shouted, “But master my ass, woman! I forbid it!”

  “You sound like my father”, said Queen Ambi staring into the wine pot. “You sound exactly as he did when you came with all your cattle, Katanga, asking for my hand in marriage.”

  The original Ambi appeared before Katanga in a piece of memory--a mysterious girl standing on a hill beneath a hive of honeycomb, her entire body covered head to toe with African killer bees, her laughing doe eyes staring out at him as though it were the most sensual feeling in the world. And that had been the very first time he’d laid eyes on Ambi. She had giggled and called out to him, “Don’t be afraid! Love...is for everyone!”

  “You must understand”, Ambi was saying now, “that we are all sitting here with our bare feet in the dirt.”

  Namibia raised her eyes to find that Nkrumah was still sculpting some unknown image out of her body. What did he want, this stranger? Her nipples felt flush with heat, the spicy tang of peppered coconut dancing in her mouth like flakes of surprise--but not the whole thing. She felt so much shame to be looked at like this, because no man had ever done so before. With his violent wet brown stare, he was fucking her. Namibia could feel it. As the Moon had done that awful night. She could scarcely eat or breathe, because she remembered that one unforgettable time with the Moon--being fucked.

  Katanga thought, too, of the killer bees following him that day, first just a handful, but as he traveled further away from Ambi’s village, the living pods growing into an arc and then a menacing rain and finally a swarming mass. Not a single one stinging him, but their buzzing inspection upon him like some lingering lullaby. He knew for sure that they meant to scare him away from the beautiful Ambi, because nature was like that with certain women.

  “Look at them”, Ambi purred now. “They’ve been stu
ng.”

  “They’d make a glorious couple”, added Ife Ife’s husband, Dinari, which of course, stirred up the ire of King Katanga. He glared fiercely as the builder continued, “I find it lonesome to be in a marriage with a wife whose only dream is another man. But then again, I’ll be away in other nations. The Zulus want me to build a new grain tower and there’s need of a flower temple for the Queen of Timbuktu.”

  Ife Ife looked up from her food and locked eyes with Shango just as Rain Iyanla announced, “My husband, the Kofi, would never bless such a tie. He has big plans for Shango.”

  “Of course he does”, said Katanga, cynically. “It’s no secret that Kofi Hoodi has his heart set on conquering the God nation. And not even that is enough. He plans to take over the entire world. I suppose this strapping bone-head runaway son of his is supposed...”

  “Don’t you dare insult my men!”, hissed Mother Iyanla, bravely. “Not my son and not my grandson.”

  “Forgive me, Great Mother”, said the King with a clearing of his throat. “You are right. My candor was in bad taste.”

  Wiggling her large, wide nose, Mother Iyanla looked at Shango and Ife Ife as deeply as she could, trying to find out just how real and powerful this feeling was they had between them, but with her age and wisdom, she realized it wasn’t a feeling that anyone, including the two in love, could ever really tell or estimate. If anything, not being able to let it play out would only make it stronger, and in that she was sad for them, because there was nothing worse than being ripped apart from the person of ones dreams. Iyanla, who had been born the daughter of a Kofi and given birth to Ajowa’s new Kofi knew that firsthand, because as a young, beautiful princess, she had never been allowed to marry the lion-catching man of her own heart and dreams. Instead, she had served dutifully through four royal marriages, and all the while, because of her superior blood and her true love’s jungle status, she had found herself without any fulfillment other than the roaring voice that sprang from inside her.

  “How do you sing with such a soulful beauty?” they used to ask Mother “I sing because my soul is sad”, she would reply during youth, her naked body strewn across some bamboo carry platter as sunlight danced on her round ebony face and penetrated the black density of her nappy crown. “My soul is not my own.” And then later as the mother of a Kofi and a grandmother, she started answering, “I sing because I feel the spirit of the creator inside me. I sing because...I’m a believer.”

  But even if she could have run off with her lion-catching jungle dream, she never would have done it--out of responsibility to the society and her place within it. It was the same as having ones vagina circumcised--tribal and moral duty, and the tribe and the drum being more important than one’s own personal suffering. So she just sang...her voice like a rumbling volcanic earthquake reaching for heaven...she sang for the rest of her life and never told anybody where the pain, passion and power came from.

  “Ife Ife sings”, Dinari was saying on the other side of the feast. “Soft and beautiful...like rain when it loses its place in the sky and touches the top of the sea. A sensitive, lovely sound.”

  Yes, thought Shango. He remembered in the garden, she had sounded better than nature, and yet, she was not of the gifted caliber of Mother Iyanla, but simply sincere and delicate.

  And spying the look in Shango’s eyes just then, Mother Iyanla looked downward and was very sad for him, because as wise men and fools are apt to say--it simply wasn’t meant to be.

  On and on the dinner went...Shango and Ife Ife placed like a broken backed baby between both altar and feast, struggling against time (and time was moving very slowly!), while just as adulterously, the broken backed baby crawled between Nkrumah and Namibia as well--their stolen glances building into a good honest lust, sweeter and darker than the sugary dates that melted in their mouths like warm water and honey. Between her breasts and in her cave, Namibia felt the hot crackle of a warrior’s whip and the same fear that an antelope feels just before a panther catches it by the neck. For truly, as Nkrumah’s teeth stripped roasted meat from the bones, his greasy, shining mouth seemed to be eating her as well.

  “I wish to marry Ife Ife”, Shango blurted out, suddenly.

  No one said anything. It was as if he hadn’t even said anything.

  He looked at Katanga. “I want Ife Ife to be my Queen.”

  Ife Ife was suddenly breathless, her eyes blinking rapidly.

  And still, no one looked up or said a word. It simply isn’t meant to be, they all thought. The King and Mother Iyanla and Shango’s mother and the homosexual builder of communities all felt sorry for the prince, but none of them were selfish enough to say a word in kind.

  Shango is my husband, thought Namibia, bitterly.

  No man can love Ife Ife, as much as I do, thought Nkrumah.

  Queen Ambi felt a tear forming in her left eye, because she could already feel the sureness of goodbye coming on. It was simply a matter of who would get up from the food of the feast first. She heard Katanga telling the young Ajowan prince, “You flatter my foot, boy...but my daughter is already married, as my foot decreed.”

  This was the ending that Ambi knew and remembered. It came into her mind just then.

  She and Katanga were standing side by side, the full nation of the Gods spread out like an ocean before them, the high shouldered Spirit Rulers presiding over the marriage ceremony--a dollop of honey placed on Katanga’s tongue and then on the tongue of his bride...Ambi remembered its sweetness...and after that, a stalk of ground red pepper was placed upon their tongues, their taste buds feeling both bliss and agony. The rapture of love’s commitment; the Gods believing in the bitter with the sweet.

  The men had given Katanga to the river. His brother’s arms, the whole nation of men, roughly bathing him.

  And the women had surrounded Ambi for a final virginity dance. Her fat, bodacious cocoa-black breasts dancing like twin sea lions, the smooth rhythm of her wide hips sucking at the muscles of her frisky waist as her thick, bubble-like buttocks shook the earth into a spasm of soulful new birth. Katanga’s love had washed over her body like hot African rain, his stinging adoration covering and baptizing her dark virginal flesh like a veil of lovelorn bees.

  Queen Ambi could still taste the honey as she looked up now and saw her husband’s secret pain, pure and undistilled.

  Princess Ife Ife standing in the road as the caravan of elephants and Ajowan soldiers carried Shango Ogun away with his people. Her heart and mind so shocked by the fact that the all powerful Great Creator of the universe hardly seemed to give a damn and was known not to give a damn in these situations relating to man-woman love, that she could neither speak nor cry. And no matter how many thousands of years she and Shango had been insane and been parted and loved again--no matter how much rain they had caused to fall from the sky--Prince Shango Ogun and his bride, Namibia, faded like a panther’s shadow into the dark wild unkindness of African evening.

  Queen Ambi whispering into Ife Ife’s ear, “Now you know what it means...to be a woman. Heartbreak is the one song...we know by heart.”

  6

  •

  The look on Shango’s face broke Mother Iyanla’s heart, literally. He looked, every moment, as though he were plotting to jump from the elephant and run all the way back to the sweet graces of the God girl. This is why she sang during the entire sojourn back to Banula City, her voice rising from her middle aged woman’s lungs as though age had not touched it. Powerful, rich and spiritual, the essence of it prayerful.

  But Shango was changed now. Not even his grandmother’s ways with soul and melody could mend him, and just as they came over the hills of Batubba and saw Banjula City spread out before them--there was an ominous, cryptic evil in the air. Mother Iyanla covered her breasts as a chill swept over her flesh like a hush.

  “The elephants are resisting”, claimed one of the soldiers to Rain Iyanla. “They don’t want to return to Banjula.”

  “Nonsense!” she said.
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  “It’s true”, said Mother Iyanla, as she was doing something that decent African women never did--covering her breasts. She said, “”I feel it in my bones, all about the land. Something rotten like a curse. My skin doesn’t like it one bit.”

  “Well they had better return to Banjula”, cried Rain Iyanla, “I’ve already missed my milk bath and sand rub traveling in this heat for two weeks. Did you see the skin on that bossy Queen Ambi character? Poor, poor Katanga. I could’ve looked like her if I had my milk bath!”

  “This is our home”, said Prince Shango Ogun suddenly. His eyes locked on the horizon, dull as death. “This is our tomb. There is nowhere else for us to die...but here.”

  ••

  Songs to bury the dead filled the city as they arrived. By the tens of thousands the Ajowan people gathered as close to the royal burial grounds as they could get.

  “What’s going on!?” Rain Iyanla asked several mourners as their caravan moved along the road.

  “The great miracle child!” screamed a woman carrying a basket on her head and a baby on her back, “He’s dead as his white flesh!”