Wolf Light

by Yaba Badoe

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m too old and tired to play hide-and-seek. This small piece of forest is protected. They shouldn’t be cutting down trees and they know it.’

  ‘Are you sure, Gran-pa?’ I was getting ready to run to avoid a confrontation that could turn ugly. But there was something else, a sense of disaster rumbling in my ear that the forest was alive to.

  ‘Stay, Adoma,’ my grandfather said. ‘All will be well.’

  I put Milo down, grabbed Gran-pa’s sponge and stuffed it in the rucksack with the paint remover.

  Reminded perhaps of his mother’s murder by poachers, Milo scrambled up a tree taking refuge in its branches. In the distance I heard the footfall of men walking towards us. Every few steps they paused to slash creepers. I heard the sweep of a machete, then the tear and snarl of vegetation trampled underfoot.

  ‘Two men,’ Gran-pa said. ‘Two strangers.’

  I nodded. They had to be strangers. Only outsiders with no idea of where the track was would attempt to hack their way through the bush.

  ‘Hide,’ I whispered to Milo, up in his tree. ‘There’s still time to leave, Gran-pa,’ I added. ‘Nothing good’s going to come from these strangers. We’re needed at the shrine.’

  He shook his head and stood firm.

  Okomfo Gran-pa was my teacher and guide and yet, observing him that morning, I was startled at how old he appeared. His gaunt face glinted blue-black when sunlight, glimmering through dense leaves, danced on his skin. His eyes darted and delved to the heart of everything around him while he stood, his back to a tree.

  The seam of unease I’d felt moments before, refused to disappear. What set me on edge were sparks of defiance reflected in my grandfather’s eyes: that, and a growing presence of danger that a shadowy creature inside me, a creature with paws and a leonine head, signalled by clawing the ground.

  As the footsteps advanced, I moved and stood slightly to the side of Gran-pa to better protect him. It’s much harder to harass an adult with a teenager in tow, than an old man alone.

  A machete cut through the undergrowth and a policeman, tangled in tree vines, fought his way into the clearing. In a holster he carried a gun. A few metres behind him was a corpulent, middle-aged man with a handkerchief in his hand. The fat man mopped slicks of sweat off his brow as he struggled to catch his breath. The armpits of his shirt were stained wet, its white print flecked with the trail of snails and pollen.

  ‘I thought it was you and I was right,’ the policeman said.

  ‘Is this the man?’ asked the fat man.

  ‘Indeed, master. Okomfo Gran-pa is well-known for his loving-kindness to trees.’

  Gran-pa stood up straight. ‘Do I know you?’

  The policeman, a young man in a dishevelled uniform, three thin scars running down the side of his face, smirked at a secret joke only he was aware of.

  ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I am Inspector Kaku from Kumasi. ‘I’ve been staying in the village back there with my friend here.’ The inspector nodded at the fat man.

  The fat man was wheezing, still trying to catch his breath. From what I could tell, he wasn’t used to walking; and certainly not walking and talking at the same time.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ asked Gran-pa.

  ‘You, old man,’ the policeman replied, ‘are giving me a headache. A severe headache that not even paracetamol can quell. Why do you keep doing what you shouldn’t be doing, old man?’

  A flicker of amusement passed over Gran-pa’s face. ‘What am I doing that I shouldn’t be?’

  ‘Sir, are you laughing at me?’

  I held my breath as the policeman’s fingers fluttered and then touched his holster.

  The fat man tapped the younger man. ‘Inspector, let me do the talking here. Okomfo, allow me to introduce myself.’

  The man walked towards Gran-pa, his right hand outstretched: ‘Mr Ebenezer Lamptey of Save Our Trees for Ghanaians Incorporated.’

  Gran-pa folded his arms to make it clear he wasn’t interested in the usual formalities. Instead, he stepped sideways, legs astride.

  I reckon I would have done the same too, for underlying the upturned curl of the man’s lips and the sleek smile in eyes magnified by glasses, was the distinct odour of corruption. It seeped out of him making the air around him rank with the stink of rotting fish. The man was most probably a liar as well. Gran-pa Okomfo knew it and so did I, because the closer he came to us, the more my skin crawled and the more physically ill I became.

  That’s the way it is when a skin-walker approaches me. Their lack of human kindness is so distressing it knocks me off balance. Skin-walkers have no heart to speak of and no soul as far as I can tell, because they’re after one thing: money. And the dirtier it is, the more people they flatten to obtain it, the better it makes them feel.

  The smile fixed on his face, Mr Lamptey withdrew his hand, allowing it to dangle by his side. ‘Hostility can have dangerous repercussions, be careful, old man.’

  ‘I am always careful,’ Gran-pa replied.

  ‘Not careful enough, it appears. According to the villagers, you’re in the habit of removing marks off trees my men designate for timber. Your stubbornness is costing me money, old man. Unless you stop your foolishness…’

  I moved to stand directly in front of my grandfather. ‘Are you threatening Okomfo Gran-pa?’

  The fat man ignored me while the policeman laughed – a hearty belch of glee that doubled him over until, clutching his stomach, he ended up giggling like a schoolgirl.

  ‘I asked you a question. Are you threatening my gran-pa?’ I managed to keep my voice level, calm. I was merely a teenager to the world, but Gran-pa taught me long ago that when danger arrives the only way forwards is to face it squarely with eyes fixed on it.

  Mr Lamptey was now about ten paces away. If he didn’t reply correctly, if he continued thinking that I was a small girl he could dismiss out of hand, in another three paces he would feel the full force of my fury in the form of wind magic.

  Puzzled by the wry smile on Gran-pa’s face and the ferociousness on mine, the fat man froze. A smile greased his lips again; a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Yes, he had the eyes of a skin-walker, all right, the eyes of a dead man walking.

  Mr Lamptey harrumphed and said: ‘Let me make myself clear. My men mark the trees and the final product, the furniture we make, ends up in the homes of our fellow Ghanaians. What is your problem with that, old man? It be our wood, we be Ghanaians, we dey chop!’

  Gran-pa raised himself to his full height and pointed an accusing finger: ‘Mr Lamptey, I may be old, but I’m not a fool. Not so long ago we even had rangers who patrolled the forest. We both know that these trees are protected.’

  Ebenezer Lamptey shrugged and then nodding in the direction of the policeman said: ‘Protected? Protected from what? This is Ghana, old man, and I have the law by my side. So, unless you stop making our lives difficult…’

  His chin jutting out at Gran-pa, Mr Lamptey came a step closer. He took another step, examining me as if inspecting a toad he was about to obliterate with a stamp of his foot.

  ‘Unless I stop making your life difficult, you will do what?’ Gran-pa replied.

  No one said a word and for a couple of seconds no one moved. Even the leaves of the trees we’d saved seemed to stop rustling as the birds nesting within them ceased singing. All of us, every living thing present, waited for Mr Lamptey to complete his threat. The police officer touched his holster. I tensed and the hairs on the back of my neck stiffened as I prepared to harness wind energy within and outside me. We waited and as we did so, I inwardly begged Mr Lamptey to come a little bit closer. A step, just a step, would do.

  He took it and when he did, I was ready. No one speaks to Okomfo Gran-pa like that and gets away with it. I balled my mind into a tight fist and like a boy with a sling, released a single stone in the mighty arsenal I possess: nuggets of concentration packed with sharpened flints of power buoyed by air blasted the fat man’s c
hest. Zing!

  ‘Aie!’ he cried. ‘Aie!’ Screaming, he toppled to the ground, a hand clutching his ribcage where his heart should have been.

  Unnerved, the twitchy young inspector lifted his firearm and fired it above his head.

  I was on the verge of repeating my mind blast, when Gran-pa signalled that I should stop. He wanted the man to live.

  ‘Help me,’ Mr Lamptey groaned.

  Gran-pa knelt beside him. The policeman did too, while I stood and watched.

  ‘Easy…’ Gran-pa straightened the fat man’s head and torso to make it easier for him to breathe. ‘Don’t talk,’ he said. ‘Inspector, run to the village and get help…’

  Crouched beside his accomplice, the policeman asked: ‘Master, should I go?’

  The fat man moaned, gasping for air.

  ‘Go!’ Gran-pa repeated. ‘Your master cannot talk. Run, man! Run! Round there, it’s quicker. Adoma, give Mr Lamptey some water.’

  I opened our rucksack and knelt down, pushing a cup of water to the fat man’s lips. His bulging eyes, shiny with fear, shrank at my touch. He would have spat if he could, but he needed water. He gulped it down and as he started to recover, Gran-pa spoke.

  ‘Do you hear the forest talking to you, my friend?’

  A dove cooed in one of the hardwood trees that had been marked for timber. Another bird replied singing an octave higher. The dove cooed again and in the hush that followed a rush of wind whistled through leaves.

  ‘Do you hear the forest?’ Gran-pa asked.

  Instead of replying, Mr Lamptey closed his eyes and grimaced. He placed a hand on his chest.

  ‘The forest is alive, my friend,’ said Gran-pa. ‘It watches and waits. And to those who desecrate it, it reserves a punishment worse than death. The forest has warned you, Mr Lamptey. Don’t cut down any more trees, you hear? Because next time you do, your end will be near.’

  9

  Adoma

  That my grandfather knew much more about the inner-workings of the forest and how its eyes, ears and breath affected each of us was only to be expected. Indeed, it was Gran-pa who’d explained to me years before, that what I’d believed was an unusually vivid dream – my first encounter with Zula, Linet and Zula’s father over the Sleeping Giant’s mouth – wasn’t a dream as such, but an example of night travel perfected by our craft.

  That’s when he revealed the symbol on my wrist. He raised my hand while he touched the middle of my forehead with a finger.

  ‘Can you see it now?’ Gran-pa asked removing his hand from my wrist.

  ‘What? I thought I was dreaming, Gran-pa!’ On my wrist was the symbol Zula’s father had made: nsoromma. It had been there all along but I hadn’t been able to appreciate it. ‘Why couldn’t I see it?’

  ‘Not all your eyes were open, Adoma. Now that they are, can you see mine?’ Gran-pa held out his arm. On the inside of his elbow was an adinkra symbol of a bird, its head turned backward taking an egg off its back. ‘The ancient wisdom of Sankofa,’ Gran-pa explained. ‘A return to our roots to learn from the past. Every member of my circle carries this symbol.’

  ‘Why isn’t yours the same as mine?’

  ‘Our circle is a foretaste of what is to come.’ Okomfo Gran-pa smiled to ease the confusion on my face. ‘We turned to the past to revive old ways of working with earth and sky. We’re teaching you what we’ve learned, so that when the time comes you and your sisters will find new ways to prevail in our battle against skin-walkers.’

  ‘How will we do that, Gran-pa?’

  ‘When you’re ready, you’ll know,’ he replied.

  *

  It took almost an hour for Inspector Kaku to return. Almost an hour during which Mr Lamptey avoided looking at me. Even though I gave him water and helped him sit up, he sensed that something I had done, something he couldn’t see or put a finger on, had, in one way or another, hurt him. I’m not sure which upset him more: the thought that a ‘small girl’, a girl he wouldn’t normally bother to look at, had crawled under his skin and bitten him, or Gran-pa’s stern warning to stop cutting down what was left of the rainforest.

  On his arrival, the policeman organised his helpers – two men from the village – to carry Mr Lamptey in a fireman’s lift to safety. As soon as they set off, I called Milo down from his hiding place. I reassured him that all was well, and we continued our journey to our river sanctuary.

  Okomfo Gran-pa was forever saying that the forest is a living being that uses trees for its lungs. Everything within it is alive and should be treated with the utmost respect. If you’re about to cut down a tree to use its wood, before you do so, you should ask the tree for permission. What’s more, the forest is blessed with millions of eyes and ears. Those hidden eyes stalked us as we walked, and those ears listened while we talked. I felt them. And yet with every step we took towards the clearing where our shrine stood, I had the distinct impression that a forest that usually welcomed us with the unruly chatter of birdsong was ill at ease. Those butterflies had prepared me.

  Even so, I wanted it to be me that was off balance, me who broke the spider’s web of dread spinning around me. With the sun high in the sky, humidity at ground level was beginning to sap my strength. Our early morning start combined with a sponge-like clamminess in the air made me limp as a wet rag. This is what I wanted to believe. But the further we walked, the more I began to realise that it wasn’t only me who was on edge, but the forest itself.

  Tell-tale signs of disturbance flickered wherever I looked: broken stems, crushed leaves, and where the earth was exposed, marks on the ground that indicated a scattering of Colobus monkeys and wild hogs. What had caused such a stampede away from the river? I wondered, as from moment to moment the forest revealed clues: bruised petals of orchids, dangling fronds of a battered palm. Most uncanny of all, an eerie silence prevailed. There was no noisy swooping of ibises overhead, no tussle of animals in the undergrowth and not a whisper of air in the trees. Even Milo seemed alarmed by the sultry, claustrophobic stillness.

  I looked up at Gran-pa.

  ‘You feel it too, Adoma,’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘Zula was right and so were you. Those fruit bats were an omen. Hurry, Gran-pa. Hurry.’

  I was trying to imagine what lay ahead of us when I heard the river that cuts through our sanctuary. What should have been torrents of water was little more than a trickle. I listened intently, aware of other noises now. Voices. Many voices behind the chug and whirr of machinery, the slip-slop of buckets filled, then emptied.

  Gran-pa stopped, his finger to his lips. We slowly advanced aware that what had previously been thick forest had thinned out. Indeed, thickets of trees, which should have continued for at least a thousand metres before opening out to the river, came to an abrupt halt at five hundred. Rows and rows had been felled. All that remained were broken trunks scarring the air like the ravaged stumps of an army of amputees.

  Instead of an intricate web of branches and roots, sticks and leaves to hold the earth in place, from the edge of the forest to the river was an excavated field of muddy, red silt. The river had been diverted by machines and dammed into rivulets that spilled out over acres. The water was soggy, filthy. Nothing could survive in that. And, for the foreseeable future, nothing would grow on that sea of sludge. Nothing could breed in it, because apart from teams of young men and women panning water in basins, everything was dead and dying. Supervising the teams were two Chinese men wearing long rubber boots.

  ‘Asemane!’ said Gran-pa, a hand on his mouth. ‘What have they done? What are they doing?’ He looked on in horror and as he did so, I was struck by the rapid throb of his pulse beneath his open shirt. His heart was breaking and so was mine. For what he saw and felt rebounded in me. Tremors of pain, similar to what I’d experienced through Linet a few days before, shook me. Only this time the ache was stronger and my confusion so profound that it was as if the fabric that held my life in place was being ripped apart. The river goddess hadn’t heard my cal
l. Every bit of me shook at the stench of death in the air and my failure to protect our sanctuary.

  Yet the people on the riverbed didn’t look as corrupt as Mr Lamptey. The Ghanaians, especially, didn’t resemble skin-walkers in any way that I could remember. They were people I knew from our village and the hamlets around it. Ordinary people, most of them older than me, among them faces I recognised. Junior, the son of our chief, was chatting to a tall, Chinese man, then relaying his orders to the people around him. More buckets were filled with water. More of the river was diverted. If they had any idea of the damage they were doing, they hid it well.

  ‘Look at them, Adoma!’ Gran-pa said. ‘They’re searching for gold! Galamsey! And the chief’s son is with them. If they find gold will they be able to eat it for food and then drink it for water? How will their parents farm now? How will they find water for their families?’

  Too shocked to form words, I held my tongue. The shrine I’d tended for seven years had been trampled. Desecrated.

  ‘They’re poisoning the river,’ he said. ‘What they’re doing here is going to destroy the country and kill every one of us in the end. Foreigners may not care, but have we forgotten what we’re about?’

  All I could do was nod. Pain and anger flamed in my marrow, while in my heart a creature buried within me roared. The image of a leopard flashed through my mind. If she had her way, she would rip the throats of everyone present and devour them. I wiped my tears as upstream and downstream, the trees that still remained seemed to move as one. They swayed, releasing a sigh that a breeze swept into a sky in which vultures circled. While on the riverbed young men and women laughed.

  10

  Zula

  That night, I summoned my sisters to the Giant’s mouth where Adoma described what she’d witnessed by the river. She spoke haltingly, her pauses punctuated by gasps and sighs that Linet endeavoured to ease by saying: ‘Go on, Adoma. Go on.’