Nyumbani Tales

by Charles R. Saunders

  THE DYULA CARAVAN WAS encamped in a large clearing in a wooded area to the side of the Road of Peace. Monkeys leaped and screamed in protest through the upper, vine-laden branches of the tall trees as three nondescript figures trudged through their territory. They were, of course, Ewuebe, Akuntali and Ikuu. But Ewuebe’s illusion-casting had rendered them unrecognizable.

  It was two ragged, emaciated, nearly blind beggars who appeared to be shambling toward the great encampment. The shorter of the two was leading a small, mangy looking donkey. It was close to dusk, and in the dimming light it took some time for even the sharp eyes of the Ashonti sentry to detect the unlikely trio emerging from the woodland. When he did, his reaction was immediate and automatic.

  “Halt!” he barked, speaking harshly accented Oriba, the lingua franca of the West Coast.

  The gleaming steel point of his spear rested but inches from the rag-swathed chest of Ewuebe. Red rays from the setting sun flamed the Ashonti’s helmet, which was shaped like the head of a snarling leopard, and turned the metal scales of his armor into glittering circles of scarlet and orange. Menacing as a fiery warrior-god was the Dyulas’ grim guardsman.

  “Please, Mighty Warrior,” Ewuebe whined. “We are but humble beggars, seeking the generosity of our fellow men. Perhaps you could allow us a few scraps of food, and a drop or two of water?”

  The Ashonti looked down at the tattered figures, and disgust broke through the stoic mask of his face.

  “Get out of here, you miserable dung-eaters,” he snarled. “Get out, before I drive this spear straight up your ...”

  “One moment, please,” a low, cultured voice broke in.

  A tall man clad in a gorgeously embroidered agbada had quietly stepped behind the sentry. The five v-shaped scars that decorated both his lean cheeks showed that he was from Abron, a southern city noted for the business acumen of its citizens. More important, however, was the string of silver-plated cowries around his neck that indicated the man’s membership in the Dyula.

  “In my city’s religion, guardsman, helping a beggar is considered to bring good fortune,” the Dyula said smoothly. “Please allow these two – and their animal – to pass.”

  With a look of pure hatred in his eyes, the Ashonti raised his spear and allowed the beggars and their donkey to slouch past him into the encampment.

  As the nondescript trio gazed squint-eyed around them, they marveled at what they saw. For a full Dyula caravan was an awesome and wondrous thing, not only because of the huge quantity and immense wealth of the goods it carried, but also for the nature of its carriers and guardsmen.

  Instead of more easily available dukus, donkeys or human porters, the Dyula used nyakas: immense, hornless relatives of the rhinoceros that were much larger in bulk. In the wild, nyakas were ill-tempered, intractable giants that were avoided by even the most formidable predators. When domesticated, however, they became docile beasts of burden, requiring only minimal human guidance to bear loads that would tax the strength of an elephant.

  Strangely, the only people who had mastered the secret of taming the nyaka were the men of Gaungara, a kingdom in the wide Sahan. Not so strange was the fact that only the Dyula could afford the expense of importing the nyakas and their handlers, while still making enormous profits from their numerous caravans.

  This accomplishment ranked at least as high as the Dyulas’ “domestication” of the services of the soldiers of Ashonti. An enigmatic land, Ashonti was a “war country,” famed for the fanatic ferocity of its fighters. Yet the kingdom was equally well-known for its fine, delicate work in wood, iron and gold.

  The contingent guarding this caravan was far from artisans. With their stony black faces, snarling beast-helmets, scale-mailed armor and frightful demons engraved on their round metal shields, the Ashonti were like a troop of prowling panthers, eager for the kill. Equally menacing were their mounts. They rode ibengas, brawny, horse-sized antelope with forward-pointing, steel-shod horns that were weapons as deadly as their masters’ spears.

  Only the sacred edict of their god-king, the Asontehene, prevented the Ashonti soldiers from laying waste to the lands through which they traveled. The Dyula had bought that edict with vast quantities of cowries and gold.

  All things considered, the fleecing of this formidable operation seemed far too ambitious an undertaking for a mediocre magician, an ex-soldier, and a failed shape-changer. But they believed that Kwaku Anansi was on their side, and as the tropical night fell with its usual suddenness, both rogues were confident, if not somewhat nervous. They sat at one of several roaring night-fires, greedily devouring the meal of fufu, boiled plantains and antelope meat generously provided by the tall dan-Abron, who turned out to be the master of the caravan. When the “beggars” finished their repast, the merchant spoke to them.

  “We will retire now,” the dan-Abron said. “You are welcome to spend the night under our protection. In the morning, we will go our separate ways.”

  “A thousand blessings upon you, Great One,” Ewuebe whined obsequiously.

  As the encampment settled down, Ewuebe and Akuntali huddled near a night-fire, their hands clutching objects that looked like covered begging-bowls. Akuntali gave Ewuebe an expectant glance.

  “Now!” the dan-Ife whispered.

  He tore the cover from his bowl, and flung the bowl’s contents into the fire. Akuntali did the same. Immediately, a huge cloud of pale yellow vapor billowed out from the fire, engulfing the entire encampment. Pressing their faces to the ground, the two rogues took short, shallow breaths, as did Ikuu. All around them, they could hear gasps and choking curses.

  A chorus of falling bodies followed. First came the light thuds of merchants, nyaka-handlers and guards. Then came the heavier impact of falling ikengas. Finally, the earth shook as the nyakas succumbed to the yellow vapor. Within moments, all the people and animals of the Dyula caravan lay senseless on the ground.

  Ewuebe, Akuntali and Ikuu had had inhaled only minute amounts of the vapor. Somewhat unsteadily, they scrambled to their feet after the vapor dissipated. Ewuebe discarded his illusion-spell, and his appearance had returned to normal, as had Akuntali and Ikuu’s. As they looked around the encampment, they saw that the proud and mighty caravan was now a jumble of strewn bodies of men and beasts.

  “Are they all dead?” Akuntali asked anxiously.

  “No, only in deep slumber,” Ewuebe replied. “I stole the herbs for this potion from the Sacred Gardens of Khom, but there is only enough to last for about five hours. Now, let’s get started. We haven’t got all night!”

  With that admonition, the two rogues began to ransack the huge, unguarded bales of merchandise. Taking care to select only goods of small size and great value, they still ended up with enough ivory carvings, precious gems, and golden ornaments to create a sizable load for Ikuu. Not to mention the small amounts of loot each man hid in his garments ...

  In no small haste, they left the encampment. Even the fat duku moved with unaccustomed alacrity. As they made their way through forest and bush, they were protected from predators by another of Ewuebe’s illusions. To the leopards, lions and tree-cobras they passed, the trio appeared in the guise of two giant apes and a saber-toothed cat.

  Finally, the robbers reached their destination: a hidden dry well, abandoned ages ago by some forgotten forest people. Following their plan meticulously, the rogues relieved Ikuu of his load and tied a long rope around the precious bundle. Carefully, they lowered it into the deep hole, finding that nearly all the rope was gone before the bundle reached the bottom of the well.

  A bit shame-facedly, they also threw in the jewels hidden in their garments. For they knew they would face a slow and painful death if they were caught with any goods identifiable by the merchants they had just robbed. They secured and disguised their end of the rope, so that their plunder could be recovered later, when the furor raised by their bold act of theft died down.

  When their task was complete, Akuntali’s face wore a puz
zled frown.

  “You know, this thing could have been done by one man,” he said. “With a bit more difficulty, perhaps; but still, you could have done it yourself. What, then, was your need for my services, Ewuebe dan-Ifeti?”

  An evil light kindled in Ewuebe’s eyes as he turned to reply.

  “Oh yes, Akuntali dan-Kanou, I do need you,” he said in a smooth, sinister tone. “I need you very much, indeed. You see, in order to perform a mystic feat of such magnitude as casting the same illusion in the minds of an entire Dyula encampment, a ... price must be paid. A sacrifice, if you will. It is unfortunate, but Legba, my godly mentor, demands it.

  “In this case, the price must be a life. I am truly sorry to have to say that the life must be –”

  “Yours!” cried Akuntali, who had averted his eyes from Ewuebe’s burning, hypnotic stare.

  With all the quickness of a Haussa boxer, Akuntali’s fist struck the sorcerer on the jaw. Totally unprepared for the sudden blow, Ewuebe’s head rocked backward, and he flew over the edge of the well. A long, trailing scream marked the dan-Ifeti’s long plunge to the well’s bottom.

  Akuntali allowed a smile of self-satisfaction to spread across his face. For he had prepared well, having realized that the dan-Ife was a more powerful sorcerer than he had said – just as Akuntali was not as naive as he had pretended to be.

  His gloating was short-lived. Behind him, Akuntali heard a bellowing roar of rage. He turned and saw the duku charging him its huge mouth agape and its eyes burning red with madness.

  Ikuu’s fury had good reason. For ten years, he had suffered the humiliation of being trapped in the fat, ungainly form of a duku. In all the West Coast, only one man had the power to reverse the miscast spell that bound him. And now Ewuebe was lying dead at the bottom of the well ...

  Ikuu lunged forward, striving to close his lethal jaws on the body of the dan-Kano. But Akuntali was an agile man with soldier-trained reflexes, while Ikuu was now little more than a mindless beast. Leaping high in the air, Akuntali watched the gray-black bulk of the duku pass beneath him. The momentum of Ikuu’s body carried him over the edge of the well, and his braying cry ended with a muffled smack as he hit its bottom.

  Akuntali landed on his feet. His arms flailed wildly for balance as he teetered on the edge. Then he threw himself forward, narrowly avoiding the fate of falling into the well with the others. Lying face-down on the ground, Akuntali laughed. His feigning of ingenuousness had enabled him to outwit the dan-Ife sorcerer. Now, the treasure of the Dyula caravan was his alone...

  Suddenly, Akuntali stopped laughing. For, from the dark depths of the well, his mirth was ... echoed. Icy drops of perspiration beaded Akuntali’s brow as he peered into the yawning opening. Yes ... he could hear it clearly. It sounded like the chuckling of a ghoul.

  Now Akuntali could hear a faint scrabbling, as if something were moving on the distant bottom. Then his eyes bulged in stark horror. The rope that was tied around the treasure was being jerked, as though something were climbing upward. And the demonic laughter grew louder.

  Frantically, Akuntali ripped his sword from its sheath and hacked furiously at the rope. The moment it parted and fell away, he began to hurl the heaviest rocks he could find into the deep hole. More and more rocks bounced off the sides of the well as Akuntali scoured the area for anything he could find to bury the laughing thing at the well’s bottom.

  In the process, Akuntali realized that he was burying uncounted cowries worth of wealth. But in his mounting terror, Akuntali cared little for riches. In fear-trembling whispers, all the tales he had heard about the sorcerers of Ifeti crept through his mind. He had scoffed in disbelief at those tales until now. And still the laughter continued.

  Crying out in fear, Akuntali turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, disregarding the caravan guards who must by now have been scouring the area. It was well for his shaky sanity that he continued to think that the echoing laughter he heard was Ewuebe’s ...

  Deep in the blackness of the well, an even darker shape stirred. Its eight limbs brushed away the rocks Akuntali had thrown. The shape was Kwaku Anansi, in his usual manifestation as a gigantic spider.

  Kwaku Anansi laughed, for he had derived much pleasure from the adventurous chicanery of Akuntali and Ewuebe. Even more gratifying, however, was the fact that he now had within his grasp an acolyte of the boastful deity Legba. Lazily, the huge spider-shape glided toward the inert form of Ewuebe. A spark of life remained in Ewuebe’s broken body, for a sorcerer of Ife was hard to kill. But he could only cringe in horror as he felt a hairy spider-limb brush across his face.

  One again, Kwaku Anansi laughed before the huge pincers of his jaws closed upon the throat of Ewuebe dan-Ifeti.

  OKOSENE ALAKUN

  AND THE MAGIC GUINEA FOWL

  BEFORE I UNDERTOOK the task of turning some of the first Imaro stories into a novel, I ranged far and wide in my explorations of ways to turn African folk-tales into fantasy stories. The eastern and western parts of Nyumbani correspond roughly to similar regions in the Africa of the world we know. Stories from those and other regions inspired Imaro, Dossouye and the non-series stories. “Okosene Alakun and the Magic Guinea-Fowl” is adapted from a Nigerian folk-tale. Of all the stories and novels I’ve ever done, this one – along with “The Blacksmith and the Bambuti” – was the most fun to write. It was published in Weirdbook, in 1978.

  Okosene Alakun’s hand lingered over the warri-board of ebony inlaid with gold. Carefully, he studied the positions of the ivory counters resting in thirty-two holes scooped delicately into the surface of the wood. Okosene’s eyes strayed to those of his opponent – the illustrious Oba of Benan. If Okosene’s next move was the correct one, which would capture the last of the Oba’s attack counters without leaving any of his own defensive pieces vulnerable, half the kingdom of Benan would be his.

  Alternately, the wrong move would cause Okosene to lose not only the warri game, but also his left hand, his left foot, his left eye and the left-side component of his fertility as well. That the Oba played for the highest stakes possible was more than mere rumor.

  Okosene did not fail to note the slight scowl of impatience furrowing the regal brow of the Oba. But he paid no heed to the warning. Warri was a game upon which no time limitations were set. Thus, the Oba, despite his nearly absolute suzerainty, possessed no legitimate power to force Okosene to hurry his move.

  Suddenly, as if etched by a bolt of lightning across his consciousness, a propitious gambit revealed itself to Okosene’s questing mind. His hand swooped down swiftly, dark fingers curling in a caress of triumph along the edges of the counter ...

  Then several events occurred simultaneously, disastrously – and loudly.

  A voice that bore a singular resemblance to the mating call of a she-rhinoceros blared: “Okosene Alakun! Wasting time again!”

  A foot hard as the horn of a bull crashed resoundingly against the crude clay warri-board in front of Okosene, sending it sailing in several pieces through the air. The fragments of the board, along with the chips of dried goat-dung that served as counters, bounced crazily long the dusty street of Nyamem, situated on the outskirts of the city of Zamfaru – far, far away from the coral towers of Benan.

  Ekpo Essien, the genial beggar and drunkard whom Okosene’s imagination had transformed into the Oba of Benan, scrambled from his sitting posture and fled on unsteady legs.

  Very slowly, Okosene Alakun raised his eyes to gaze with passive resignation at the damnably familiar features of Ajema, his first – and thus far only – wife.

  Like a rotund monolith, Ajema loomed over her squatting spouse. Hands big as the backside of a pig rested akimbo on hips that would have shamed an elephant. Her cheap zama-cloth wrapper had been strained beyond its limit in several places, revealing bloated expanses of night-black flesh. Like an outsized melon, her head seemed to sprout neckless from her obese shoulders. And the skin on her face was stretched so tightly that the three rows of s
cars that marked her as a resident of the Zamfaru city-state were nearly undetectable. Small eyes glared ominously beneath the bright gele-cloth that covered her head.

  Again, Ajema’s foot lashed out, with a slowness to be expected in someone of her bulk. Okosene evaded the blow with an ease that attested to years of practice. Still squatting, he contrived through an unobtrusive shuffle to creep out of Ajema’s range without needing to stand.

  “So,” Ajema sneered. “Playing games again when you’re supposed to be finding me food, you worthless piece of nothing. You’re as useless as a gourd with a hole in it! Where is the corn for my maiwa? Where are the locust-beans for my daddawa-cakes? When was the last time I enjoyed dinya-fruit? Aieee! I starve to death, and my brainless fool of a husband sits playing warri with an even bigger fool of a drunkard!”

  “Well, if you hadn’t kicked the board, I would have won enough cowries from Ekpo to buy a calabash of fura ...”

  Ajema spat on the ground.

  “Fura!” she said scornfully. “Gruel for infants and toothless old hags! Listen well, Okosene Alakun. If you don’t bring me something decent to eat before sundown, I’m going to take you to court for failure to provide for your wife!”

  Okosene winced. The act was painful, for it pulled against the Zamfaru face-marks on his skin. Well did he know the penalty for the charge Ajema threatened to press. Indeed, on five previous occasions during the tortuous course of their marriage, he had been pronounced guilty of the offense. And he’d suffered the brutal floggings the law prescribed as punishment.

  He stood up.

  “I will go out to the bush,” he said. “Perhaps there are guinea-fowl in my snares.”

  Ajema’s braying laughter echoed amid the thatched rooftops of Nyamem.

  “Haaaahaaaahaaa!” You have never captured even one guinea-fowl in your wretched snares! You’re so lazy, the leopards always get there first. You just want to drink and play games with that good-for-nothing Ekpo Essien, instead of working to put food in my mouth. By Ogolukun of the River, I’m going to ...”