Pembutata Ndoto (A Triangle of Dreams)

In a mysterious weave of realism and false realities, the full meaning of African History comes together in this short story of a boy who sees more than just a picture. He sees the full reality.

“A dreamer’s imagination through sleep is a lunatic’s mind, whilst still awake.”

Kabla

 

It first dawned upon me as I sat down for my normal day, contemplating life in the essence of boredom.  The speaker came on, saying the Pledge and daily messages.  There was water polo practice afterschool, and the track meeting was cancelled.  History class was first today.  This semester was heavily focused on African history.  Sitting in class, I could only manage to stay awake.  We all know the deal.  Learning about African history isn’t the greatest experience.  The only sounds that managed to keep me up were those of the markers, annoyingly squeaking along the white board, the teacher oblivious to this annoyance; the sound of Johnny’s voice, eerily cutting through the air at every attempt.  “Ooo! Ooo! I know it! I know it!”  He always had to be right, and always had to be first.  His futile attempts at succeeding were always put down by Mr. Mitts. 

            “Jonathan, you know the rule.  No disrespectful behavior in class.  You must raise your hand if you want to be called on.”  Raising hands.  I remember when that used to be considered a rule.  Now, even at the Bellview School, it was more of an option.

            When student’s parents spend as much money as they do here, the level of respect drops a substantial rate.  Teacher’s salaries were nowhere near ordinary, due to the tuition of this school.  I don’t have regrets though, as the opportunities were endless.  We had one of the best Crews, as well as lacrosse and soccer teams, with undefeated reputations.  Although football lacked the usual finesse, it managed to pull through.  Academics, the greatest virtue, were outstanding.  The administration’s attitude reflected the grades, with their snobby attitudes and endless boasting.  It was easy for me to see in my first year that they had a highly “refined” awareness of the things around them and their reputation. 

            Johnny’s voice rang again, this time louder.  I think to myself sometimes if he knows how much his peers dislike him. 

            “He doesn’t seem to understand the concept of raising hands yet.”  Olivia whispered over my shoulder. 

            I couldn’t help but laugh.  Olivia was one of those people you meet and have to smile every time you see them.  I don’t know if its charisma or hormonal imbalances, but its significant.  I haven’t even known her that long.  She transferred into Mr. Mitts in the middle of the year after moving here from Carney, Oklahoma. 

            “What a beautiful little place it was.”  The first words we spoke revolved around this little theme.  I’ve seen many pictures of beautiful country estates, with the long, luscious fields and the audacious scent of freedom whilst the air.  She lived on an ornate farm, with animals beyond the eye’s sight.  Just the thought of these beauties brought me to tears.  Bellview was nowhere near.  It was an obnoxious town, with no social interaction.  Nobody wanted to know each other, and they did a hell of a job of doing that. 

            She always spoke of the cows, and her slight adoration of them.  “Their spots and noses are adorable.  Surely you must see them.”  She always rants on about the humorous noises they made, whether while being milked or herded, or frightened by the lassies about the land.  The more I hear about this place, the more I hate Bellview. 

            At that time we barely knew each other.  But now I can confide in her everything.  We’ve become the closest of friends. 

            “Hey, wake up Kyle.  Even Olivia is managing to stay awake.”

            Back to reality.  Or, rather, back to Africa.

            There has never been a more boring subject than Africa.  All the tales of voodoo and rebellions are so cliché, probably because of the heavy media coverage surrounding every event in history.  The History Channel, Discovery, and National Geographic are just a few of these greats.  I’m positive that most students owe a decent percentage of their grade to these channels.  The pressure put on us at Bellview is atrocious.  It’s as if we are born knowledgeable, with a grand database on every subject right from the moment we enter the door.  Mr. Mitts, however, is one of the few teachers that understand that we’re students, not scholars. 

            We still have the usual amount of work though.

            “I know how boring this is, just by seeing the absolutely incredible amount of enthusiasm in the room.”  His sarcasm is reputable.  “Today, we’re not learning about Africa.”

            The sudden joy within the room is contagious. 

            “We’re going to Africa.”

            The joy left.

 

 

 

 

           

Mkutano

 

Africa isn’t as great as it sounds. 

            The heat is the first thing you would recognize.  It isn’t just hot; it’s blazing.  It’s blazing enough for you to regret ever wishing for heat during the cold winter months, with the soft snow falling down on Bellview, illuminating the lights and delights of stores and children.  The sun seems to focus all of its massive energy on this one barren continent, burning through everything, and everyone, in its path. 

            “We have to study an African rebel?”  Olivia looked dazed at the thought of this.  I was even a little confused.  They all died in the rebellions, according to Mr. Mitts.  How could we study one, especially sitting in the most demeaning area on the planet? 

            If there’s one thing about Mr. Mitts, it’s that he’s always on top of his game.  He gave out a massive information packet, complete with a detailed Q&A for the students like Johnny, who can’t seem to enjoy anything more than hearing his own voice ring.  In our groups-Olivia and I-we were all assigned a rebel from the Nigerian Imperialization period.  Each group would have to complete a detailed report on this rebel, complete with background and photographs.  Down in Nigeria, there was a shrine built to pay homage to the Maji-Maji rebels of the time.  On a large slate of marble adjacent to the Kaburi ya Haijulikani, or Tomb of the Unknowns, where as many names of the rebels as the researchers could find are engraved for tourism and memory purposes.  We were to find the name of our rebel, and take a sketching of it for our information journals.

            “Now, you guys all know the rules here.  No straying from the group, or wandering off in search of things you’ll never find.  When I call time out, you freeze where you are.  I don’t care if you discover the next generation of Homo sapiens unknown to man; you still have to freeze.  If you laugh, you get extra credit.”

            A few giggles emerged from the group.

            Mr. Mitts sat down in his rusted seat.  Nigerian transport wasn’t the most high quality vehicles we’ve seen.  Frankly, the old extended Jeep we all sat in was the farthest from luxurious.  The ruckus of loose bolts and unhinged spare parts echoed through the deserted lands, awaking all forms of life within a mile radius.  Every time we hit the slightest contour, the Jeep jolted up and down for the next couple hundred feet before it reached its equilibrium again.  The engine sounded as if it were as tired and bored as we were, slowly lulling itself to sleep with its ominous cry.  Considering the level of annoyance of the group, a substantial amount of people, including myself, would prefer to walk in a deep silence than undergo the torture of listening to a dying car roll along the sand dunes. 

               Olivia, in her serene calm, was scanning the information packet, until she stopped at page 4.  “Lakai?  That’s his name?”

            I moved towards her to see closer.  His name was indeed Lakai.  The information Mr. Mitts gave us wasn’t very precise, making our first understanding of this illusive character a bit difficult. 

            “He grew up in Nigeria, and participated in the Maji-Maji rebellion.  That’s about all we have right now.”  I was speculating on this information.  How could we possibly learn more about this guy in the middle of nowhere?

            “Oh, here’s something.”  Olivia turned the page, stumbling upon a closely cropped, clean picture of Lakai.  He was muscular, with a large torso and voluptuous muscles pushing through his dark skin.  There was a deep red scar on the left side of his chest, tearing through the muscle and skin layered over.  From his back there was a hint of a quiver, holding a group of arrows ordained with red Phoenix feathers.  Odd, there doesn’t seem to be much of a Phoenix breeding operation out in Nigeria.

            Around his neck was a finely crafted necklace, with dull teeth surrounding the bulging carotid artery on the side of his neck.  The teeth looked to be those of a hippo, or other animal similar. They were stained yellow, with deep convulsions running down the side until they met at the jagged bottom, which looked as if ripped right out.  Some of the bones were chipped; others blood-tainted.  As for his face, he was reminiscent of a Spanish grandeur. His mustache and beard all flowed together as one, extending up to his cleanly shaven head.  His eyes were catching, with their serene glare and monotonous focus.  They seemed to look off into the distance, with an alternative idea in mind that what we may be thinking.

            Of course, this was a painting based off of renditions found in texts and journals.  But the sight of this man, in such high detail, assisted in recognizing Lakai for who he was. 

            “So, we have a picture and a couple facts.  Do you think we can write a report off of this?”

            Before Olivia could answer, Mr. Mitts, hovering over us, took our packet.  His hands were already coarsely painted with the sand of the deserts, tearing into the little cut on his ring finger. 

            “You guys seem to take this too seriously.  Lay your head back, and look out at the dunes.  Study them, focus on them.  They may look all the same, but some just might catch your attention.”  He held on to our packet, looking at us for a second, then turned around and returned to his rusty chair. 

            Olivia, energized, didn’t take the idea well.  She isn’t the type of girl who sits back and lets things happen.  She has more of a get-it-done attitude.  The idea of sleeping didn’t stick.

            “What do you mean, study the dunes?  We’re supposed to study Lakai.  We should be doing that.  Right Kyle?”

            I looked at her, and gazed past her head out the side of the Jeep, looking at the numerous dunes ranging over the entire land.  It seemed to stretch on forever, omnisciently watching over the people and animals of the land, narrating their lives and slowly moving with the speed of the wind. 

            In less than an hour, Olivia had finally heeded Mr. Mitts’s advice and fell into a deep sleep, her adorable snore wandering around in the air. I had still felt restless, as the dunes and the sun combined were rather annoying.  As I lay my head back, the hard rest in the chair dug into my hair, taking a few strands with it.  There was a rusty bolt, now the proud owner of seven strands of my hair.  

            Disregarding the obtrusive sting in the back of my head, I laid my head back, careful to avoid the rusty bolt.  I leaned a little to the right, my arm resting against the bottom of the chair.  Everyone else, except Mr. Mitts and Johnny, as they were having a single-sided conversation, was asleep.  Ronald Withers, the student in front of me, had his long hair drooping over the chair, saved grains of sand flying into my face at every wind gust. 

            I moved over one chair, now sitting behind the almost bald student, Jeremy Stone.  His mother had insisted on giving him a shave before the trip hair.  She was afraid of sand ruining the texture of his hair, and getting permanently stuck in his roots.  People are allowed to be optimistic.

            My eyes gazed off into the distance again, this time on my side of the Jeep.  Prominently, I had no idea what Mr. Mitts meant.  Every dune I saw was a copy of the last: tall, sandy, rounded at the top, and constantly “vibrating” with the wind currents.  They all seemed to blend together in the unfocused eye, becoming one vibrant mirage of a sandy blur.

            This trip is hopeless.  My moral was dropping just as fast as sand pebbles flew off of the canvas covering the Jeep.  The engine’s cry was still whirring, now even louder as our speed increased.  It became constant, lulling me into a state of calm.  My eyes started to feel heavier, as the premises of sleep started infiltrating my mind.  I wanted to just sleep, and nothing more.

            I was about to fall into the same deep sleep state as the rest of the group, when something changed.  The sand dunes had movement.  It wasn’t the sand moving.  It was a person moving.

            I blinked twice, clearing my eyes of the sand.  As I looked out again, nothing was there except for the ominous dunes lurking in the distance.  No movement.

            A few moments later, I had fallen back into the pre-sleep state, my eyes getting heavy again.  They say the heat from the desert creates hallucinations, causing the mind to imagine distant things that aren’t existent.  Then, the mind rationalizes its actions through means of common insanity.  I can’t lose it.  We’re almost the-

            There it was again.  A man, in the distance, creeping along slowly, as if following the Jeep.  He had darkened skin, and was holding a bow with no arrow.  He wore only a large sash over his lower waist, which was blowing in the sandy winds.

            I turned away, and stared at the rusting ground, the sand scraping etches into the ground.  The sand pebbles were acting oddly, however, since the wind was blowing south and they were traveling north.  You’re beginning to lose it.

No, I wasn’t. 

            I looked back again, and saw a small figure, slowly crawling along following the Jeep.  That’s absurd. We’re going 70 miles an hour; he could never be able to keep up.  But he was, and he was gaining.  As he got closer, I could make out more.  He was muscular, about 6 feet 1, and held a bow made of bones and blood red twine.  It looked almost like a melee weapon, with its sharp edges and incrusted handle. 

            “What? No!”  The driver shouted as if someone may be listening in the silence surrounding where we were.

            I looked up at him as he gunned the engine one more time, listening to the whirring motor come to a quiet halt.  There was no sound at all now.

            He got up, the full mass of his body shaking the Jeep.  Mr. Mitts was even asleep, while Johnny decided to wait it out.  He didn’t even look remotely exhausted.          

            The driver opened the hood, immediately greeted by a puff of black smoke, filtering out of the overheated engine.  He coughed, the black soot filling his throat and nose, and touching his eyes.  He waved his hands, moving the smoke away from the immediate area. 

            He looked at Mr. Mitts, and seeing him asleep, he looked at me.  He wouldn’t look at Johnny; I wouldn’t look at him either.  After constantly bothering the driver for the past 3 hours, I’m sure him and the driver had developed a phenomenal reputation.  He glanced back at the exhausted engine, and looked at me with the tired eyes he had.  His face explained it all: We were stuck here for a while. 

            In the commotion, I almost forgot about our mysterious follower.  As I turned around again, the driver decided to take a stroll off into the near lands, hoping maybe for a vague sight of civilization of any kind.  I turned around, and the mysterious follower was nowhere to be seen, easily.  As my eyes jumped from dune to dune, I sighted the same sash covering his lower waist.  Right when I saw it, he moved again, this time hastily. 

            I was struck for words.  I was stuck in the middle of some barren area in Nigeria, in a broken down Jeep older than me, with a suspicious man following us with a potentially violent plan.  Was this part of the trip?  And why wasn’t Mr. Mitts awake yet?   Where did the driver go? 

            “Help! Help!” It was instinct.  There isn’t much more to do in the middle of nowhere.  I yelled.  I yelled at the top of my lungs, hoping for someone to hear, or at least for everyone else to wake up.  I didn’t get that lucky.  I kept yelling. 

            A large hand appeared, covering my mouth with full force. 

            “Kuwa Kimya.”  The hand spoke.

            Rather, the person who it belonged to. 

            The Swahili language was always confusing to me, with the multiple useable verbs and conjugations and possibilities with confusion.  But, in the situation I was in, I knew exactly what these words meant.

            The hand moved, and I slowly rotated to see my captor.  My back against the chair was hurting, as the hand had pushed me into Ronald’s hair behind me.  The back of his chair had dug into my back, leaving a delicate bruise.

            I turned a full 90, and as my eyes came to look at my captor, I took my free hand and cleared my eyes.  I even blinked a couple times, to make sure this wasn’t one of the infamous desert hallucinations. 

            When I opened my eyes, I had met the suspicious man following us, with the muscular body and the vicious looking bow.

            I was looking into the focused, serene eyes of Lakai.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uongo Ukweli

 

            “Oy! Nini Makosa? We need to finish today!”

            Shaka looked over to Cetysha, who was holding a bucket-branch over her back. 

            “I am going.  I’m going.  Wewe ni mjinga!” 

            Cetysha is the strongest woman in the Ibos.  At 5 foot 8, she stood taller than most of the clay-baking women.  She is strong for her size, yet lean, and can do much of what the Ibo men can do.  For this, she is treated differently than the rest.  I don’t know if this is beneficial or not, because the men are treated harshly by Shaka, but respected by the children and women. 

            Either way, Shaka was our leader, fearless and strong.  The Ibos Wazee chose him, above all other candidates to courageously lead us towards our future.  His father, Kajil, grew up in the Ibos as a field worker.  Kajil was the greatest farmer the Wazee had ever seen, cultivating the fields with unnatural speed.  He grew up miserably, treated unfairly and forced into inhumane jobs that the other tribe members refused to do.  As the elders say, there was one day where the sun was at its brightest, the Siku ya Mwanganza, where he was working the fields in his usual manner.  The Wazee looked upon him, and in the small of his back there was the sun’s reflection, perfectly esteemed and brilliantly noted.  It was this that brought him his fame and leadership, passing it on to Shaka now.

            It was always my dream to be the tribe leader, to withhold such an honor.  Shaka treated his job with no respect, abusing his power against the workers to receive his sick pleasure, and to force women into his bed.  Yes, he treats us with mild respect and gives us moments that brighten our normal lives, but the respect we owe him in return is not worth it.

            “Lakai, what do you think you are doing?  Our preparations are not met, and you just stand there, adoring my Cetysha?”

            Do not anger the tribe leader.  Before we even learn to speak properly, this lesson is engraved into our heads.  It is our life motto, and a man disobeying this law would be removed from the tribal ranks and exiled into the harsh care of the desert.

            I didn’t apply.  I was Shaka’s best friend.

            We had lived adjacent when we were younger.  I had always been the better man.  I could run faster, throw farther, lift more, and could enigmatically converse with an unknown person as if they were my brother.  Shaka was clumsy, naïve; always falling for jokes and pranks obvious even to the adults.  We were the best of friends.  I can’t remember a day where I wouldn’t stand by his side, looking out into the miles of sand, both of us thinking about when we would grow up and what we would become, who we would meet.  That changed rather quickly, when Cetysha’s family was accepted into the ranks.          

            She was the most beautiful being I had ever seen.  Her skin radiated with light, with such brilliance as to anger the sun.  Her luscious hair flowed as what we have heard of the ocean, with beautiful grand waves crashing into each other, the creatures coming face to face rapidly and unknowingly.  The individual strands would get caught in the air, dancing around beside her deep hazel eyes, deep enough for one to fall into.  Just as I have. 

            Shaka’s reputation changed when he met her.  I might have been the greatest at everything else, but something changed when Shaka knew what he truly wanted.  He grew taller, more muscular, obtaining physical features that I could only dream of.  But, as all tales of love may go, there was always one problem.

            Cetysha was in love with me. 

            I loved her back, more than I have ever loved anything else. 

            Shaka’s father made sure that he got what he wanted.  Kajil had placed an enemy tribe’s insignia in my hut while we were peacefully asleep, bringing the infamous attention from the Wazee.  They cared not for our stories; only for our removal.  But I was a child; they could not banish me into the realms of the unknown outside the tribal bounds without regret and guilt.  So they sent my father off, into the miserable hell his corpse now lies in, stranded in the desert.  I only got to see him once before he left; not even a hug.  I saw a glimpse of his face from the hut opening, and saw his painstaking eyes apologizing to me.  He wasn’t angry; he was not capable of hatred.  I saw compassion out of a man who had just lost everything.

            “You still stand there, mocking me, kidigo kijana?”  Shaka always called me little boy.  He would never accept that I may be wiser, or older, than him.

            “I was not admiring her beauty, Shaka; I was learning from her ways of hoisting, as she is the best.”  That’s another thing I was gifted at; sarcastic lying.

            He turned around, and began talking to an elder while his eyes incisively glimpsed to the long, slender legs of Cetysha, her muscles toned and firm under the heavy weight of the bucket-branch.  I can only imagine what he was thinking.

            I turned around, unable to look at him anymore.  I picked up my bucket-branch, its full weight atop my shoulders, and headed towards the Maji-Maji Kitanda. 

            It was rather miraculous, the Wazee had said, finding a Kitanda in the middle of our barren habitat.  They headed down this same path when the Hunters had discovered this waterbed, lonely and stranded.  It wasn’t that far off of the Ibo border; it’s surprising that it wasn’t found earlier.  It’s as if it had appeared here.

            Azalain, one of the Wazee, had this same theory.  “It has been given to us by Wafu Miungu!  The dead gods are giving us a message.  They want us to part with the man!  They have given this to us for our help.  We must use it brothers.  They will help us!”  It was immediately agreed on.  Shaka and the Wazee formulated a plot to use the Maji-Maji, as Juclaya, another Wazee, had deemed it. 

            The Maji-Maji will give us the power to defeat the man.

            Shaka took belief to the sayings of the Wazee, and had diverted attention to this undeniably important waterbed.  He had sent out messengers to the various tribes throughout      Nigeria in question of rebellion.  We were building an army, fortified by the powers of the water.   

            My bucket-branch was heavier than it used to be.  A crude tool, the women of the tribe had suggested it for carrying the Maji-Maji.  They had taken clay and shaped it into a tree-branch, then made clay buckets to attach on the ends to help carry more water more efficiently.  It was a good idea, I will say.  But it is painstakingly heavy and inappropriately shaped for our shoulders.  Who I am to complain though.

            The smell of the water in the dry air always inflamed my senses.  It was magical, in every way we knew.  When surrounded by so much unforgiving land, any presence of such a beautiful sight as water will make the most depressed man smile.  It is stronger than love itself, as love branches off of the wonders of nature.

            On the shore of the bed, I knelt down on the coarse sand, feeling it contour around my legs and knees.  I looked over the water, and my reflection gleams before my eyes, as well as the few fish that swim through these waters.  I was growing older, with more stress lines running through my face and my beard was getting longer.  My eyes, regardless of my age, were still jumpy and energetic, with as much life as they had ever had.  My head still “shined” as Cetysha has always told me.  Her laugh was irrefutable; it was as delicately astounding as the hawks flying above us, gliding through the wind as if part of it.

            The glinting water tricked off of my fingers as I reached both buckets into the bed, picking up a full load of the Maji-Maji.  The swooshing sound it made inside the bucket lightened my spirit, and seemed to lessen the blazing heat of Nigeria.  I looked back into the water, now moving like a small ocean, the waves rising and dropping just as large as a finger’s width. 

            I heard cheering in the background; it distracted me from nature’s beauty.  I hadn’t realized that more Fetchers hadn’t been sent out yet.  Shaka would never risk wasting time unless it was something important.

            I rose from the sand, the grains jumping off of my knees back to their homes.  The bucket-branch was now at its heaviest, full with Maji-Maji to be added to the storage.  My back ached with the weight of the water, and the stress of constant work all day.  It will pay off.  We will defeat the man.

            As soon as I came into sight of the tribe, I saw flags waving overhead with different colors than I was accustomed to.  There was our flag, ordained with the red, black, and green, the sun in the middle, but there were two others.  I saw a green, yellow, and red flag, ordained with stars, and a green a white flag, plainly striped.  The Yoruba and Hausa leaders had arrived.

            Shaka had sent out messages of rebellion along with invitations for organization.  It was, of course, my idea to have the two largest groups besides ours formerly meet.  Shaka took the credit.

            “Salamu, ndugu!  Salamu!”  Shaka was always cordial to greet.  He became a different person around people who looked for presentation.  He became friendly, kind, and devoted to his people.  Part of this was the slight difference in dialects, and being warming and friendly seems to remove that little obstacle.  It helps the other person interpret what you might be saying.

            Both chiefs had on large robes, ornately designed with jewels, followed by gorgeous women.  They had different hats; with the Yoruba’s having a cone shaped one, and the Hausa with a pentagonal hat.  They both looked alike though.  They both had the rotten, powerful look all people develop when they have control over everything they can.  It’s inevitably present; nobody can rid themselves of this ego.

            We were not allowed to talk to them, or ask them any questions.  They went into the Sacred Hall, the Takatifu Ukumbi, and spoke about plans.  The Fetchers and I went back to our duties, and life resumed as normal, with their carriages sitting parked on the outskirts. 

            I emptied my bucket-branch, and turned around to head back to the Kitanda, when Cetysha called my name. 

            “Lakai, rafiki yangu, come here.”  She was smiling at me, and it made me happy.

            I walked over to her as she was emptying her bucket-branch into the storage we had built.  She had to stand taller than normal to reach the top, and her body glinted under the sunlight, illuminating her acetous curves.  She put the empty tool down, and sighed, looking at me.

            “Cheer up, you’re looking gloomy.  We’ll be done after tonight, and then we can enjoy ourselves again.” 

            As much as I wanted to just run away with her and never look back, I remembered Shaka. 

            “You’ll be with Shaka tonight.  The night before battle is sacred in the tribe.  You cannot leave him.”      

            She laughed.  She always loved the way I obeyed most rules, even though none applied to me.     “I think we can find a way around that.”

            “Go to Shaka.  Be with him tonight.  Tomorrow we are going to fight, and he needs you.  Please, for me?”

            I could tell she agreed when she stopped talking.  She still looked into my eyes, and I looked into hers.  Every time I saw them I fell right in, loving her more. 

            “Because of you, I will.  I look forward to fighting by your side tomorrow, in battle; the only place we can truly be together without the scolds of others.”

            The thought of being alone, even within a crowd, with Cetysha brought a new light.  I looked forward to the rebellion now, and was eager to wake up tomorrow, hearing the war cries echoing from Shaka and the other chiefs.             

            I gave Cetysha a hug, quickly, as not be seen, and walked back to my cottage.  It was closer to the outskirts, as I also assisted the guard if necessary.  I was one of the stronger men of the tribe.

            My footsteps, scraping against the sand, made a slightly audible noise through the night.  It seemed to constantly be getting louder, and louder, until I couldn’t hear them anymore.  Odd, it sounded like much more than 2 feet.             

            I turned around, and saw much more than 2 feet.  There were thousands.

            The Yoruba and Hausa armies had arrived.

            They marched from the north and the west, many miles away, each step echoing in perfectly even lines.  They looked professional, yet bloodthirsty, and their eyes reeked of courage.  If anyone could be ready for the events about to take place, it was them.  Their generals were enormous, and they were the only ones with armor plates.  The Yoruba’s were gold plated with black outlines; The Hausa’s were brown leather, reinforced with iron rungs. 

            The Yorubas stopped in place, their halting feet thumping against the ground.  “Kupambana Kwa Kweli!”  The whole army chanted together, their deep voice frightening all that were around.  We fight for truth.   

            The Hausas, 20 feet away, stopped in perfect synchrony, the same thumping feeling spreading through the ground.  “Kusimama Kwa Ajili ya Haki!”  We stand for justice.

            It was awe-inspiring.  They looked over at me, the thousands of eyes burning holes through my skin.  It was easy to see that they were ready.  Nothing could stop them now.  Tunaanza.

            We begin.

 

            “Leo hii kuanguka! Leo hii kuanguka!” 

            Shaka was singing this morning, his enthusiasm arousing my sleep.  Today they fall. 

            “Ari kila mtu! Leo hii kuanguka!” It was evident that he wanted up awake.  I was still tired, but I had to get up.

            I brushed aside the cloth in front of my hut, and the sun’s rays immediately jumped in and welcomed me, brushing through my hair and dancing on my skin.  It was bright today, brighter than usual.  The sand was hot, but not hot enough to scold my skin.  It was just warm.  Very warm.

            The ceremony had already begun, starting with the Hausas.  The Wazee had gathered around the Maji-Maji storage, now fitted with a small staircase barely large enough to accommodate one warrior. 

            The Wazee were chanting a prayer, consisting of devotions to the gods, asking for help and immunity.  Each warrior, naked, would submerge themselves into the water up to their head, and recite their portion of the prayer.  “Mimi Hauonekani.”  It was said slowly, without emphasis.  They would then submerge their head under the water.  They would step out of the storage, and then jump off of the 9 foot ledge on the opposite side of the storage, where they would then suit up once more. 

            They had become invincible under the power of the Maji-Maji. 

            All the Yoruba’s had finished early in the morning, as they would be leading the assault on the German post.  The Hausa’s were almost finished, with only a few warriors left in the line. 

            Most of the Ibo warriors had already been blessed the day before, before the arrival of the soldiers.  Only the warriors were allowed to use the water though.  Nobody else. 

            I saw Cetysha standing in the line, naked as well.  She shined with radiance, just as always.  I removed my sash and joined her in the line.  She would be fighting with us today, even though she was a woman.  Shaka would not dare leave without her by his side. 

            She was trembling; I took her hand.  It was comforting, and she stopped.

            “Don’t be frightened.  We have the magic on our side.  Even if we are to die, I promise to be there by your side, holding your hand just as I am now.”   

            She didn’t reply, but smiled.  A smile can say a thousand words that aren’t meant to be spoken.

            She went in first, and recited the prayer, submerging herself underwater.  As she got out, I looked into the storage.  It was deep and dark, even though the water was crystal clear.     

            I jumped in, and immediately felt the striking cold against my body.  It was a wonderful sensation, especially after just leaving a boiling environment with no consolidation other than the humid, sandy air.  I looked to Azalain, and he gave no expression.  He was deep in prayer, just as the other Wazee were.  They were focused, deep in thought.          

            “Mimi Hauounekani.”  I went under.

            My hair was flowing.  It just, flowed.  I can’t describe how it was.  It was so…different.  Being cleaned by the magical water.  The sand grains and beads of sweat left my body to reside within the water now, joining the rest of the sand and sweat of my brothers, and sister.  The water went everywhere, just running around my body, screaming into my ears, and soaking my feet.  I’ve never felt anything so relieving. 

            I pulled my head back out, greeting the sun once more, and feeling the same humid wind.  I pulled the rest of my body out, and jumped off of the ledge back onto the heated sand, finding my garments as the sun dried my body.  I shook my head, feeling the water fly out of the strands of hair into the wind and onto the ground, relieving those few grains of sand it touched. 

            I felt clean, new, just overall better.  It felt as if I could do anything in the world.

            I didn’t feel invincible.

            I had no time to think about this, because Shaka immediately began mobilizing.  We were heading off, into the battle we knew nothing about. 

“Come on, we go now! We leave towards the man, bringing him down.  Leo hii kuanguka!”

            His enthusiasm was truly contagious.  He had 3 entire armies, 2 leaders, and magic water behind him, ready to fight to the death.  He even had me.  As much as I despised him, and regretted ever meeting him, he had me wrapped around his finger, flicking me off into the battle. 

            We walked for what seemed like an eternity.  Cetysha was by my side, her arm rubbing against mine every time we moved.  We all moved within groups: Yoruba in the front, Ibos in the middle, and Hausas holding the back.  This was the entrance plan, as the Yoruba and Hausa armies were bigger and stronger than ours, therefore giving fortification for us. 

            Shaka, however, demanded to be all the way in front, with the Yoruba and Hausa leaders following closely.

            After many steps, numerous conversations, and raging war cries from everyone, it emerged in the distance.

            It was absolutely gigantic.

            Made of stone and wood in a seamless harmony, the wall was bigger than we had imagined.  It is impossible to scale, and impossible to penetrate without the same tools used to build it.  On each side there stood towers, equipped with the machines the Germans used to fend off those they don’t like.  All around the wall there were people, fitted tight with the dark olive and grey uniforms of the German army.  Their helmets clanged against themselves, and their polish shined and glinted with a razor-sharp precision.  Same with their weapons, the tips made of shining metal, and the body made of painted wood.  It all looked unreal.  They were perfectly position, as if someone had seem from above, and taken them one by one and put them down, like children do with rocks to make fancy shapes.  There were two men for each machine mounted on the towers, one holding the shooters, and one holding the machine.  I have heard stories of these machines, mowing through crowds without hesitation.  The people dropped, as if life had left them inevitably rapidly, ascending to a place where these machines didn’t exist.           

            But we had the Maji-Maji.  What was so important about this? 

            Their shooters turned to water, flowing seamlessly with the Maji-Maji.

            Jucleya had explained this to us, with full heart, upon finding the Kitanda. 

            Shaka ordered a halt, and moved forward.  He put his hands by his side, tensing his whole body, as the other 2 leaders moved backwards.  He looked left, then right, and stared forward.  He looked towards the towers, and then the ground, as intimidating as I’d ever seen him. 

            “Leo hii kuanguka!”  His voice roared through the deafening silence, shattering all fragments of sound that were ever here. 

            I screamed when I heard the sound.

            Not the roar, but the bang.

            Shaka’s roar was minuscule compared to the sound of this.  It reverberantly echoed through the air, cutting through the sound of the wind and murdering Shaka’s war cry in cold blood.  No sound I had ever imagined could have been as loud or frightening as this one. 

            I moved backward a bit, simply out of shock.  As I stood up taller to see what had happened, or where this had originated from, I saw a red blotch, blocking my view.  Shaka’s chest had a gaping hole, blood seeping out of the back. 

            He fell to the ground, all his weight creating an inaudible thump against the hard ground.

            I saw one of the soldiers on the ground, wielding his weapon against his shoulder, the tip facing Shaka.  He lowered the weapon, a grim smirk upon his face as Shaka didn’t move anymore.  His life had left him, and the water had flowed off of his body.  The water went deep into the sand, as if hiding from the irrefutably loud shriek of the shooter, or the silent moan of death.

            All hell broke loose.

            Pure commotion broke out.  People ran in all directions, as the machines turned on and started raining their shooters out on us.  I saw more red than white light, with it spraying everywhere on everyone.  We stood no chance against the Germans.  They fought harder and had more to fight with.  We were expendable ants under their leather boots.  I couldn’t hear anything, and could only see frightened faces and blood spatters.  The sand had become a pool of human bodies, abrade in their own blood.  I looked around, looking for something I could recognize, someone I could go to and be with.  Then I realized I was missing someone.

            Cetysha was gone. 

            I scrambled through the massacre, screaming her name.  I didn’t care for death or life.  I needed her right now.  If there was one person I would see before I die, it had to be her. 

            I kept looking, frantic now, as people’s bodies fell atop mine, lifeless.  There were so many sounds; yelps, whirs, screams.

            Screams. 

            She screamed.

            I heard her scream.  I ran towards her.  I couldn’t focus; I didn’t know where it had come from.  There were shooters whizzing past my ears, buzzing around my head.  People hands and feet and arms were rubbing against me and falling on me, dirtying my skin with their blood and tears.  I didn’t know what to do; I was lost in my own world, within a world of pure violence.

            I saw her on the ground.

            She was holding her stomach. 

            I ran over to her, seeing the blood seeping through her fingers.  Her look was faint; she was scared.  She was trembling again, out of pain this time.  The machine had hit her.  Her eyes were weary, her skin bland.  She didn’t have the same radiance.  Her happiness had left, just as everyone else’s.

            I ran over and took her blood stained hand.  It was wet, and got my hand wet.  I didn’t care.  I looked at the wound.  It was deep, cutting right through her.  She was breathing rapidly, and looking around assuredly.  I looked into her deep hazel eyes, and saw what I love about her once more.  My feelings rushed back, helping to calm me, and then infuriate me.

            “Lakai, my love, look at me.”

            I didn’t want to.  I wanted to save her.  I wanted to be able to look at her later, after all of this.  I didn’t want to look at her now, not like this.

            She took my head, and with the little strength she had, she turned it towards her. I didn’t resist. 

            I looked at her, and saw her eyes studying my face.  She looked into my eyes, as if trying to say something.  She was weakening quickly. 

            “Mimi we-mimi wewe-“

            She couldn’t say it.  She didn’t have to.  I know what she was saying.

            “Mimi wewe upendo.”

            I love you.

            I felt the pain imbrue my chest.  It was worse than anything I’ve ever felt.  They had hit me.  I felt the burn of the shooter cutting through my skin, gaping a hole in the front of my chest, right below my scar.  I felt the tip cutting into my bones, severing everything in its path.  I felt the air in my lungs escaping through the newly formed door.  I felt my heart, painfully pumping, gathering up the words I needed to say.  I looked right at her, her soul now almost parted.  ”Mimi wewe upendo pia.”

            I love you too. 

            She fell to the ground, her head bouncing against the sand, and her hair lustrously flowing on the ground like the wings of a hawk.

            I followed, my back burning against the hot sand I knew so well.  I was born on these sands, I lived on these sands; I’m dying on these sands.

            I felt the life slowly leaving my body, deserting me forever as it journeys on to where all deceased lives go.  I looked over at Cetysha, my eyes gazing on her face, as she smiled back at me.  Her eyes closed, and she stopped breathing. 

            My eyes were closing, and my body was going numb.  I slowly moved closer to her, and my eyes traveled down the smooth skin of her arm to her hand.  It was the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes for eternity.   

            Her hand was in mine, grasping tightly, and mine in hers, comforting her. 

            Mimi wewe upendo.   

 

Ahueni

 

“Hello? Kyle? Still with us?”

            Mr. Mitts was right in my face. 

            “Are you still in the game Kyle?  I’ll put you on the bench if you need it.” 

            My eyes opened slowly, readjusting to the light coming through the canvas.  It was brighter than before.  Before.  Before when?

            What had just happened?

            “Uh, the Jeep?  It’s fixed?  How? What’s going on?  We’re moving.  You’re awake.”  I heard Johnny talking again.  “Johnny’s awake?”

            Mr. Mitts ignored me.  “So, what exactly does mimi wewe upendo mean?  And I know I try to be a phenomenal teacher, but you having dreams about Lakai frightens me.”

            Olivia laughed, smiling at my apparent confusion.

            “No, no Mr. Mitts.  You don’t understand. I was-“  I stopped.  I was already looking insane enough.

            “You were what?”  He was looking at me in a rather weird way. 

            “Just, nothing.  I was asleep, getting deep into African history.  That’s all.”

            Mr. Mitts laughed, looking around to make sure he wasn’t crazy. 

            I looked at Olivia, and she moved next to me.  She was wide awake, as if she hadn’t fallen asleep before.

            I turned around, utterly confused, and looked behind the Jeep.  I was looking for Lakai, in his sash with that violent bow.  I stared at the sand dunes, and saw nothing.  I looked back at the driver.  He was whistling along to a tune, his face clean of soot and black smoke, and his hands all clean.  There wasn’t even any hair in the rusty bolt in front of me or behind me.  But I still felt the weird pain in my back, and could taste Lakai’s hand on my lips.  The Jeep was speeding along through the sand, blowing dust behind us.  The sand grains were still littered across the ground, scraping against the metal floor. 

            It all looked as if we just got on the Jeep.

            “We’re almost there.  I can see it now.”        

            The driver pointed to a large obelisk clearing in the distance.  The sand dunes had disappeared here, with nothing to obstruct the obelisk.  I could see it slowly emerging from the dense air, protruding into the sky.  At the top, there were figures I couldn’t make out.

            Mr. Mitts and Olivia looked at me as if I had just left the psychiatric ward.  I would probably be doing the same if I could see myself.  I had no idea what was going on.

            We arrived at the memorial, while I was still in a confused state of shock, and exited the Jeep.  Mr. Mitts came off first, with the driver and Johnny following close behind.  He immediately ran off into distance, wanting to be the first to explore the new sight. 

            “So you were murmuring in your sleep, huh?  Must have been one hell of a dream.” 

            Danielle Wilkins talked to me.  She was medium size, a little shorter than me.  She was one of the smart ones in our class, always getting the highest grades.  She was extraordinarily pretty as well, always having the nicest looking clothes and the biggest smile.  She was holding a tangerine, looking at me in an enigmatic way, the obvious sarcasm of her statement leaking through.

            “Trust me when I say, I’m not sure if I’d want to experience it again.”

            She laughed, in the adorable way she does.  Olivia, behind me, poked my back to keep me moving, as I was just standing there, holding up the students behind me. 

            We exited the bus, our little group of Olivia, Danielle and I strolling over to the monument.  We saw the wall of names, with engravings throughout the entire fragment of marble, running spherically around the entire obelisk with the figures up top.  We went exploring, and couldn’t help but overhear.  The figures were now coming into clear view, and the driver was explaining to a group of students what it was.  It looked oddly familiar, and as I got closer, I could see why.

            “There were many warriors who fought in the Maji-Maji rebellion,” explained the driver, “that practically gave their lives for their freedom.  In this statue, there are three of the warriors.  The one on the far left is-“

            “Shaka.  His name is Shaka.”  I recognized this statue.  I had just experienced it.  Shaka was standing there, his full chest outward, pride in his face. 

            “Why, yes, that’s his name.  Good job.  The one next to him was his brother,-“

            “No, they’re friends.  His name is Lakai.  They were like brothers.”  They weren’t brothers.  They were best friends, and enemies over a single goal.  He was getting this wrong.

            “Well, this is just speculation, but they look to be brothers.  It is unsure.”  The driver didn’t want to be wrong, especially to a student that was just having hallucinations on the bus. 

            He continued on.  “Now, we don’t know who the third person is, as there’s no record of her.  Yes, that is a woman, fighting in the rebellion.  According to the infor-“

            I cut him off again.  I knew all of this already.  “Her name is Cetysha.  She’s the only woman to help in the rebellion.  She was technically married to Shaka, but she was in love with Lakai.  It was a forbidden love, and they were not allowed to be seen embracing in public.  They had to go in the night and be with each other.”

            The driver looked at me, puzzled by my sudden knowledge of African history, especially unrecorded history.

            “Well, I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that to preserve the sanity of the rest of the group.”  This brought laughter.  He must think he’s real funny.

            I am the one laughing though.  I knew these people, they were more than statues.  They were living people, growing together, with mutual bonds.  Shaka stood proud as usual, and Lakai stood next to Cetysha.  They looked as perfect as they always did, and the artist didn’t forget one little trait that separated them from the rest.  No, not their pristine beauty, or imperfections; those were all there.  Even their emotions seemed to blend through.  If I didn’t even recognize them as the Ibos, I would have known this to be true just because of one simple thing.

            Lakai and Cetysha were looking into each other’s eyes, her hand grasped firmly in his.

            Mimi wewe upendo pia.

            I love you too.

                

 

 

 

 

Epilogue

    This story was one of those moments when I look back and think about how I can do things differently.  Introducing multiple characters with pseudonyms based off of real life was definitely a new point I haven’t dabbed in yet. 

            Swahili is a difficult language, and although there was a different dialect at the time, I used basic modern Swahili just to give an introduction to the reader of how it would have sounded.  Only certain phrases of importance or repetitive phrases seemed like they needed a Swahili touch to them.  If there is any difficulty in translation, using an online source may help, as Swahili has many English translations that may not be pertinent to the context.  Certain phrases, or “sounds,” don’t have a literal translation, and are placed to add a cultural flare to the story.

            As stated in the authorial note on the title, these events are based off of real life events.  They have been taken in factually and repeated in a more creative manner.   

            Overall, the Maji-Maji rebellion did follow a path much like the one written about here.  Although Shaka, Lakai, and Cetysha may be fictional, there were many instances like those with characters and people much alike them.

            In general retrospect, the entire idea behind this plot was based solely off of the historical event that truly took place.  Although a bit dramatic, the factual information and Maji-Maji collection were fully accurate.  I sincerely hope that whoever read this enjoyed it thoroughly, and at least learned a little bit about the Maji-Maji rebellion and all the historical aspects related to it. 

Author's Note

I love criticism, and anything to help me improve! Thank you guys! :)

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

No weakness in the story. You done some research for this story. I went to Africa for water and food missions in 1995-1998. Your description brought back some memories of a strong people. I learn to respect the people of Africa. They were hard and expected respect. Your story did them justice. I never had any problems in Angola. I believe all people respect a man who looked him in the eyes and offered a hand in friendship. I like how you set-up the journey and the adventure. A excellent story. I will come back and read again when my house is quiet.
Coyote
Coyote