The Farmer's Boy
Once again the land had become dry and the air, droughty.
Throat-parching. Skin-wrinkling.
Once again dust particles swirled in the fierce winds, ecstatic to be free of the binding moisture that held them together like clumpy spaghetti noodles. They took to flight in a synchronized fashion much like bird murmurations and became pirouetting brown clouds that pestered the many eyes cowering behind squinted eyelids.
Once again, lips became chapped and sudden smiles punished with the sharp sting of sudden tear. And the taste of arid earth became known to many mouths.
It was December again. The haunting had returned and the wraith named Harmattan had descended on Umuebelu village, his ice-cold breath greeting every exposed palm and instep. The mark of his curse could be seen on ashy elbows and knees, the doleful moan of his voice, heard in the sweeping winds that constantly tumbled withered things about.
In the farmlands, smoke from various extinguished fires rose up to meet the sky, while the embers, like ghoulish eyes peering from underneath heaps of smouldering ashes, seemed to hiss with unsated ambition.
In one such farm sat Ikechukwu under a tropical almond tree, watching his father and older brother, Nnamdi, separate the weeds from the crops and gather them for burning. He had been tasked with watching over the gourds of cool stream water and the wraps of food that they were to eat, and to make sure that all these were kept safe from the notorious soldier ants that constantly scouted the entire expanse of the vast communal farmlands. For a restive rascal like him, this was torturous work. His body twitched for adventure but he knew well enough of his father’s stern disciplinary measures to not indulge his impulses. Moreover, they were at the farm, where an endless supply of sticks lay within arm’s reach that could be used to whack a disorderly child.
So he restrained his impulses and waited, opting to entertain himself by juggling the fallen tropical almond fruits that were littered around him. He knew that it wouldn’t be long until the sun eventually crossed to the other side of the udara tree close to Mazi Maduka’s farmland. And when that happened, Ifeoma, the village Town crier’s wife would come sauntering down the narrow pathway next to their farm with a calabash of water balanced on her head, swaying her hips and pretending not to notice them. And then things would happen just as they had happened so many times before; his father would take careful looks around before announcing that he wanted to go pass stool, and then would disappear down the pathway in the same direction that Ifeoma had taken. Last year, when Ikechukwu turned nine, he had asked his father why he and Nnamdi had to pass their stools on the farm for manure, whereas he would go away to pass his elsewhere, and had received a heavy knock on the head for his troubles. His father’s reaction had puzzled him, and he felt a self-righteous sense of injustice. Why would his father punish him for asking a question? Did he have a secret farm elsewhere that he fertilized with his stools? Ikechukwu decided that he would find out. So the next time it happened, he followed him discreetly despite Nnamdi’s disapproval. When he found his father with Ifeoma behind a fallen tree trunk, they were doing the same weird things he had caught Okwi the blacksmith’s apprentice do with a bean-cake hawker in the abandoned shed behind the blacksmith’s shop. He had been filled with disappointment at such an anticlimactic discovery. There really were no secret farm after all! Just a couple of gross grownups hiding to play a gross grownup game!
He turned to stare at his father through the flurry of withered leaves that the Harmattan wind blew up, as he recalled that incident.
By the time the sun finally crossed over to peer at them from the other side of the udara tree, the farm had been swept clean of all the weeds, jutting roots and debris. All these were gathered into a huge pile that his father lit on fire. The flames shot high up into the air, sending smoke and ash airborne to frolic above the village with the rest from other farms around. Although Ikechukwu had seen this many times in the past, it never lost its novelty. He stared deeply into the fire, trying to make out shapes in the dancing flames. One second, he made out the wispy figures of leaping antelopes, but then they melded into a likeness of his father’s snuff bottle in an instant, and then he thought he saw the ugly face of Aniekwenka, the bow-legged troublemaker who loved to pick fights in the village market square.
When the rage of the fire had somewhat abated, they all sat across each other atop strewn banana leaves in the shade of the tropical almond tree, and began to eat. His father ate rather ravenously, in the manner of someone who was late for something. Globs of thick egusi soup escaped his fingers and dropped to the dusty ground, much to the delight of the scavenging ants. Ikechukwu stole glances at him as he in turn stole glances at the pathways, his anticipation barely concealed. As Ikechukwu watched his father he suddenly realized that there seemed to be a certain undertone to his restiveness. Was it just his imagination or was there really a hint of anxiety in the wild, searching looks his father cast about? He looked at Nnamdi to see if he also noticed this, but his older brother was quietly eating in that careful, reserved manner that he was known for.
True to form, Ifeoma soon appeared down the pathway. However, this time she had no calabash of water on her head, and her steps bore the urgency of suppressed hysteria. When she got to their farm, she turned away from the path and began walking straight towards them! Ikechukwu’s father sprang up with such force that made even Nnamdi pause his eating to stare. He quickly washed his hands in the wash bowl, spilling excessive water in his haste before dashing off to intercept Ifeoma halfway, pausing only momentarily to growl a command at the boys to stay put and watch the fire. Together, the two adults walked off briskly down the pathway talking in hushed tones and gesticulating wildly.
The silence that preceded under the tropical almond tree was only punctuated by the intermittent whistle of a magpie robin, calling to its mate from the treetop. The two boys stared at the curve in the pathway where the grownups had disappeared from sight, a million thoughts running through their minds as they tried to assimilate what they had just witnessed. For a long while, neither of them stirred until the cold and dry Harmattan winds turned the bits of garri stuck to their palms into hardened crusts. And then finally, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, Nnamdi calmly resumed eating, smacking his lips as he swallowed ball after ball of garri with soup. Ikechukwu stared at him, flabbergasted.
“Something’s wrong, Nnam,” Ikechukwu said.
“Hm.” Was all the reply he got.
“Did you see that? They never walk off together! And did you notice that he took his sharp machete with him?” Ikechukwu said, his excitement seeping into his voice. He stood up abruptly and sat back down again. Then he pivoted and raised himself up to rest on one knee, all the while looking at the spot they last saw their father. Across from him, Nnamdi ate on in stoic silence.
“Nnam, we should go check it out! I tell you-something’s up.”
Silence.
His brother’s nonchalance irked Ikechukwu and he longed to shake some sense into him. How was he not consumed with the urgency to know?
“Nnamdi... Nnamdi, do you hear me? I think we should go after them.”
“Sit down.” Nnamdi said.
Something in the way he said it, made Ikechukwu sit down quietly. He watched his brother, the quiet one whom family and strangers alike looked upon with puzzlement, because they couldn’t figure out how a thirteen-year-old boy could function with the demeanor of a genarian. Their years together had trained Ikechukwu to be alert to rare, fickle moments like this one; moments where he could tell that Nnamdi felt chatty enough to utter five or more sentences at a time. It was like some sixth sense honed out of his persistent desperation to connect with his brother the way normal siblings did. So he bid his time and waited in complete silence.
Finally, Nnamdi finished his food, washed his hands and raised his eyes to meet his brother’s. When he spoke, his voice was low and brooding.
“I had a dream last night.”
Ikechukwu’s chest beat wildly against his rib cage. A dream! The last time Nnamdi had a dream was two years ago, the same year their mother passed away from acute tuberculosis. He still remembered the day it happened, the day they had woken up to the sounds of wailings coming from their mother’s hut. He also remembered the perplexed look on Nnamdi’s face when he told him that he had dreamt of Mama sitting on a boat, waving at them while she was ferried away by a freakishly tall, hooded figure. For months after that, Ikechukwu had been plagued with nightmares of a tall hooded entity whose mannerisms reminded him of Izaga, the tallest ancestral spirit of their clan.
“In my dream, a red warthog was let loose. It charged at Papa and gored him in his groin. Then it turned around and charged at us too.” Nnamdi said.
“You and I?” Ikechukwu asked.
“Yes. And some other people we know. It was just slashing and biting, and by the time it was finally shot dead, four people had already been killed.”
Ikechukwu turned this information over in his mind. Did this mean that another death was imminent in the near future?
“Did I die”? He asked, his chest ready to implode.
“No... No. You weren’t among the dead, Ike.” Nnamdi said shaking his head.
Ikechukwu let out a sigh of relief and broke into a smile but then checked himself as a thought occurred to him.
“Did papa die?” He asked.
A long moment of silence ensued before his brother answered him.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure it was Papa you saw?”
“Yes”.
A flurry of thoughts raced through his mind quickly.
Suddenly looming before him, was a chasmic void in their immediate future, filled with unnerving possibilities.
“What will become of us if Papa dies Nnamdi?” he asked.
Another pause.
“I don’t know.”
“Well I don’t think any warthog can kill Papa, he’s too tough and strong... and remember, he carried his sharp machete with him.” Ikechukwu said.
“Hm.”
Ikechukwu picked up a tropical almond fruit and examined it, turning it this way and that, much like he was doing with the many thoughts in his head.
“Why red?” he finally asked.
“Hm?”
“You said the warthog was red. I’ve never seen a red hog before.” Ikechukwu said.
Nnamdi barely had a chance to respond before they caught sight of Amadi, the town crier, stomping down the pathway. He seemed to be following the tracks of something or someone, and would stop at intervals to squint at the ground and mutter to himself. In his hands was a long and rusty Dane gun, at the sight of which, the boys rose to their feet in apprehension, the muscles on their limbs twitching with anxiety. When Amadi got to the point where his wife had veered off into the farm, he followed suit until he reached the tropical almond tree. His demeanor oozed pure aggression and when his eyes finally settled on the boys, they had in them a manic, almost crazed expression.
“Where is my wife?” He growled.
From where they stood, the two boys could perceive the smell of strong palm wine on his breath and the realization hit them that not only was the man unhinged, he was also intoxicated.
“She is not here,” Nnamdi replied in his usual calm way.
This response seemed to infuriate the already incensed man.
“Well, where is she then?!” He bellowed. His voice was loud, vibrating with the same deep timbre it possessed when he made his rounds through the village, sounding out announcements.
“We don’t know, Mazi Amadi.” Nnamdi replied.
Amadi glared at the boys and they stared back in silence. Ikechukwu thought his heart would burst open at any moment. It rattled violently within his chest, seeking to be free of the suffocating tension in the air.
“And where is that pig you call a father?” Amadi asked.
“Papa has gone to the village square to hire some strong men that can help us cut down this tree. They should be here any minute now.” Nnamdi replied levelly.
Ikechukwu was impressed at how Nnamdi could come up with such a brilliant reply instantly. If Amadi thought that a group of men were on their way there, perhaps he might leave them alone.
“For a boy who is known to speak seldomly, you suddenly have become quite talkative haven’t you?” Amadi growled at Nnamdi, his eyes narrowed to slits. He took a step forward and pointed at the two boys.
“Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I am stupid? Is that what your father has told you of me?” He thundered, his voice rising to a crescendo and reverberating up the tree.
Suddenly he raised the gun and pointed it at the boys. Ikechukwu gave a startled cry and instinctively ducked behind his brother but Nnamdi held his ground, not moving an inch.
The magpie robin, as though sensing the hostility beneath the tree, uttered a forlorn whistle and flew off.
The three people under the tropical almond tree exchanged stares as the bonfire crackled loudly; the only auditory component in this recipe for disaster.
Then Nnamdi spoke.
“Mazi Amadi. Your wife isn’t here, neither is our father. Please, put down your gun.”
Maybe it was the realization of the absurdity of his position–a grown man holding two young defenseless boys at gunpoint–or the gentle defiance displayed by Nnamdi that did it, but something in Amadi gave way and he slowly lowered the gun. He turned around and began to walk back, muttering to himself.
When he reached the narrow pathway, he turned to look back at the boys as a malevolent smile slowly spread across his face.
“I am going to kill that father of yours today. You can be sure of that, boy.”
Then he hurried along in the direction that his wife and her lover had taken, his eyes peeled to the ground searching out their foot tracks.
Nnamdi picked up a garden hoe lying on the ground and started after Amadi.
Ikechukwu followed after him.
“Where are you going?” He asked.
“You heard him. He is going to kill papa. If I cut through the bushes I can get to him first.” Nnamdi replied calmly, as though they were merely discussing the colour of the sky and not the probability of a thirteen-year-old boy encountering an irate, drunken adult alone in the thick bushes, away from any hope for salvation.
“And if you happen to run into Amadi on the way, are you going to fight him with that?”
Nnamdi looked at the hoe in his hands and then at the farm around them.
“You got something better?” He asked.
“No.” Ikechukwu replied.
Nnamdi turned around and resumed running.
“Wait, I’m coming with you!” Ikechukwu yelled out, his eyes dashing about, seeking out a weapon for himself.
“No you’re not.” Nnamdi said.
“Why not?”
Nnamdi stopped and turned to look at him. They had reached the edge of the farm were the giant elephant grasses began.
“Because, it was you.”
“Me what?” Ikechukwu quizzed.
“It was you who unleashed the warthog in my dream.”
And with that, Nnamdi turned and disappeared into the bushes, leaving Ikechukwu alone in the farm with the crackling bonfire.
Ikechukwu sat cross-legged at the centre of the farm, staring into the fire as his mind replayed the events of the past minutes. What did Nnamdi mean by what he had said? Why had his father chosen the wife of the most hot-headed man in the clan to play with? What would happen if Nnamdi suddenly came upon the very angry and intoxicated Amadi in the tall bushes? His mind boggled as he imagined different scenarios, grasping at the possibility of an outcome where his family could remain safe. Then it dawned on him that Nnamdi had mentioned something about four people dying in his dream, and that the number of people who had left the farm in a hurry totalled exactly that sum.
He had to do something or they would all die!
He rose to his feet and scratched his head, his mind on overdrive as he desperately sought out a course of action.
And then a rustle in the bushes caught his attention and a smile lit up his face. Nnamdi had returned!
“Nnamdi!” he called out in excitement.
He moved towards the rustling sounds with a growing feeling of exhilaration. But as he approached the tall elephant grasses that lined the farm, he began to make out the distinct grunts of a wild boar.
Ikechukwu froze. It was the killer warthog from his brother’s dream! Goosebumps broke out all over his body and a sheen of sweat appeared on his brow despite the cold Harmattan winds. The rustling sounds drew close to the edge of the tall grasses and Ikechukwu knew that he would soon come face to face with the source, so he scrambled about wildly, looking for a weapon. He found a jagged piece of rock and snatched it up. Then he waited and scanned the bushes for the warthog, his arm poised to throw.
For what seemed like eternity to him, the sounds of the grunting warthog kept coming to him from within the bushes. He steeled himself and remained rooted in his position, he knew that the animal was very close because his nostrils could now pick up its musky scent. Finally, the bushes in front of him shook and a brown snout, armed with wicked looking tusks, poked through the tall grasses. Ikechukwu quickly let fly the rock and it smashed into the hog's snout, producing a cacophony of ear-rending squeals from the startled animal. It shot out of the bushes and ran straight for the boy. Ikechukwu dived out of the way in the nick of time as the sharp, gleaming tusks flashed by him. Blood was gushing from a huge gash in the warthog’s snout where the rock had connected, and the pain it incited drove the animal to a murderous rage. It shook its head violently and trashed about, kicking up clouds of dust into the air as it prepared for a second charge. This action caused the blood from the open wound to splatter all over its face and forequarters, making it a terror-inspiring spectacle of red to behold.
A cry of panic escaped Ikechukwu’s lips and he began to run to the fire. The poundings of the warthog’s hooves as it gave chase, spurred him on an adrenalin-filled run. When he got to the fire he snatched up a piece of wood sticking out of the burning mass and brought the charred half of it down on the boar’s head as it closed in. The hog squealed in pain and instantly gave up on its revenge rampage, choosing instead to hightail it to the protection of the tall elephant grasses. As the warthog tore into the bushes, Ikechukwu sent the piece of charred wood hurtling after it. It sailed through the air and landed onto the dried-up elephant grasses, setting them ablaze upon contact.
Then the malevolent wraith whose name is Harmattan, saw in the blazing grasses, the perfect opportunity to wreak havoc. A blustery eastward wind blew and fanned the flames, conveying them at about eighty kilometres per hour through the dry and highly combustible bushes across the vast farmlands. In a matter of minutes, everywhere as far as Ikechukwu could see had become engulfed in flames.
At nightfall, when the search party comprised of all the able-bodied men of the village discovered the four charred bodies in the smoldering wasteland, they had no way of identifying who they were. That is, until they arrived at the tropical almond tree where they found a young boy, whose hairs had been singed off, clinging to the lowest branch of the tree. He was crying and blubbering incoherent things about a red warthog of fire.