TRIBAL

 

TRIBAL

CHAPTER SIX

The first light of dawn crept over the hills of Syokimau, painting the sky in soft gold and ash. Smoke still rose from the valley, curling like restless spirits above the blackened huts. The air was heavy with the scent of burnt earth and iron — the ghosts of spears and blood.

Kamau stood on top of the brown soil that had now turned red as scarlet from the bloodshed of the aftermath of killing the Bukusu people who had betrayed them time and time again. His spear stood tall covered in blood, his garments drenched in sweat and his face covered in ash.

In the fields, the crows had already gathered — black judges of the fallen. The war had taken the men and left the silence to the living. Vultures circled dead bodies like non-existent prey. The smell of rot and dead bodies lingered in the air.

The sun shone bright and lurid. Its rays piercing through his skin like a sharp dagger. He marveled at the raging fire ball slowly rising from atop the hill. He knelt down to the ground picked up some soil and slowly smelt it-blood.

Then he reached into his pouch and scattered white millet into the wind — an offering for peace. The seeds flew like pale sparks, carried toward the forest where the dead were buried. The ground, soaked with yesterday’s sorrow, drank them in.

From the far edge of the hill came a distant rumble — not of war this time, but of thunder. Rain was coming. The first rain after the great battle. The elders believed that when rain fell after bloodshed, the land itself was healing, washing away the footprints of violence.

And as the first drops touched the earth, the living wept — not from grief, but from rebirth. The fire-smoke lifted, and in its place, the scent of wet soil filled the air. Life, it seemed, was already stirring beneath the ashes.

The warriors of the Agikuyu tribe rejoiced at the victory of battle but Kamau quickly silenced them.

“You rejoice of nothing! We have merely scratched the surface. Have you not forgotten the pale skinned man lives on?!” said Kamau.

They looted all they could find, their plans, their tactics and most of all the white mans’ weapons. Long snake like metals that hissed with a loud bang. Mothers wailed from the distance as their slain kin lay lifeless on the hard soil. The Bukusu people were conquered and the ties with the white man became futile.

The morning wind blew past them coldly and chilly with a hint of blood and gore. Kamau stood atop a small anthill his spear deep into the hard African soil. The morning rays of the sun bounced off his black skin, covered in ash, he trotted down the river.

He knelt down towards the small stream, its components turning red and crimson. He washed away the blood saying a soft and salient prayer to the gods. Forgive me he said in soliloquy. He took a handful of water and sprayed himself, until his crude black skin turned golden brown.

He drenched his clothes in water that made the colorless aqua into scarlet red. This is it, victory at last, but we are not finished the white man still has control over the Murima region, I will stop at nothing to ensure the survival of our race.

Murima Mountain

The people of the Agikuyu tribe danced in victory as they celebrated their win against the Bukusu tribe. The music played loud and blissfully until the sound could reach the heavens. People played their drums with a rhythmic tone as dancers came out with a newly adorned costumes filled with feathers, beads and precious stones.

There in the middle of it all was a great fire, the smoke ascended great and mighty, the wood cracked under its infernal fire with great force as the people of this brave tribe danced around it chanting songs that their ancestors used to sing, passed down from generation to generation.

Wahamba nathi, oh wahamba nathi

Oh, wahamba nathi, Siyabonga

Wahamba nathi, oh wahamba nathi

Oh, wahamba nathi, siyabonga

There at the bottom of the fire sat King Kamau holding a golden chalice that was salvaged from one of their temples known as churches an odd name. One of the Bukusu people was asked why do they worship that white man on the cross his reply because he died for our sins…puzzled Kamau lifted his dagger and stabbed him in the neck blood oozing out like a fountain.

What is sin?

What is this church?

How can a god be a human?

These philosophies ringed in his mind like a tolling church bell but he quickly dismissed them there was only one God according to him and his ancestors being there pillars between the earth world and the heavens where the brave souls that fought with might go to.

A huge boar was killed for the ceremony. The people drank and ate until they would not dance anymore but waited patiently for Kamau’s wise words.

There atop his throne covered in leopard skin he rose to the occasion and talked with eloquence and sharpness that cut right through them.

“My people the age of the pale skinned man is drawing to a close, for years they have made us their slaves, slaughtered our people, destroyed our crops and killed our children. No more! Their tyranny ends from now hence forth…We will reclaim our land we will reclaim our people and we will avenge those lost in bloodshed! They will run, they will hide but know this, the strength of my ancestors, our ancestors, run deep in your blood and mine…For now rejoice for the war has just begun…”

With those final remarks he retired to his great cave.

The war has just begun…his final words echoed in the minds of his people.