Taste For Change: The Girl, The Snake And The One Who Returned

Chapter 4

When a ruler of a land gets so brutal by denying young women even the opportunity of getting married, he leaves everywhere littered with aging spinsters whose bride prices are way through the roof for almost all bachelors to afford. Spinsters, bachelors, and everyone in the land are desperate for change to happen. Silenced by fear, and unsure of where and how to start, they resign to a doomed fate, until the return of the one who falls in love, and even has no idea he can liberate women and the entire land that await what it is he can do.

Kene’s bag fell to the ground the moment he was entrapped, making some of its contents to spill, including some groundnuts, his radio set, and a hardcover version of a book whose title read Determination is oxygen for the fearless. His captor took notice at once. It was not the book that captured the man’s attention. Not at all, for he knew nothing about books, had never read one, and would never have time for books all through his lifetime. It was not the groundnut, of course. That was far down the list of things that would intrigue him, having seen and eaten lots of them, as he had known about the crop since he was a child. What caught his attention was the radio. It was not because he had suddenly become a radio enthusiast. Radio was contraband in Ohanze. In all his lack of western education and complete engrossment in his primitive mentality and lifestyle, he did not need a Harvard or Princeton degree to know that owning a radio in Ohanze was tantamount to twisting the tail of the ferocious tiger, King Edozie, in the most obstinate manner. The man’s quick and correct guess was that Kene must have come from outside Ohanze. By now Kene had grown quiet, having failed in all his attempts to free himself. No screaming, no kicking, no pleading.

“Do you know what that small box that talks can do to you?” The man asked Kene, referring to the radio.

“What?” Kene said.

“That thing,” the man continued, pointing at the radio, “That thing can talk and get you killed.”

“It’s only a radio,” Kene’s response followed in a tone that reiterated his strong desire to be let off the trap. “I am not a thief!”

“I can see you are not.”

“I have not killed anybody!”

“I have not said you have.”

“I am not a hater of old men!”

“I don’t think you are.”

“Please set me free!”

“You are new in Ohanze.”

“You are correct. I am not a corn thief!”

“And what is it you want?”

“Freedom!”

“Shut up, young man,” the man said in a very low tone. “That very word can get you killed in this land. That is a threat to the throne! Be careful! Guards do walk about with ears close to the ground.”

“Release me from your trap,” Kene clarified and began kicking again, his legs scampering in the air. He speedily realized how useless an effort it was, and stopped. “I have not done anything to deserve this,” he further said.

“I know,” the man replied in a caring tone.

“Let me off then!”

“So what brought you here?”

“I am looking for Odonga!”

“Odonga?” The man asked, suddenly engrossed in thought.

“Yes, said Kene. “Do you know him? Where does he live? Is he still alive?”

“You need to buy some corn? Odonga is a corn farmer.”

“Yes,” Kene lied, just to see if that would help get him off the trap. It worked. A sudden smile, which was hard to perceive, showed up on the man’s face. He quickly released Kene from the tortuous grip of the trap. Kene was glad to be on his feet again.

“Thank you for setting me free,” he said to the man. In his heart, he felt gratitude that was as big as some New York billboards.

“You are not free until you buy his corn,” the man said amidst laughter. “I am taking you to Odonga right now,” he said, and began to move, with Kene following him. The man was headed for the hut that Kene had seen before he encountered the trap.

“Is that where he lives?” Kene asked out of heightened curiosity.

“Follow me,” said the man. “An old man of my age will not mislead you.”

The man led Kene to the hut.

“Stay here,” the man instructed Kene to wait outside and went inside the hut alone. He showed up with some fresh corn, ten of them, after what appeared to be like one minute. He went inside the hut again, and this time, came out with a small wooden tray of smouldering bits of charcoal. What happened next came as a surprise to Kene. The man rolled out a big stone whose top was flat enough to make a seat. He managed to place it beside Kene who was already seated on another large stone that was right in front of the hut.

“Your strength amazes me,” Kene pointed out. “I did not expect you to be able to roll out that large stone.” The man laughed. His laughter reflected lots of pride.

“What can I say?” He uttered and further roared with laughter. “I have never ruined my body with lots of drinks. That is why I can even challenge men of your age to wrestling contests. A lot of young people of your age are already weak because they poison their bodies with lots of palm wine and that dangerous weed they smoke, which takes away their ability to make babies.”

“Really? So you are saying palm wine hurts?”

“I am not saying don’t drink it, but don’t sell out your manly strength to it.”

The man sat down. He added bits of charcoal, which he had brought out, to the logs of wood that were right beside where he and Kene were sitting. It did not take a lot of time for the logs of wood to start a fire from the smouldering bits of charcoal. The smoke meandered away, in the direction of the sky. The stage was set for some corn to be roasted and eaten. There were popping sounds here and there, as the cobs of corn roasted. Other huts were not quite far away from where Kene and the man were. In front of these huts were people cooking, making baskets, and having conversations. Roosters and hens moved around and scratched the ground in search of food. Some of the hens had chicks with them. A few goats and sheep went about bleating. Passers-by included people who had gone to fetch water, who were carrying earthen pots on their heads. There were also those who had gone to fetch firewood, who were carrying twigs on their heads. Some kids screamed and played, chasing some rosters and hens around.

“I must admit I am enjoying this roasted corn,” said Kene after a while. His voice punctured the silence that had pervaded as they ate. “But you are yet to show me Odonga,” he continued.

“So how much corn do you want to buy?” The man replied. “A sack? Two or three?”

“You sell corn too? Just like Odonga?”

“I sell corn and I am Odonga.”

Kene could not believe his ears. He threw glances at the man, from head to toe. He was somewhere in between holding strongly unto his doubts and getting all carried away in elation. He had doubts because he had lied on two occasions. Other humans are very much like me, Kene thought. “They sometimes lie,” he said to himself, though inaudibly. Why should I believe this man has not lied to me? That was the question that was in Kene’s mind.

“I have not lied to you,” said the man, as if he could literarily see through Kene’s mind. “I am Odonga. I am the one you said you were looking for. And I will swear with my life that you are not here to buy some corn after all, young man. What is your mission?”

“I have come to see you if you say you are Odonga.”

“I am the one. The corn farmer.”

“Who are your real friends?”

“Real friends? I would say I have not had one close to me like a brother in some years now.”

“What happened to that friend?”

“No, young man, don’t take me there,” the man said, his voice this time cracked with melancholy. Kene could sense somehow that his question seemed to have opened some old wounds in the man, who he could not still believe was Odonga.

“That friend got you hurt?” Kene asked.

“Memory of him hurts because he is dead. He died because we have a King who would rather cut off everyone’s head and be the only one who has a head.”

“And who was your friend?”

“Oliseh! The one that had once challenged King Edozie powers. He had a son named Kene.”

Kene’s doubts regarding this man’s identity quickly vanished, as fast as mist suddenly exposed to a red-hot oven. Odonga was very close to tears, as Kene watched him struggle to recover from his short memory lane he had slyly been compelled to walk. Though Kene saw Odonga’s pain, which he could very well relate to, elation that had surged through his heart was so strong that he could not express any pain. He had found Odonga at last. That was what mattered.

Odonga was famous in Ohanze for being quite a successful farmer, although he faced the problem of continuous theft in his corn store that always left him bitter, making nonsense of his efforts on the farm.

“I am the son of Oliseh,” said Kene. Odonga looked at Kene. It was a long look which could just fathom whether Kene was lying or not.

“I hope you know that lying to an elder has consequences in our land,” said Odonga. “You might lose all your pubic hair. And that means losing something important to show why you are not to be called a little boy.”

“I am not lying,” Kene responded firmly. “I wouldn’t say I am if I’m not.”

“What is your mother’s name?”

“Ngene. She is still alive.” Odonga took another look at Kene. He started taking Kene more seriously because of the name he mentioned.

“If you say you are the son of Oliseh, then tell me his other name.”

“Kikanwa.”

“And why did his parents name him that?”

“Because of his rare ability to keep violent snakes calm.”

“Your father had a scar on one of his legs.”

“Yes. My mother told me things about it.”

“On which leg was the scar? Left or right?”

“Right leg! It was close to his right knee.”

Surely impressed, Odonga quickly nodded his head in agreement. Nevertheless, he had more questions to ask.

“That scar. It did not just appear there,” he said.

“I don’t think many people are born with any scars on their legs,” Kene answered.

“So what happened? Oliseh was not born with it.”

“My father got shot in a bush by a hunter. My mother said the hunter had fired at an antelope, but his bullets hit my father’s leg.”

“And what was Oliseh doing in that bush?”

“He was a boy gathering firewood. He was ten years old. A boy at the wrong place at the wrong time. My mother told me my father told her lots of stories of his childhood.”

Kene had all the answers. Sudden outburst of joy drove Odonga to his feet. His hands were wide open. The energy he felt in his body was nearly that of a youth. The word “rejuvenation” said it all, with respect to how he felt. He saw Kene as Oliseh returning not just to him, but also returning in real flesh and blood to live on.

“Come,” he said to Kene. “Your mother has done a good job of raising you. A son that has good knowledge of his father shows how good his mother has been in raising him. Come into my waiting arms.” Kene did as exactly asked, which was followed by a long embrace.

“I’ve looked forward to meeting you,” Kene said.

“You bring me good memories of Oliseh,” Odonga replied, as he let off Kene, and both men were seated again.

“How about your mother? What a good job she has done in raising a man like you to preserve Oliseh’s memory.”

“Mother is fine. She must be feeling lonely now that I’m not with her.”

“Nothing to worry about. She could not have raised a man properly without being tough.”

“Yes, Odonga, she is tough.”

“Your father was great,” declared the elated Odonga, as he chewed his corn. “He is known all over Ohanze, and beyond. He was a man who was brave enough to speak out against the King. No one has tried it since he died.”

Odonga did not need to be told the ordeal that immediately preceded Oliseh’s death. He was there. So was a crowd of the people of Ohanze who watched helplessly and only wished that the situation could be reversed. They were stunned with apprehension and grief, as an oppressive silence pervaded. Their faces were placards that evinced a huge fright. Oliseh hung from a tree with a taut rope tugging away at his neck, increasingly cutting off his ability to breathe. His eyes dilated in a very desperate bid to beat the suffocation. That night was without the moon, and cold. Then the wild and hungry fire came, when he was torched from his feet upwards. He caught fire like a dry log of wood. The raging fire fed, and left what could very well pass for charcoal.

“King Edozie simply does whatever he wants, unchallenged. How I wish another Oliseh would come,” Odonga remarked like he had lost his fear of King Edozie. He had not. He spoke in a low tone so that only Kene could hear. “We need people like him in this land,” he continued. “We are dying and our land is in a mess. King Edozie eliminates anyone that dares him. I’m marvelled that he has been on that throne for twenty years. Such people don’t die.”

There was a brief silence before Odonga spoke again. He shook his head in such a manner which showed that growing displeasure had got the better of him. Odonga was already feeling comfortable with Kene that he could open up about his personal life.

“I see you as my own son,” said Odonga. “And I don’t think it is good to not tell you more things about my own life.”

“I appreciate that,” Kene’s terse reply followed.

“I have no wife and children,” Odonga went ahead to say.

“Why?”

It seemed Odonga’s lips were so heavy that he felt it difficult to let the words go.

“It was terrible, my son,” he later began to speak. “I was able to pay what it takes to get married from the sales of my corn, feeling fulfilled until disaster struck.”

“What disaster?”

“They took my wife,” Odonga wailed, hitting his chest with his right hand, as his face shrunk in bitterness. “They took my wife away. My wife was as tall as a gazelle. My wife was as fresh as a sea breeze. My wife was as attractive as ripe fruit.”

“Who took your wife?” Kene, whose curiosity had peaked, asked.

“King Edozie’s guards.”

It was an order from the King and the guards executed quickly. The guards kicked down the door and stormed into Odonga’s hut. Odonga, the man of the house, rose in defence of his household, but it took just one push for him to crash down like a pack of cards. He was a chick amidst hawks, as his screaming wife was dragged away, and his children taken to unknown spots where they breathed their last.

“The King made me lose my wife after I had paid the high pride price,” Odonga continued. “He ordered another man who could pay higher to take my wife, ten years into our marriage. Now I can’t marry again, as thieves are taking a toll on my corn farm.”

Kene was moved with pity. He could do nothing at the moment to gladden Odonga’s heart, but sincerely wished he could. Both chewed silently for a while until Odonga rose and went inside his hut.

“You can go on and eat, my son. I have enough to keep you well fed,” said Odonga, when he returned with a small calabash of water for Kene.

“The water tastes nice. Where is it from?” Kene asked, after taking a drink. He carefully kept the calabash on the ground. “Do you have taps here? I mean water coming from pipes. Treated water?”

“Stop!” Odonga ordered, and sat down. “There is none of those things you said that are as good as our age-long Kazaaka stream. It is very pure. It never dries up. Believe me, my son. It is the one good thing we have.”

The Kazaaka stream was the smallest stream in Ohanze. It was sumptuously endowed with lush green forest, quite eclectic in its wealth of trees, grasses, and flowers. The unique stream had surroundings that included flat high grounds on which people could sit, savour its natural sights of splendid diverse marine life, and feel the fresh-smelling cool soothing breeze, which never fell short in supply. It was a perfect serene get-away spot from everyday hassles. Legend has it that it was a spot where the gods and good spirits once came to have their bath. And impurities from their washing activities have since kept water from the stream unquestionably pure.

“Do you wash your bodies in it? In the Kazaaka stream?” Kene asked with a giggle.

“Wash what? The gods forbid that! You speak with a foreign mouth, my son.”

“Who are the gods?”

“Swallow your questions for the gods forbid such.”

“Who are the gods? I can’t see them. Do they breathe, walk, talk, touch, smell, cry, and eat?”

“Eh…,” Odonga paused and scratched his head. Kene’s utterances obviously made him uncomfortable. “They very much exist, son, but stop before you bring their curse upon yourself. All I know is that the gods of our land are very much alive.”

“Who can curse me?” Kene asked with sarcastic scorn.

“The gods of our land.”

“The gods of our land? I can’t understand.”

“My son, stop! You must stop!

“What do gods do?” Can they stop me from talking? Those invisible ruin you with your cruel King? Do they address people in conferences, workshops, and seminars? Read speeches? Get written about on papers? I can’t understand these gods.”

“You must understand to be able to live in this land.”

“I don’t understand these gods. Do they speak?”

“They speak through the King. No one questions them.”

“What if one does?”

“I don’t think this is a place for you, son. Don’t expect to last long this way. Better respect the King, and live by all traditions of the land.”

The sun had risen, radiating its heat by the time Odonga and Kene were through with their dialogue. They were compelled to make for the hut. It was not before Kene asked one more question he had in mind.

“Why are you the man who knows the one who awakens those of yesterday?”

“Didn’t your mother tell you?” Said Odonga.

“She said she did not know.”

“I won’t just tell you, Kene. A time is going to come when I will show you why.”