In Equality: A short story
By Furaha Asani (Orisirisi)
My name is Cecil, and I was slain on my home soil. My spirit will roam these vast lands till I find justice.
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My roar was the last part of me to make any impact with the world of the living. Even on the brink of death, my strength was evident.
My lids closed over my eyes in pain. Wanting to remain alive, but knowing that it was too late for me. Resolving that whatever came next, the man who took my life would have to pay.
I felt sad for the violence of it all, and angry for turning from the hunter to the prey. The moment of my death was the loneliest I had felt since I had come into the world.
So many thoughts sped through my mind as I heard the sounds coming out of my jaws and felt them vibrating through my entire skull. Then after breathing my last, I knew I was in the spirit world.
I had seen bright lights of different colours in the distance, and instinctively knew that if I walked towards them I would leave all this behind…
Time has passed, and yet everything here is at a standstill.
The most surprising thing about existing between the realm of life and death is that there is still no clear understanding about men and beasts.
And yet from this unique vantage point the deepest emotions of all sentient beings passes through me and the others in this place, connecting us all. It is like torture. We feel the feelings without understanding the cause. We watch the living. Their habits and patterns, their hopes and passions. The crumbling of their faith. Their prejudices and selfishness. The stirrings of their hearts that make them care for the loss of a life they were only made aware about through its death.
I have felt the grief and frustration from those angry at such wasteful death. I have read their words calling for justice. I have seen the web of comfort they have all woven through this common cause. They have tried to entangle themselves in it in these moments, perhaps just to find reassurance that they are united in grief, and that indeed the loss of every life should be mourned.
Indeed, the world has been in a collective mourning.
It has been all over the news and people are crying for blood.
‘A man has taken the life of a beautiful majestic creature’, they say, ’this violence against wildlife needs to stop.’
The pain within me only grows stronger.
An injustice has been committed against me but my voice cannot be heard beyond the grave. The silence in this place pierces me even deeper than any mortal wound ever could.
My destiny has been cut short and my spirit is now frozen in place.
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The land in which I was born was abundant with water holes and tall trees. It involuntarily produced everything we needed in abundance.
Date palms littered the grounds, thorny Balanite trees and their thornless brethren: the fever trees, were scattered intermittently giving just enough cover for hunting. Red grass grew in abundance providing graze to the wildebeest, while umbrella trees sheltered from the temperamental rain. So many different smells and colours.
Only the lazy could starve to death there.
After being suckled by our mother, we were initiated into hunting.
I don’t remember much about my father. One day he had wandered off far into the veldt, chasing a wildebeest I’m told. He never came home.
My mother, sisters and I carried on with our way of life. Hunting together as we always did.
Memories of my first hunt always exhilarated me. Going out with my mother and sisters, watching and learning. Connecting with my animal instincts and fully immersing myself into hunt mode.
Having come back with the kill, my mother had affectionately rubbed my head. It was in that moment I knew that I had been initiated.
Over the years my skill developed my intuition. I needed to quickly understand what it took to be the leader of the pack.
The key to a good hunt was to be opportunistic. It never mattered that we weren’t the fastest on the turf, the trick was to play it smart.
The best time to strike was usually just before the sun came up. The advantage of having the cloak of darkness somehow increased our courage.
Patience would always bode well for us. Usually we would have to stalk the prey. We were especially grateful to nature for the days when the winds blew up from the prey towards us. This made tracking even easier. We would use every tree, bush, and grass for cover.
In that moment when the prey had to be taken down, there was no space for hesitation.
With a full burst of speed and every ounce of strength, sharp edges would bring the animal down.
The smell of blood in the air could not be drowned out by the wind hours later. Already vultures would be hovering around, waiting for us to take all we needed so they could pick apart the carcass.
On one occasion I had even seen a pack of hyenas afar off. We didn’t want trouble so we dragged our spoils with us.
However, the longing to venture beyond what I had always known had been intensifying over the years. So when my mother took another mate, I decided to move onto a new land.
I set out to find new herding ground. I needed new terrain to cover.
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The moment I joined the pride it was clear that I was different.
At first my arrival had been met with some flaring tension. It never bothered me. As long as I’d get to eat my share for the day my happiness was guaranteed.
Being named after Cecil Rhodes already evoked mixed feelings amongst those who met me. They usually wanted to know why I had been given that name. I never had an answer for them.
I wasn’t born to keep my head down.
This head, with a mane fringed by black hair. My muscular build and few scars scattered over my body told of my triumph at many hunts.
I had always been aware that my presence had authority. And even though my whole life I’d attracted attention, from the way people looked at me here I wasn’t certain if that was a bad or good thing.
They stole glances at me everywhere I went within the boundaries of our little community.
The times when we really banded together as a group were those times when we all felt the weight of the outside world peering in on us.
The problem wasn’t so much when anyone crossed the territory of the pride, but rather the spectacle they made when they came. They were intrusive even without meaning to be. These people arriving in droves sometimes to conduct studies, and many other times just to take hundreds of photographs.
The photographers would always keep their distance. Just close enough to get a clear shot, but far away enough to either avoid any real interaction, or to make a clear demarcation between us and them.
Always speaking over us as if we didn’t understand. Always arriving with their preconceived notions about who and what we were. And always leaving with some kind of memento to prove that they had indeed visited this land of ours.
We all got on with our lives regardless of distractions.
How different did all these people actually think we were from them anyway?
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There were always whispers in the pride about strangers from foreign lands coming to hunt and steal.
‘If it had happened before in other parts it could happen here,’ they said.
‘People could come and kill us in our sleep, and even hurt our little ones.’
‘Never be fooled by their friendliness. They come under the guise of exploring, with a gun hidden behind their backs.’
Hunters and thieves. Coming to take what was not theirs.
Many expressed fears about the future.
Many wouldn’t say so openly, but I could read the fear and uncertainty in their eyes. This was now my land and no human would intimidate me.
Over time as the whispers grew louder, my courage started to crack. Being trained over the years not to make the careless mistake of showing fear during hunts meant that I would not allow myself to do so now.
I brushed off my worries.
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The afterlife is a meld of colours and textures, much like my beloved land.
I saw glimpses of the colours and that same instinct that had been so well-honed during my life told me that I was free to walk into it, but heaviness held me back.
My essence feels anchored in place. I am now held in this space by my own volition, from where I can see so many happenings. I am on this edge, this limbo where spirits silently wait and wait.
There is dust and soot surrounding me and the strong stench of ash in the air. The aura of my final moments as a living being surround me.
There are many others in this realm, all waiting in silence. We choose to be here for as long as it will take for the justice to be done.
I am vividly aware of every single day I have spent here: it has been two months, though it could have been a thousand years. Time, which dictated the changing seasons and the hunts in the land of the living, means little here.
And now there has been a worldwide outcry. The media, the politicians, the celebrities, the animal conservationists and the people are unified.
They are all in mourning over the slaying of such a majestic creature who bore the same name as me. A stranger also killed him, hunting him down methodically. He too had not been given the chance of escape. He too had been so deeply connected to his land and his way of life.
Little do these mourners know that he peacefully transcended to his afterlife. After breathing his last he walked passed all of us, into the colours in the distance.
I feel the familiar feeling of tears running down what should be my cheeks, the taste of salt on the edge of where my lips would be. Like a phantom syndrome, though I no longer have my organic senses, my pain is very real.
A stranger killed me. And I also was a stranger to him.
I was the one accused of coming to hunt and steal from a land where I wasn’t born.
The anger and bitterness towards me was palpable. I was a fellow African, but not of his country. And I had had the audacity to try and make a living in this part of his neighbourhood, which everyone called ‘the pride.’
For months our entire locality had been in the news for growing tensions.
Ignoring my fears and trying to go on with my life I had naively never expected it would come to this… Our basal instincts had taken over in the end: fear against fear; their side against mine.
He had often passed by, always throwing bitter glances my way.
Only after my passing did I begin to realise that many had known of his plan to lock me inside my little souvenir shop and set fire to it.
They must have heard me begging for my life as the flames engulfed the entire room. They must have heard me promising to return to my own country if my life was spared.
The stench of kerosene, which he must have poured all over the outside of the shop, was thick in the air.
The hides of all the cattle I’d gathered to tan with my own hands singed and helped the flames to spread further. The shelf filled with the dry salted antelope meat I’d spent months preparing fell over, catching fire. The wooden ornamental lions and elephants I had carved and hand painted started turning into charcoal. All the snake skin shoes I’d so meticulously made burned. The bow from my first hunt and all the sharp arrows dipped in the tincture to induce drowsiness, which my mother had taught me to make, turned into ash.
All these, the work of my hands that I sold to the intrusive visitors to make my livelihood, were dying in the fire as I knew I would too.
The heavy tin sheets fixed in place as the roof of the shop burned my hands as I jumped up, trying to shove them loose. Pushing myself to the limits of my strength I banged against the walls as the little shop filled with dark smoke, and my eyes and throat stung. This same darkness that had once served me in my hunts was now blinding me to any escape.
Falling to my knees in the flames, I let out one final roar which echoed as I transitioned from the world of the living into this place.
No one had come to my rescue. My pleas to be saved had been ignored.
This neighbourhood where I had made a living for the past few years, in their silence and refusal to help me, confirmed that all along I had been a scourge to them.
Who would tell my mother, step-father and sisters that I had died? Who would tell them that till my last breath I had used every skill they had taught me to live my life? Would they ever know how grateful to them I was?
In the days to come I was just another statistic fallen to xenophobia.
My very existence, while being harmless, had threatened the lives and livelihood of these people in this land where I was not born. Because even though so many of them knew that I was the best meat and hide seller in our neighbourhood, I was not their brother by blood. To them, I was not better than the animals I had hunted in my life.
All of them now claim to know nothing about my death.
The entire community had been on high alert for few weeks afterwards, but now it is back to business as usual for all of them.
Not for me. The path to eternal peace had been opened to me, but I have chosen this limbo instead. The wait will continue till my passing evokes the same passions as that of the slain lion.
I will wait until everyone cares. Everyone who lamented for one animal, but are totally unaware about the demise of another one of their species.
The patience I learned during my hunts will now serve me well.
Till all those who bore a hand in my killing are brought to justice, I refuse to have peace.
