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Storms in Africa: The Exploits of Aine Agnes

Goat
Goat
Aug 8, 2017 · 6 min read

By Frank Aroyewun

Khalba- 1839

Blood chilling screams of various forms and gradation leapt into the indigo night skies of Boku central village market square. Creaks, crows, cries and squeaks of intense pain mixed with sardonic laughs distilled into the misty still air of the ever once peaceful quiet night. These vicious shrieks certainly weren’t of human origin but of a many menacing foul spirits and witches that were forced to materialize from their invisibility into the physical realm capable for human eyes to see. No one dared to come out. Not even the bravest of men or those who claimed to have their gods and ancestors by their side. No one. Not a single soul was found lurking that night. Not even the daring hunters of Boku who routinely sang and guzzled palm wine and roasted steak every night. This time, they feared for their lives, leaving behind gourd bowls, calabashes half empty with palm wine and a roasted antelope left hanging above dying flames. Amidst these frightful screams, hearts of men, women and children within mud- huts and sheds surrounding the square thudded, pounded and banged like drum beats of elegies.

However, this night conversely marked an auspicious a night as the awe- inspiring pale- skinned doyenne of Khalba village stood valiant, tranquil, amid these fearful demons, intoning peculiar mantras that seemed to cause them to disrupt, paralyzing their every movements and weakening their invisibility. Suddenly, from the depths of this sea of intense cries rose a startling high- pitched echo of submission.

‘ENOUGH!’ The voice shrieked.

With lightning speed, what seemed to resemble a menacing harpy hurtled toward the feet of the doyenne. Her entire frame was of a large humanoid vulture with thick black clammy feathers except her face which had the form of a very attractive young woman embellished with emphasized hues of cornrow that were embroiled with cowries, the finest locally made coral beads and decorated with miniscule gems of several colors that glittered simultaneously. Even at the near- absence of light her flawless olive skin shun uncannily. She exchanged a fierce glance with the doyenne.

‘ENOUGH! ‘the fiend hissed, her coal-like eyes boiled with loathing towards the doyenne.

‘You disturb our feast… our repast!’ she hissed…’

‘What do you want with us……Edisna- Ifot?’ the fiend heatedly demanded.

The doyenne remained resolute, her eyes shut, concentrating on her mantras. Her reedy lips seemed to barely move at all. Still, a flash of exhaustion across her visage revealed she must have rendered myriads of incantations.

She raised her hand towards the fiend assembly; her eyes still shut, and gave a single wave.

‘Be gone…!’ the doyenne ordered authoritatively with a stern whisper.

‘Be gone Fara, rover of the eastern black skies of Akwa, duchess of sylphs, along with your entourage’, the doyenne commanded.

Immediately she spoke those words, for a fleeting moment, two intimidating apparitions materialized from the doyennes back and flanked her sides. Their 7foot frame was of translucent glow. They resembled abnormal beings on fire; in fact the term fire spirit would best describe them. These fire spirits appeared compulsive and electrifying.

The harpy ducked back and screeched in sheer horror, perplexed and daunted by the overwhelming powers before her.

‘What sorcery do you practice woman!’ the sylph hissed.

‘Natash! Natash!’ the harpy yelled out urgently.

A strange pale crow with a red string knotted to its scaly rose-tinted limb instantly flashed beside her and instantaneously morphed into an innocuous pre- teen girl of about twelve years of age, dressed in silk white gown that barely reached her knees. Her olive skin appeared soft, too radiant and appealing for a young girl her age. Her coal black hair was woven into an elegant beehive and crowned with several white feathers tinted with blood. Her overall regalia was perfected by the elongated golden- brown fly-whisk she held on her bejeweled left hand.

Like the visage of the duchess, Natash was breathtakingly attractive, but severely dangerous. Pints of blood dripped from her reddish lips into her ever white silk gown.

A very dreadful force seemed to surround her. She had earned the title Efot-Ekpri which denotes little devil.

‘My duchess’ she replied softly, kneeling beside the sylph and helping her stand to her feet. Her movements were graceful, swift and serene. Her high- pitched lovable voice would sooth even the cruelest men.

‘Look! Princess of the black skies’, the harpy scowled, pointing her enormous mangy wing towards the doyenne. ‘What is she?’ the harpy demanded cynically.

Natash whispered a word into the ear of the sylph, her eyes glittering with full innocence of a child. The sylph stood erect, and gave a foul grin at the doyenne.

‘I swear you’ll regret this doyenne’… the harpy hissed, ‘I’ll come back… before you know it.’

She gestured with a simple nod to her entourage who had gently recovered from their torment. And in one accord, the entire fiend assembly dashed away as whirlwind towards the eastern sphere, causing a brief unfathomable tempest across the small village. Palm trees, raffia roofs, bushes, leaves of tender and massive trees alike billowed critically. Huts shook and dust clouded the misty air. Ceramic vessels, pots and containers that were piled up neatly, crashed heavily under the compelling torrent. Amidst this, the doyenne stood like stone, her mane billowing wildly in the tempest. Her satin white garment swelled by the pulsating wind. She could have been mistaken for a statue considering the magnitude of the storm which she resiliently resisted.

And then, there was quiet. The village lay peaceful, like nothing ever happened.

The pregnant dark clouds diffused and gave way for the yellow moonlight which lit upon the doyenne to reveal her full frontal. Her youthful pallid skin intensified under the moonlight. Her lavish russet- brown mane wreathed her freckled ruddy Celtic face and generously rested against her back. Her beryl green eyes sparkled as she gazed at the beautiful moon.

A dark-skinned native girl emerged into the scene carrying a large bowl of fresh water towards the doyenne, her footprints imprinting lightly on the red sands.

‘Here you go ma’, she said, presenting her with the bowl of fresh water.

The doyenne drew a generous amount of water with her pale palms and washed her face sparingly. She paused for a second, observing the quivering hands of the native girl.

‘What is it Tima, are you alright?’ the doyenne asked softly with her distinguished Irish accent.

‘I saw them ma’, Tima replied, looking eastward, still quivering…

‘..a.. are they going to come back?’ she spoke, her voice barely audible.

The doyenne stared at her for a fleeting moment, and gave a faint smile.

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of’, she assured, drawing more water to her saturated face, no one will slay your newborn siblings.

‘Bring me that little bowl over there, she said, signaling towards the half buried bowl that laid upside down beneath the red sands.’

The doyenne collected it and poured some fresh water into the bowl.

‘You may leave Tima, am just about purifying the land, return to your grandmother.’

The doyenne pulled the little bowl of water to her mouth and pronounced her mantras upon it.

‘I said leave,’ she instructed, still sensing Tima’s presence. Tima took to her heels and disappeared into the shadows of the huts. A strange ache pressed against the doyenne’s throat as she suddenly retched out blood unto her hands. She fell on her knees, her head bowed and her hands squeezing tightly in soil. Exhausted and reaching out for more water.

‘Oh, Rapha, let this pass,’ she spoke, barely audible.

Her head laid buried on the ground and her hands still clung tightly upon the red soil until she mustered more than enough strength to rise to her feet. She uprooted a handful of foliage from the closest meadow and drenched it in the little bowl of water. She grabbed her lantern from the ground and proceeded into the dark.


Published in the Scene And Heard Online with permission from the author.

Thank-you Frank Aroyewun

Goat

Written by

Goat

Making Magic…Enjoy The Scene & Heard https://medium.com/the-scene-heard

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