Read Online Under African Skies by Charles Larson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charles Larson
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Keita had unhooked the little bag hanging in his hut which held the Nyanaboli, the Keita family spirit, and had thrown it into the yard, where the skinny dogs nearly won it from the children before the chief could get there.
One morning he had gone into the sacred wood and broken the pots of boiled millet and sour milk. He had pushed over the little statues and pulled up the forked stakes tipped with hardened blood and chicken feathers. âThe ways of savages,â he called them. The sergeant, however, had been in churches. He had seen little statues there of saints and the Holy Virgin that people burned candles to. These statues, it is true, were covered with gilt and painted in bright colorsâblues, reds, and yellows. Certainly they were more beautiful than the blackened pygmies with long arms and short legs carved of cailcedra or ebony that inhabited the sacred forest.
âYouâll civilize them a bit,â the local administrator had said. Sergeant Thiemokho Keita was going to âcivilizeâ his people. It was necessary to break with tradition, do away with the beliefs upon which the village life, the existence of the families, the peopleâs behavior had always rested. Superstition had to be eradicated. The ways of savages. Ways of savages, the hard treatment inflicted on the young initiates at circumcision to open their minds, form their character, and teach them that nowhere, at any moment of their lives, can they, will they ever be alone. A way of savages, the Kotéba, which forges real men on whom pain can hold no sway. The ways of savages, the sacrifices, the blood offered to the ancestors and the earth ⦠the boiling of millet and curdled milk poured out to the wandering spirits and the protective genies ⦠the ways of savages.
All this Sergeant Keita proclaimed to the young and old of the village, standing in the shade of the palaver tree.
Â
It was nearly sunset when Thiemokho Keita went out of his mind. He was leaning against the palaver tree, talking, talking, talking, against the medicine
man who had sacrificed some dogs that very morning, against the old who didnât want to hear him, against the young who still listened to the old. He was still speaking when suddenly he felt something like a prick on his left shoulder. He turned his head. When he looked at his listeners again, his eyes were no longer the same. A white, foamy spittle appeared at the corners of his mouth. He spoke, but it was no longer the same words that emerged from his lips. The spirits had taken his mind, and now they cried out their fear:
Black night! Black night!
He called at nightfall, and the women and children trembled in their huts:
Black night! Black night!
He cried at daybreak:
Black night! Black night!
He howled at high noon. Night and day the spirits and the genies and the ancestors made him speak, cry out and chant â¦
It was only at dawn that I was able to doze off in the hut where the dead lived. All night I had heard Sergeant Keita coming and going, howling, weeping, and singing:
Trumpeting elephants hoot
In the darkening wood
Above the cursed drums,
Black night, black night!
Â
Milk sours in the calabash
Gruel hardens in the jar
And fear stalks in the hut,
Black night, black night!
Â
The torches throw
Bodiless flames
In the air
And then, quietly, glarelessly
Smoke,
Black night, black night!
Â
Restless spirits
Meander and moan
Muttering lost words,
Words that strike fear,
Black night, black night!
Â
From the chickensâ chilled bodies
Or the warm moving corpse
Not a drop of blood runs
Neither black blood nor red,
Black night, black night!
Trumpeting elephants hoot
Above the cursed drums,
Black night, black night!
Â
Orphaned, the river calls out
In fear for the people
Endlessly, fruitlessly wandering
Far from its desolate banks,
Black night, black night!
Â
And in the savannah, forlorn
Deserted by
One morning he had gone into the sacred wood and broken the pots of boiled millet and sour milk. He had pushed over the little statues and pulled up the forked stakes tipped with hardened blood and chicken feathers. âThe ways of savages,â he called them. The sergeant, however, had been in churches. He had seen little statues there of saints and the Holy Virgin that people burned candles to. These statues, it is true, were covered with gilt and painted in bright colorsâblues, reds, and yellows. Certainly they were more beautiful than the blackened pygmies with long arms and short legs carved of cailcedra or ebony that inhabited the sacred forest.
âYouâll civilize them a bit,â the local administrator had said. Sergeant Thiemokho Keita was going to âcivilizeâ his people. It was necessary to break with tradition, do away with the beliefs upon which the village life, the existence of the families, the peopleâs behavior had always rested. Superstition had to be eradicated. The ways of savages. Ways of savages, the hard treatment inflicted on the young initiates at circumcision to open their minds, form their character, and teach them that nowhere, at any moment of their lives, can they, will they ever be alone. A way of savages, the Kotéba, which forges real men on whom pain can hold no sway. The ways of savages, the sacrifices, the blood offered to the ancestors and the earth ⦠the boiling of millet and curdled milk poured out to the wandering spirits and the protective genies ⦠the ways of savages.
All this Sergeant Keita proclaimed to the young and old of the village, standing in the shade of the palaver tree.
Â
It was nearly sunset when Thiemokho Keita went out of his mind. He was leaning against the palaver tree, talking, talking, talking, against the medicine
man who had sacrificed some dogs that very morning, against the old who didnât want to hear him, against the young who still listened to the old. He was still speaking when suddenly he felt something like a prick on his left shoulder. He turned his head. When he looked at his listeners again, his eyes were no longer the same. A white, foamy spittle appeared at the corners of his mouth. He spoke, but it was no longer the same words that emerged from his lips. The spirits had taken his mind, and now they cried out their fear:
Black night! Black night!
He called at nightfall, and the women and children trembled in their huts:
Black night! Black night!
He cried at daybreak:
Black night! Black night!
He howled at high noon. Night and day the spirits and the genies and the ancestors made him speak, cry out and chant â¦
It was only at dawn that I was able to doze off in the hut where the dead lived. All night I had heard Sergeant Keita coming and going, howling, weeping, and singing:
Trumpeting elephants hoot
In the darkening wood
Above the cursed drums,
Black night, black night!
Â
Milk sours in the calabash
Gruel hardens in the jar
And fear stalks in the hut,
Black night, black night!
Â
The torches throw
Bodiless flames
In the air
And then, quietly, glarelessly
Smoke,
Black night, black night!
Â
Restless spirits
Meander and moan
Muttering lost words,
Words that strike fear,
Black night, black night!
Â
From the chickensâ chilled bodies
Or the warm moving corpse
Not a drop of blood runs
Neither black blood nor red,
Black night, black night!
Trumpeting elephants hoot
Above the cursed drums,
Black night, black night!
Â
Orphaned, the river calls out
In fear for the people
Endlessly, fruitlessly wandering
Far from its desolate banks,
Black night, black night!
Â
And in the savannah, forlorn
Deserted by
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