Dada said I had to be hale and hearty to attend the Tales by Moonlight night. He also promised I could play and hunt with other children if I got well quickly. So, I took my medication seriously. The moonlight night tales happened once every two weeks; sometimes they were delayed, especially during the rainy season. It was every child’s wish to listen to those ancient tales sitting outside, under a tree, and feel the fresh air on bare skin. The older women who told stories were called mama and sometimes brought fresh coconut juice and dried bush meat or fish for everyone. The moonlit nights were also secret meetings for young lovers. This was the main reason many teens looked forward to the event. I wouldn’t say that for myself.
Before the tales are told, some older children organize quizzes, talk shows, debates, and games like wrestling, hide and seek, and nchokotoro, which was the girls’ favorite game. The boys gather not to play but to cheer for their crushes. I can’t remember exactly what moral I learned from the past tales, but I was determined not to miss the next one. But who knew what might happen to me next? All the dibia Dada brought had failed to trap the spirit, and each time I was under its influence, I was left at the mercy of others. I couldn’t control it. With each passing day, I grew more afraid of myself. I wished I could live my life as a normal boy. There were strange voices in my head trying to question my abilities—mild, sometimes harsh, but never sinister. I could connect to them somehow, but only briefly. This was a mystery even Dada did not understand, and he was unhappy to see his son suffer. Maybe I could discover what I could do with this power. Just maybe. Only, a leopard is not as faint-hearted as I am. I would faint at the sight of a minor flesh wound. I shrugged at the thought of comparing myself to a wild animal. In character and thinking, I was the complete opposite.
My friends came that afternoon to check on me. I smiled at their goofy, locally-made fishing suits. Odo had made one for himself from a fishing net. He wore it to my room and boasted about how the villagers admired it as he walked through the clan. I knew he was bragging because I saw nothing special in this over-hyped, weird suit. The boys brought some udala and mango fruits. Though my friends were not privileged enough to attend school, I would never trade them for anything! That was a given.
“Thanks, guys!”
“Did you hear that the strange crocodile has resurfaced and is digging again?” Oba asked, ruining my happy moment with his terrible news.
“That’s old news. The animal has turned our clean stream water into mud; we can’t even swim in the stream anymore,” Odo replied.
“Really?” I asked. “I thought it was captured when I was away?”
“No. The hunters caught a beaver. A beaver is not a crocodile.” Chimdi answered. She was the only girl in our midst. She seldom spoke and will always be the first to laugh when the boys come to mischief.
“Can you cook or bath with mud?” Odo ignored her.
“Well, the Igwe has summoned a hunting party at his palace. I knew this as my father is a volunteer for the hunt.” Ekeledi added. He was handsome but a staunch stammerer. He usually pronounced each word twice after striking his foot on the floor. He got angry quickly and will hit anyone with any available object when offended…
To be continued…
