The land wasn’t exactly everyone’s friend, as the folktales said. Just as one of the grannies taught us, the land was sacred, and every living thing owed its existence to Ala, the land. I knew that anyway. I always wondered why our stories started with a particular place—land and time. It now made sense to me that land was like a referee or umpire, overseeing everything. I remember a proverb Daada always says when someone in the community gets into trouble. He usually says, “Ọkụkọ nyụọ ahụụ, ala achụwa ya ọsọ,” which translates to “When the chicken farts, the land pursues it.” Anyway, that’s a ridiculous assertion; however, I’ve witnessed chickens suddenly break into a run as if fleeing an invisible force, and no one has explained it to date.

The evening wind kept the village fresh tonight. The moonlight was a guest, too. There were pockets of darkness tucked away from the glare of the moonlight. The forest line at the edge of the village was alive with the wind’s rendition: the swooshing trees and shrubs, the ever-hooting calls of the resident owls and other nocturnal birds, and the incessant crickets and insects that bothered the night made a symphony. One of my favorite parts of the wind at night was watching the whistling pines and the palm trees behind my father’s compound struggle and twist, and listening to the sound they made. To me, the trees always felt like they would fall from the way they moved. Another thing I love about the evening wind is that it brought other smells, like the aroma of other people’s cooking.

“Strange.” Daada began. “It feels like it would rain, but the moonlight gives away that it is not the case.” I was sitting with Daada when he said that. I looked up at the sky as Daada explained why he thought so.

“Daada. How can you tell that it would rain or not?” I asked.

“The clouds would swallow the moon in her embrace. Most of the time, the clouds bring the rain. She is the messenger, just as the wind.” He started chewing on his kolanut.

It was during this time that the town crier arrived, carrying his long metal gong. Kukukruuukuku! The sound of his gong rang out. The metallic reverberation shook the hamlet. Suddenly, a heavy silence gripped the whole village.

“Geenụ ntị! Listen!!” Kukrukum! Another beat on the gong, meant to let the first call sink in. I’ve heard that the gong’s sound could wake even the heaviest sleeper. “The King sends his message to you all. So listen.” The gong sounded again, and the town crier delivered his message. The leopard that came into the village a few days ago has been trapped…

To be continued…