Ogumba: Land Of The Forgotten
The arrow whizzed past the heads of the maids and found its mark, the audible thwack elicited a sigh from the hearts of the young women who had stood there with their lives on the line.
“Well done my Prince, you become a better marksman every day, your father would be proud,” the head archer said.
Prince Sambo nodded, he couldn’t care less about his progress. He was just glad that nobody had been hurt. At the beginning of his training, his father had discovered his soft spot for common men and decided to use it against him. The old man’s idea of toughness was disgusting but what could he do? These days, he basically tried to mask his revulsion and anger anytime maids or stable boys were put in the way of his sword or his arrows.
He gently pulled off his training vest and stood still for one of the maids to mop the sweat off his body. Her hands were still shaking but he couldn’t take the towel from her, lest she suffer a demotion. This and a lot of other practices in the palace he hoped to change when he became king.
The boulevard that led to his quarters was peppered with flowers in full bloom. When he opened the door, the maid assigned for his pleasures was kneeling by his bedside naked. He beckoned to her and she followed him over to the big bath in the middle of the room. Taking off his underpants, she gently guided him into the lukewarm water that was inside it. Sambo lay back and enjoyed her ministrations.
The Ora kingdom was one of the six kingdoms in the Ado empire. Each kingdom was autonomous unless during times of war when they all marched together against their enemies. It was a large kingdom with many natural resources like coal, gold, and the glistening wood from tall trees gotten from the rainforest that surrounded their kingdom.
The men were predominantly farmers and blacksmiths, while the women made a living by weaving fabrics and selling colorful beads made from hardened tree sap. There were no slaves in Ora, and every family of common men was equal. Only the Royal family stood above them. The king Aba-Ora, the queen Ene-Ora and their two children the Prince and Princess of Ora kingdom.
When the plague came, it started from the lowest of them all. Ede the palm wine tapper came back from his morning duty and began to cough painfully. His wife, Ajimam, lay him down and piled peppers on his chest. After a while, he fell asleep but the cough woke him up hours later. This time accompanied by red discharge from his mouth and nostrils as though he had swallowed the peppers wrongly.
A few hours later, he was dead and gone. Tongues began to wag across the kingdom that Ajiman had killed her husband by placing red hot peppers on his chest.
“Who does such a thing if not someone immensely foolish,” a woman said to her friend as they walked towards the market.
“Don’t mind her. Who made her a healer? She should have just called Naa baasie the medicine man” another said. They were swaying their hips to the rhythm of the breeze as most Ora women are wont to do. Men in the surrounding kingdoms call Ora women Eka which means snake or Amoneka which means slippery snake. In reference to their waist and also to their wagging tongues.
The week after the first tragedy, Simbile the wood carver’s daughter got married to a hunter. The whole village gathered for the ceremony. It was a party to be remembered, both families being well to do. There was enough food and enough music, to provoke the Ora women who danced to stupor as their husbands watched. Later that night, there would be beds creaking in every hut in the kingdom, so loud that it would rival the sound of war.
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After the introductory dance between families, the bride was placed astride her husband’s lap. She was supposed to kiss him and gyrate on his member. This was the method used. If the man’s member refused to stand under that assault, the marriage would be canceled there and then. Simbile kissed her husband and rotated her rubber waist.
Soon, the hunter’s member began to bounce, eager to hunt inside her forest. Simbile got up laughing, exposing the results for everyone to see. Her husband was a whole man, a ready man. It took some time for people to stop laughing and realize that Simbile was coughing a red substance into her palm.
There was commotion. People shouting Áwâ! Áwâ!. The able young men picked her up and ran with her on their shoulders. When they got to her father’s house, the medicine man was sent for. But hers was fast, she died before the healer could get to her, within the hour.
Apone was an unfortunate hunter. He had grown up in the bosoms of his mother as an only child. When his mates were playing the hunting games under the moonlight as children, he was at home eating hot yam with red oil. His mother doted on him to a fault, worshipping the very ground his feet stood on. His father was less enthusiastic about the young man. Yes, he was his only child but who suckles a child till he is seven years of age?
“Apone, go well,” his mother said as he put on his hunter’s kit. The young man heard the quiver in her voice that was always present when he was about to enter the forest. It irritated him, to say the least. He blamed his mother for every time he failed to catch something in the forest. He would throw down his hunting kit as soon as he got home and say to her angrily “Is this not what you wanted?”
“I’ll be fine Mama,” he told her this time.
“Okay o. I made yam. When you return, we will add meat to it”
Apone came back with a rabbit slung over his shoulder and a bad cough in his throat. His mother lay him on the mat outside her hut and began to weep. People gathered and watched the old woman crying over her only son. The medicine man was called. When he saw Apone, he jumped backward three times.
“It is the plague” he shouted. Murmurs went up in the crowd. “Ogunnli Atoho, save us from this evil gathering over our kingdom like a black cloud” he hit his staff on Apone’s chest. Then he brought out the contents of the large rustic bag hanging around his waist. He grounded the herbs, mixed it with alcohol, and rubbed it over the young man’s chest. He also forced his mouth open and turned the mixture in.
Apone was dead by morning. His mother’s wails announced the breaking of a new day. Villagers trooped to her house to commiserate with her and to also bury her child. Then the kingdom went into official mourning, three young persons had met an untimely death. The gods needed to be appeased. The king gave goats and yams to the Chief Priest who made the necessary sacrifices.
The medicine man was a short stout man in his fifties, he had a slight limp from a fall when he was twelve years old. In his younger years, this limp has given him the nickname Agboduje which means “chicken that walks with one leg”. The skills of healing he possessed had been passed down by his forefathers but Naa baasie wore it with more grace.
Combining herbal medicine practice with White juju gave better results and the kingdom was grateful to have him. When he got home that evening, his wife, Alade, was brushing her teeth outside their hut.
“Welcome Nei” she greeted.
“Thank you, my wife.” Naa baasie replied, hugging her around the waist. They were trying to conceive and the situation had created a tenderness between them.
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That evening, Alade prepared yam and red hot soup for their dinner. She had garnished the meal with vegetables and a dash of Lu the altimeter aphrodisiac. As they ate, she eyed her husband who she knew could smell the distinct Lu aroma. That was her invitation to him. She was telling him she wanted it hot and Naa baasie replied with a nod and a smile.
They were found the next morning in each other’s arms. White foam hanging inside their mouths. The women who came rolled outside Naa baasie’s hut crying and tearing at their clothes. The men hit their staffs on the floor in unison, a look of regret on their faces. Naa baasie’s death was the death of an icon. To think that he had died without an heir was even harder to swallow.
***
Prince Sambo sat on the stairs leading to his father’s quarters. He was not his usual handsome self, his hair was uncombed and he wore sackcloth like everyone else in the kingdom. The only difference was that his was lined with fur on the inside. Sambo had been waiting for an hour on those steps, his father was busy tending to his pregnant concubine, a young woman he doted on.
Looking at them, Sambo remembered times in his childhood when his parents would lock themselves up in rooms or run playing within the palace gardens. He was invited to these games most of the time and still remembered the lovely feeling of being smooched between his mother’s soft bosom and his father’s hard chest.
“My boy” the king called out from up the stairs. At fifty, he still looked like a thirty-five-year-old, strong and virile. His features were large and strong unlike his son’s which looked deliberately crafted to give him an overall handsome look.
“My King” Sambo replied, rising quickly while trying to ignore his loathing for his father’s insistence on calling a thirty years old man “boy”. “How may I serve you?”
“Come on in.” his father offered, opening the door to his suite completely. Sambo stepped inside a warped display of his past. The blue rugs, the mirror by the window. Even the books on the shelf were just how it was many years ago.
“Our people are dying,” the king said, sighing heavily. There were lines on his forehead. Sambo saw them and felt reproachful. His father was still shouldering most of the responsibilities in the kingdom even though he had a full-grown son who should be helping him.
“You look tired. Should I take some responsibilities from your shoulders?” He asked. A shadow crossed the king’s face and then he smiled.
“No my son. There is something else I need you to do”
“Anything for my king” Sambo said, hitting his chest with one fist in the customary Ora salute.
“For your kingdom.” His father corrected “You will be embarking on a journey towards the mountains in search for the cure for this plague”
“Yes father”
“You will take ten guards and three maidens with you. I believe you have been properly trained in the act of war and should be able to defend yourself if need be”
“Yes father”
“Kneel” the king commanded his son. He picked up the scepter beside him and blessed his son with it.
“May the spirits of our ancestors go with you. May calamity avert its eyes from you”
“Ase!”
***
The mountains were greater than Sambo had ever dreamed. They looked like two women sitting on each other’s laps but refusing to let their heads touch, which created a passageway into the mountains. Crouching inside the last line of trees, they watched for any signs of hostility. Trees were peppering the face of the mountain and guards could be hiding unseen behind them.
Their journey through the forest has taught them to be extra careful. The forest had been unfriendly, two of the guards dying by snake bites on the first night. The next day, they had been attacked by a crazed wide cat and all of them except the women sustained injuries. Sambo winced as his shoulder twitched in remembrance of the cat’s claws.
The third attack was the worst and the most bloody. One of the women had been cooking quietly in the middle of the clearing they had made when seven hyenas chanced upon her. She fought bravely with a stick but couldn’t stop them from tearing her into shreds. Four of his men died in the battle that ensued after. Right now, he was left with four men and he wasn’t ready to lose any of them. That was the reason for the extra care.
“Duck!” One of the guards shouted and Sambo dropped lower quickly. The arrow missed his hair by inches and came to land a few paces behind him. It had a red cloth tied around it, the sign of peace. These people were offering them peace. Sambo motioned for one of his men to come closer.
“Go out there and see if they shoot at you,” he said. Atole nodded and went out bravely. He walked through the small grassland until he reached the base of the mountain and still no one shot at him. Instead, a man appeared from behind one of the trees waving a red cloth above his head.
“Welcome! Where are the others with you?” He asked. His voice was clipped and his language sounded strange like someone speaking Ora with his tongue folded towards his throat.
Sambo made a hasty decision. He really couldn’t offer to wait anymore, they had already spent a week in the forest and he didn’t want to imagine how many of his people had died since then.
The mountain climb was exhausting but they all made it to the top. The opening they had seen from the ground was a large road leading into the mountain. The place was stark and every corner leaped out as though undecided between welcome and attack. They were led into the King’s chambers on the west side of the mountain. It was a large cave that opened into a small stream. The decor used was similar to what could be found in the Ora throne room.
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A young woman stood near the throne, she wore an aquamarine shawl draped artfully over her body, and her hair which looked supple even from that distance was decorated with beads and created a halo that framed her beautiful oval face. Sambo couldn’t believe he had forgotten her. Her name was at the tip of his tongue as he was hit with the most intense longing for a past he had forgotten.
“Welcome to Ogumba” a booming voice announced. Sambo turned around and saw a short stocky man wearing a king’s regalia.
“Land of the forgotten” the prince said. The old man smiled.
“Yes. You are Prince Sambo. We have been waiting for you.”
That evening after dinner, Sambo drank palm wine with the King of Ogumba. They were outside on the large road and every subject that passed them made a show of greeting their king profusely just to get a good look at the prince.
“Your father must have told you about the overthrow,” the king said.
“Yes, he did”
“In those days, things were less civilized and tempers were high. I do not blame your father for taking my throne. There is only one thing I regret about that day”
“What if I may ask?” Sambo prodded. The ever-smiling king finally frowned, a mournful look on his face.
“The death of our wives,” he said, then he looked at Sambo. “He never told you how your mother died, did he?”
Sambo knew there was a rock blocking his throat. “No,” he said rubbing his throat to dislodge the ache. The old king waved it away with a casual move, it was obvious he wasn’t ready to be the one to tell that tale.
“An alliance between our kingdoms would be beneficial to both of us. You, being the next king,”
“An alliance. I would have to talk with my father” Sambo said. The king smiled again.
“Your father. He has always been a man who loves power. I would advise you to be careful around him. Speculations are that he sent you here to die”
“I would not let you speak ill of my father,” Sambo said, getting up with a flourish. Only great restraint prevented him from insulting the Ogumba king. The old man watched him walk away.
“Wait!”
Sambo stopped walking for a moment.
“I could have killed you for your father’s sins. Don’t forget that he sent you to me.”
Sambo shook his head and kept walking.
A guard led him to his quarters, a small apartment made with wood and tree bark painted with primary colors. The apartment was sparsely furnished and Sambo would have felt insulted if he didn’t know that sparse furnishings was the way of the Ogumba people. Now that he knew the story, he knew that hardship must have taught them to economize.
A young woman stepped in behind him and the prince touched her throat with the sharp end of the blade.
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“Drop your weapon,” Princess Oviedo said in a bored voice. Her voice had retained that bored tone over the years. Every other thing about her had changed. Sambo remembered her as a happy little girl who never stopped smiling but this young woman was far from that. She looked sad and mean at the same time.
“You remember me,” she said, walking into the apartment.
“I do”
“What is my name?”
“Oviedo,” Sambo said. The young woman’s face lit up in a smile.
“Remember when we used to play together while our mothers talked?” She asked.
“Yes. They were best friends.”
“We were best friends too. I miss my mother all the time” Oviedo said walking towards him. Sambo swallowed his tears.
“I hear you will not speak to my father,” she said. He looked away from her searching eyes.
“He spoke ill of my father. I will not tolerate that”
“I understand how you feel. I would feel the same if it were my father” she said, she was so close now that Sambo could see the curls in every individual hair strand.
“My father is right though. Your people are being plagued because he needed a foolproof reason to send you to your death.” She tore the fabric from his shirt and exposed his injured shoulder. “Why else were you attacked by a wild cat? We both know the wild cat leaves humans alone in the forest.”
“These accusations are grave ones that could spark a war between our kingdoms,” the prince said.
“Take this,” Oviedo said, handing him a parcel wrapped with leaves.
“Is this the cure for the plague?” Sambo asked. Oviedo shook her head.
“No, this would make your father confess if he is guilty. After he confesses, the plague will disappear.”
“My father is innocent,” Sambo said, standing tall.
“Is he? Let’s see then”
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The journey back to Ora was a peaceful one, it made Sambo uneasy. How was the forest which had been so unfriendly become so calm and serene? He considered the possibility of his father being guilty of those accusations but quickly discarded it. At night, he fiddled with the parcel. He could feel the imprints of an amulet through the folded leaves.
At the border, ten guards were standing and squatting at strategic locations, already alerted of their coming by the beating of a small gong.
“Welcome my Prince,” the head guard greeted, “I’m sorry there’s no crowd to welcome you. A curfew is being enforced to reduce the spread of the plague.”
“How many people?” Sambo asked the dreaded question. The guard’s eyes rimmed with tears.
“Fifty souls, my Prince,” he said.
On the way to the palace, I thought about everything. The grief when his mother died. How his father was allegedly so full of grief he couldn’t see his son for a year. Everything came to him like a swarm of Ocre (little flies) leaving little pinpricks on his skin.
The throne room looked just as it looked the last day he was here but he felt like a stranger pulling his shoes so he could step on the colorful animal skins at the entrance.
“My boy!” His father’s voice boomed within the walls. Sambo watched as the old man took large strides until he gathered him in his arms. His father smelled like perfume and palm kernel oil, like a king.
Sambo thrust the amulet within the folds of his father’s animal skin cape until it rested on his beating heart. The effect was instantaneous. The King’s mouth bent at an odd angle and blood began to trickle through. His eyes, however, seemed to be asking why?
Sambo tried his best to support his father’s growing weight. “Did you try to kill me?” “Did you cause the plague?!” He asked the dying man.
The King’s eyes shone for a moment before it dimmed. “Why would I do that to my people? Why would I do that to my own son?!” He managed to say through his mouth.
Sambo could see that his father was telling the truth. His legs weakened until he could no longer hold them both up. Crashing to the ground, Sambo screamed out his sorrow. Ogumba had betrayed him.
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