Kufae and the Fuli raiders

Kufae approached the small camp on silent feet, one arm held over her face. She had tried to come as close as possible while still concealed by the falling clouds of volcanic ash. When she could hear drunken laughter somewhere close ahead as the haze of grey whipped and swirled in the wind, Kufae settled down then, lying on her stomach and grimacing at the protest of her tired muscles. She had been tracking the men for a week with little sleep and even less food. The Fuli raiders had made no attempt to confuse their trail, unaware they were being pursued. It would not have mattered even if the men had tried to throw her off. This was her land. Kufae had been born in these hills, running with the herds and fending off hyenas and dancing with snakes. She knew every nook and cranny, every cave and goat trail. The raiders were just passing through.

Carefully, she attached the hide string to one end of her bow and fitted the loop over the nocked end. The raiders had been foolish enough to leave the bow beside her body when they left her for dead. The Fuli people were not bowmen, and so the weapon must have been of no value to them. A cleverer man would have severed the bowstring at least so the bow did not fall into the hands of another enemy. It was their first mistake, but not their worse. Their peril would come from the fact that they had underestimated her will to live. The raiders had raped and choked her until she was unconscious before abandoning her body for the hyenas and vultures. She would lend them a lesson she had learned in a hard land. Never leave an enemy behind.

The concentration of the pursuit and willful neglect had dulled the ache between her legs. However, the stunned feeling of the attack was just beginning to fade. Kufae had been scavenging for firewood around the river when the men had appeared out of the gathering dusk. She had barely been able to string the bow before they were on her, pounding with fists and legs until she was dazed and bleeding. Then they had raped her. Kufae had struggled at first, even biting off a chunk from someone's ear. But their anger and frustration had only intensified the beating. She felt bile rise in the back of her throat at the memory of the stench and wetness of their sweat against her skin. The men had not only dared to trespass through the land of her people, but also to attack a daughter of the mountain. This valley would be their grave.

It did not take long for the flakes of ash to settle on Kufae's back and make her invisible as she stared across the camp about fifty paces away. The wind had subsided so she could see the five figures huddled at the feet of the rocky outcrop. Closest to her position were the three men, talking and laughing over the carcass of some kill. She frowned at the two arrows in front of her then. In truth, Kufae had not really thought of an entire plan. All she had wanted was to make sure the raiders did not escape. Surprise was her better gamble and the two arrows would have to do.

Kufae put the first shaft between her teeth and touched the other to her bowstring, moving slowly as not to disturb the blanket of ash that had built on her body. It was now a waiting game and patience was her friend. She controlled her breathing, taking some pleasure in being the hunter. However, it was hard to remain sharp as tiredness descended on her as if it was a physical force, her thoughts drifting sluggishly like leaves in a lake.

It was an uneventful wait before a sudden movement in the camp caught her attention. One of the other two figures had dashed between two of the Fuli raiders.

“Stop,” one of the men cried as they all jumped to their feet. Two raiders gave chase and the man who had shouted unsheathed a sword.

“Get her,” the third warrior called, though he stayed back to guard the camp.

Kufae had tensed, blood pounding in her ears as her pulse quickened. The running figure was a girl, her wrists still tied together as she sprinted across the valley. The race would bring them past her position, Kufae realised, not believing her luck. She waited for the girl to run past before rising from the ashes like something out a nightmare. Both men skidded to a halt in surprise and Kufae drew back until the fletching brushed against her ear before releasing. The arrow punched into the chest of the first man to throw him on to his back, the sword flying from his hand. The second warrior stared at her in panic and confusion, and it was all the time she needed to nock and fire her next arrow. The man dropped with a thud, his face smashing into the thick carpet of ash.

Kufae stared over the bodies to the last of the raiders, the boy who had choked her. When their eyes met, she saw his sneer and anger overwhelmed her. Kufae dropped her bow and charged. When the young warrior saw this, he ran forward as well, unsheathing his dagger with a smirk. Then Kufae picked up the sword of the dead man and saw the boy's confident strides falter. However, the Fuli did not stop and she felt a pang of respect for that. The boy dashed forward with a desperate jab at her chest but Kufae swung away, bringing the sword around in a stroke of mastered precision to tear through leather and tendons. The warrior stumbled to a knee with a howl of pain. And Kufae swung again to slice at the muscles of the other leg so the Fuli collapsed on to his haunches, blood streaming from the wounds.

As the warrior cursed and writhed on the ground, she looked around the camp to see the frightened faces staring back at her. Besides the other girl tied in the corner, there was nothing of worth, confirming her suspicion these men were just lowly raiders out to steal a wife and make a name. It was surprising they even had a good sword between them. Kufae looked across the valley to see that the runner had stopped. She nodded at the bewildered girl in assurance.

“What will you do with me?” the young Fuli asked between sobs. “I have things I can give to you.”

“You have nothing,” she snapped, the sword dropping so the razor-sharp blade rested on the boy's throat, teasing out the fear. “You were taking girls back to your tribe, though you are still young to take care of a wife. I guess you would have been trading them for a good sword or a fine horse. So why did you not kidnap me as well?”

“We saw you are Edorian,” the Fuli whimpered. “Our people want nothing to do with your dirty blood.”

Kufae smiled bitterly and walked away. She would not tell him the irony of his words, knowing it would be lost on a Fuli. After cutting out her arrows from the bodies, she went through their leathers to come up with just two daggers and some food. Kufae sighed, disappointed. There was food at least. She strode back and cut off the restrains of the girls. They were all bigger than her, and one of them was pregnant, perhaps more than three-moons-old. Had these raiders been traveling for that long?

“You are free now,” she told them, brushing ash from her dreadlocks and eye brows. “You can return to your tribe and families.”

“Where do we go now?” the pregnant girl asked. “We am from the Bumi people, far to the north. I would never make it there. And you just killed the father of my child. He was taking us to the protection of his people.”

When Kufae looked around at her, the girl must have seen something in her eyes because she took a step back. “Have you ever been to the Fuli camp?” Kufae asked the older girl. “There are no women there who have seen more than forty rains. Do you know why? When you will be unable to give birth anymore, the father of that child and all the children he would have had on you, will throw you out of the tribe. You will be of no use to him, not when he has younger wives and children to feed. Do you still wish to meet the Fuli people?”

“Lying whore,” the young raider called and she rounded on him. The lower part of the boy's body was drenched in dark blood. He would never be able to walk again, she had made sure of that.

“You want a quick death, Fuli?” Kufae asked and he winced as if she had just read his mind. “I will not give it to you,” she went on. “There are hyenas in these hills and they will smell the blood. Maybe your shouts will scare them away at first. But they will become bolder and you will be eaten alive. Even the hyenas deserve better, but you will do.”

There was true horror on the young raider's face now. “Please,” he begged, flinging his arms around. “Please, have mercy.”

But Kufae was already walking away.

“What will happen to us now?” the girl who had been running away called from up the valley. ''My sister and I would not survive out here.”

“I can not take you to your families,” Kufae told them, “but come with me and I will teach you how to survive long enough to get there.”

They butchered what was left of the goat's carcass and shared the weight between them, strapped to their backs. The party of girls was walking away when the young raider screamed for attention. “I can tell you how we knew you will be by the river,” he shouted. “You are Kufae, daughter of Hurae the shaman, are you not?”

Kufae stopped in her tracks as a chill crept up her neck, her gut tightening. 

                                                                *** 

By J.E. Mfombep

Before The Calm

The mist is thick and suffocating, smelling of wet grass and rain as he hurries towards the gate. Molua is still thinking of the text message he just received he did not hear the car creep up on him until the honk that pulls him out of his head. “Good morning, sir,” he greets in his most polite voice as the window rolls down.
“You should be working,” his bald-headed boss replies instead. The man is dressed in a shirt meant for a smaller physique, the buttons straining against the pressure of his bulging stomach. In the passenger's seat is a beautiful girl young enough to be his daughter. “Where are you going to?”
“My wife, sir,” Molua says. “She is in labour.”
The man gives him a curious look, unimpressed. “And who is in the kitchen?”
“Olu has accepted to fill in for me until I return.”
The hotel manager shakes his head in disapproval. “There is too much work at the moment,” he says. “You can not leave now.”
“But, sir...”
“Go back to your post. If you are not there when I come back, do not bother to return.”
With that, the car speeds away and Molua watches it get swallowed by the fog, its rear lights fading. He stands at the threshold of the gate, rooted in indecision. They both know the denial has nothing to do with the work load. The manager is too proud to say Molua is the best cook they have had in a long time, and the quality in the kitchen will suffer in his absence. For an employee like that, you might think they will treat him better. He has worked in the hotel kitchens for over five years yet he has never received a motivational package even by mistake. Now they would not let him go to his wife, just as they had done the past two times.
He pulls out his phone and reads the text message again.
“You wife is in labour and we are going to the hospital now. She needs you here. Hurry.”
Molua makes his decision and walks out the gate. His wife needs him. This is her third pregnancy, though the last two were stillbirths. He has always wondered if things would have been different if he had been by her side, to comfort her in their grief at least. Instead, he had been at the hotel, working for money which did not seem to make his life any happier. His marriage has been distant for some time now and Molua has never been able to shake off the guilt.
It was already raining by the time the taxi drops him off at the central station. He is instantly deafened by the shouts of hawkers and the speakers of mobile carts and the honking of cars and bikes alike. He makes his way through the chaotic press, always one step ahead of a bumper or a front wheel. The cars are trying to avoid the commercial bikes that squeeze between them, the pedestrians dodging the bikes and the buses swerving away from the pedestrians. It is a miracle there has been no accident yet, everybody shouting at somebody.
“Get out of my way, useless boy,” a grey-haired man was shouting angrily to a biker who had just appeared in front of his taxi. “You look like a missed abortion.”
“Shut up, old man,” the biker retorted. “If I was your son, I will not have escaped the abortion. Where were you when your age mates were making use of their youth?”
The transporters are well-known for their foul tongue, but leave it to the weather to make everything worse. Molua leaves them still insulting each other, sheets of rain twisting around him. He is soaked to the bone by the time he reaches the Guarantee Highway agency and makes his way through a line of their distinctive red and black buses. The clerk at the desk frowns up at the shivering apparition who is dripping water onto their pristine floor.
“Welcome to Guarantee Highway, sir,” she says nonetheless with a rehearsed smile. “How may I help you?” “I will like a ticket to Buea.”
“Our last bus to Buea just left, sir. I am sorry.”
Molua steps back in disappointment, his teeth chattering. He would have prayed for his wife to have a safe delivery but he feels it was futile. If there is truly a God, why do the undeserving suffer? He has just lost his job, been beaten by the rain, and missed the last bus to see his wife and the possible birth of his first child. How could the day get any worse? He must be the unluckiest man in the world right now. Perhaps if he buys a mortuary, people might just stop dying. Molua wonders whether to hurry back to the hotel and take a chance his boss might still be away. With the way his day has been, he doubts the likelihood. However, more than anything in the world, he just wants to be with his wife. It has been too long already.
“Molua,” a soft voice whispers behind him.
Molua glances over a shoulder to see a familiar face. “Ndip?” he replies as he turns to face her, still unsure. “Yes,” the girl says, beaming behind expensive medical glasses. She is dressed in a pink suit and skirt, tailored from the kind of material needed for high office. “It has been a long time.”
Ten years, he wanted to say but Molua's voice deserts him. He could hardly have recognised her without the usual torn uniform and dirty fingernails. She was his 'soft drink girl' in high school, he remembers, another girl on a list of many. Their break up had been hard on her until she had to move to another school. Of all the people whom he could run into, why Ndip? It seemed somebody was trying to make all his nightmares come true. So the day could get worse after all.
“Sorry but I overheard you tell the clerk you are going to Buea,” she explains. “I am heading up there myself, if you do not mind joining me.”
“Of course not,” he replies. Perhaps the dark cloud hovering of his day has a silver lining, and this was it.
But he discovers the lie of that as they begin the journey to Buea. It turns out Ndip is a successful writer with a wonderful life, and she is just too glad to talk of it. Her husband is a renowned doctor who works for the UN and she is from dropping off her son in a boarding school. His first child would have been of the same age, if the girl had lived. His companion did not even seem to notice him grow silent at the thought. He had led a happy and contented life even when the pregnancy came along. Molua had never known such excitement and expectation. It had been a wonderful feeling. What kind of God will tease with such things before taking all of it away, again and again?
The rain had subsided to a drizzle now as their car came upon a scene less than a mile away from the station. There was a small crowd gathered beside the road and Molua could see the twisted form of car in the bushes to their left, bits of glass scattered across the road. Then as their own car slows down, he sees the upturned carriage of a bus, its tyres raised to the sky. Molua instantly recognises the red and black striping of the Guarantee Highway buses.
“Oh my God!” Ndip exclaims as she pulls over. “What happened here?” she asks the first witness they meet. “An accident, madame,” the man replies with both hands still on his head. “A driver lost control of his bus and crashed into incoming traffic. All forty of them are dead.”


                                                                 THE END

By J.E. Mfombep