Sitting in the presence of the wise is always nerve wracking, more still when one has skeletons in his closet. In this tense state, a young man sits in the presence of 8 other individuals unable to stop fidgeting. He folds and unfolds his legs in various positions on the tiger fur mat he sits on. Examining the room yet again, his eyes first land on a stern looking man with a full beard, seated on a low chair – beautifully carved, with gold tips, and a fur coating that flows down to the floor where he and the rest of the people sit.
At the right side of the stern man is a woman who sits absent mindedly. Three old looking men are seated in a line after her, conversing in hushed tones with serious expressions. On the left side there is a gap before the sitting place of the other 3 men. The two at the top seem to be having a merry conversation, and the last man rests with his side on the mat, supporting his head with his hand, and starting coldly at the young man.
The young immediately averts the man's chilling eyes and resumes fidgeting.
"Mbè! My elders! I greet you." A thin looking fellow enters the tent and immediately prostrates himself. He is wearing what appears to be a red robe - but with shorter sleeves - and on the back of his right hand is a circle-like tattoo.
"Are you one of the Oracles disciples?" the man on the gold rimmed chair asks.
"Yes Mbè."
"Raise your head and speak."
The man lifts his head. "Our great one will not attend today's council." The man continues after silence follows. "He feels something dangerous brewing, and denies to leave his shrine till he gets word from the spirits."
"You may leave." At the command, man hurries to his feet and scurries off.
"Trouble brewing when the harvest is near." The Chief says in a bored tone
"Well I doubt anything can go against this season's bountiful harvest." The man closest to the woman – a rounded man – speaks up.
"Certainly, my farmer's reports are nothing but positive." The middle seat – balding man – speaks from the left
"And the fishers claim this may be their best season yet." The third seat on the right – a frail old man – speaks.
"Good." The Chief says. "Merchant orders have flooded in recently. What did the total amount to again?" He looks over at the first seat on the left – a Pot bellied individual with bloated jaws.
"Ah," he pulls out a thin brown rough looking sheet of paper. "Roughly 50 hauls worth of grain, 20 worth of fish, about 10 worth of metal." He leans forward and looks at the third seat, who is now sitting cross-legged and upright. "And over 59 worth of papyrus along sufficient ink."
"In what realm does one need so much papyrus?" the third seat asks.
"Well they seem to have gotten quite popular." The rounded man says
"Indeed." The pot-bellied man says. "Internal demand should be about a third of that."
"Baba Saro." The chief calls. "Can you meet the metal and paper demands."
"No," The left third seat answers. He is a well built man, whose only signs of ageing are the gray streaks that run down his hair and beard. "with enough work the miners may be able to get ten hauls worth of metal, but we don't have enough pressers to meet the papyrus supply."
"How many hauls do you estimate you can send out."
"Meeting local demand I'd say the most we can afford to send out is 20 hauls."
"I see. Baba Kunde." The Chief turns to the pot-bellied man. "What are our livestock requirements for this cycle."
Kunde pulls out another sheet of paper. "Combining all the petitions we received gives us an estimate of at least twenty thousand sheep and ten thousand cows for each region."
"Hmm. And your Estimations?"
"Papyrus exchanges are very high value, so I'd say the estimated 20 hauls should exchange enough livestock for one region, the rest of the produce should be enough for another region, and we'll most likely have to acquire the rest of the livestock for the third region by cowries."
"Hmm. Our cowry reserves are running low."
There is silence for a while. "From your estimations," the first seat on the right – the woman – speaks. "Is it safe to assume that livestock will be covered if all 59 hauls of papyrus are produced?"
"Yaah! 59 is far too many for us to…" The Chief raises his hand, silencing Saro.
"Baba Kunde."
"Certainly." Kunde says.
"I see. And we can exchange the rest for cowries." The chief turns to Saro. "How can you make our expectations a reality."
Saro folds his arms and drops his head in slight irritation. "Hmm. Cutting down on the metal sent out should enable us to build more pressers."
"how much metal?"
"About 8 hauls worth."
"Then do so. We can forgo sending out metal if we have to. By Kunde's estimate all 59 hauls of papyrus should be more than enough to enable us restock our cowry reserves." The Chief exhales and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He then clears his throat with a deep cough.
"Now. To the real issue at hand. Khang!"
"Yes Mbe!" all the muscles in the young man's body tighten as he hears his name. His head shoots up and his posture straightens as he looks at the Chief.
"What is happening to my army?"
"I.. decided to allocate resources differently."
"By dismissing a third of my army?"
"and without my permission?" the gruff voice of the second right seat – an aged man with a small stature – sounds.
"I did not think I needed your permission." Khang's throat grows dry by the minute.
"to dismiss a third of the royal army?"
"Pray tell boy," Saro fixes his cold gaze again on the young man. "what became of their armor?"
All of Khang's hair is on end as his eyes meet Saro's gaze once again. "I reinvested it."
"What sort of reinvestment are we talking about boy?" Kunde asks.
Khang tries to swallow some saliva in his now dry mouth as he sees all the angry looks he is receiving.
"Speechless!" the small man says with a trace of disdain. "You dismiss five thousand men for no reason whatsoever without first bringing your suggestion to council?"
"Madness." Saro says. "What happens when the other four kingdoms…"
"Five." Khang jumps in.
"Watch your tongue boy." Saro points with a murderous glare, causing Khang to reflexively lean back.
"Explain yourself boy." The Chief says cutting the short silence that followed.
Khang steels himself and exhales. "I plan to train an army of blessed ones."
"This kingdom houses not more than a hundred blessed ones." The frail man says
"Indeed." The Chief continues. "even if you manage to find them all, that hardly justifies sending five thousand men home."
"Do you evaluate the contribution of five thousand men to be covered by a hundred unknowns?" kunde asks
"The Bafut kingdom and the Cursed republic have proven that as little as fifty organized blessed ones can raze thousands on the battle field."
"True, but we have no blessed ones in our battle ranks." The small man says.
"I was able to call over a general from Bafut kingdom."
"Is that so?" The Chief asks
"Yes." Khang answers, his confidence slowly building.
"What do you plan to exchange for his services?" kunde squints his eyes at him.
His brief silence is rewarded by grunts and exclamations from all present.
"Khang!" the chief booms. "Have you learnt nothing from the council sessions? What spirit of stupidity to possessed you agree to such and outrageous exchange?"
"But Papa…"
"Quiet boy!" the 'Yaah' erupts getting to her feet. "You shall address the chief properely."
she slowly retakes her seat as the rest of the council also settled down.
"Leave us." The Chief says and Khang bites his lip in hesitation. "Have you gone deaf?"
Khang stands and stretches his legs a little before stepping away
"How do we deal with this?" he hears the chief say as he opens the tent and steps outside. He quickly moves away from the two brawny men sanding at the tent's entrance equipped with shields and spears. He then starts pacing the area rapidly running his hand through his hair in irritation and murmuring to himself. A while later, the 'Yaah' comes out the tent evidently disgruntled, and walks up to him
"Ma, what did they…"
Slap!
The crips sound of the smack caused even the statue-like sturdy men to jerk their heads his direction
"How useless can a child be!" the 'Yaah' says almost whispering. "We leave you unsupervised for shortest time and we spend moons to clean up whatever stupid mess you create."
"Ma, I…"
"I don't want to hear it. Now look at me." He slowly meets her burning gaze. "Shilo is pregnant and due in about a new moon. The great one's absence has delayed her prediction, but you best pray to your spirits of stupidity it's another girl." With the words said, the woman walks away without looking back.