1889
A sinister cloud covers the sky. It rides on the shoulders of a mighty wind. Leaves and twigs are carried in rounding whirls. They rustle and break, sounding like a musical calabash. The villagers are terrified. They hold onto each other in terror and fear. Women scream, holding onto their soul dolls. No one knows what might happen. Anyone can die. The elderly shake to their bones. Those who hadn't taken their lives regret why they kept. Brave ones run for their ropes. The gallows cannot hold so many bodies. The hour of reckoning is here.
Children cling to their mothers' hide skin. The weakest are swallowed in the erupting waves of whirls. The sky gets darker. The buzz grows closer. Men watch in terror. Bulls moo in deep mournful tunes. Cows hit their hooves on the hard ground their eyes glassy from fear. Chicken clucks, struggling to stay perched but the wild wind rips through their wings. Sheep dare not bleat. The wind grows more vicious. A storm is brewing.
She is here. The Goddess of Karichota, mother of fertility and vitality is here.
Her hair, long, dark and wavy like rivulets of coal flew in the wind. It was wild and unruly, the symbol of her destructive existence. She drew fear, pain and sorrow from the pits of the villagers' bellies. Her presence only meant disaster, hunger, and the aftermath of subsequent deaths especially of men and boys. This year, the storm was sinister. it came with flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder. The sky had an abnormal dance of cloudy waves. And the whirl was big enough to uproot shrines. It was like they had never seen before. It carried things on its tail, horrible things. It carried death and destruction. Something was terribly wrong in the cosmos.
Xumba stood on the hearth, near his father's hut. He knew the goddess was coming for him. He had been prepared adequately. His body shined in the shadows of the clouds. His feet dug into the ground. He was not going to be shaken by the wind that was uprooting everything on its way.
It can uproot me as well. He thought.
He was the reigning prince, the son of the great chief Xima. Xumba was the bearer of the flaming spear of his Chota people. When he wielded it in battle, men fell by his side like flies. Who was a woman? Goddess or no goddess, she did not give Xumba the creeps. He wondered why his father was overly worried about him. The great chief Xima had never worried about his son going to battle. Xumba thought his father was putting up a show. He was perfectly aware that the great chief Xima was a softie who thought Xumba will not fit to be chief. He hated him. When it was announced that he was the ultimate sacrifice for the goddess, Xumbas' heart swelled in pride. This was just the opposite of what was expected.
After all, he doesn't love me. he must be happy that his favorite son will get to be the reigning prince once I am dead. He imagined.
"I am suspecting foul play in this selection Xumba," his mother had whispered to him when she served him food.
"Come on mother, the goddess wants a fearless man for her seeding. Not some feeble whiny sissy like my brother," Xumba had responded.
"You are not going to live after the ritual. Are you not afraid of losing your life in such a painful way?" his mother was on the verge of tears.
"Woman, every kind of death stings. Would you rather I live long enough to hang myself in the gallows? That is more crooked than orgasming to death. Besides, I have a plan."
His mother turned her lips in disgust. Anjiko was not a humorous woman. Xuma knew exactly what to say to shut her up. He loved her so much, but love was not supposed to be a reason a man failed in his duties. Especially, love for a mother. A man's duty in Chota tribe was to serve the gods. Not women. Not goddesses.
"What plan? You will be dead after this, Xumba. Don't you see? How am I supposed to survive without…"?
"Stop it! Mother Stop it!" His voice was thunderous. His mother, who was never afraid of him was taken aback. His son was fierce, Anjiko knew this, but he had never used his thunder tone on her. She wanted to say something but her lips could not let words beyond her teeth.
"I go to war every other day, mother. Do you ever worry that one day someone will drill a hole in my skull? Or worse, chop off my head? You see how the savages in the North slaughter our worriers," he spat.
Xumba had always campaigned for the immortalization of soldiers and royalties. He wanted his father to allow the worriers to be at the same level as gods. There was a way. But his father never allowed it. He never wanted to discuss it with him. He said it was a wayward way of thinking and that was final.
"cowards!" he had said as he rose to his feet to leave his mother's hut. "I can finally go join the gods. Where I belong!" with that he had strode off the hut in gust and pride.
"Xumba, don't leave without saying goodbye. The winds are here. I can hear them howl. My stomach, trembles in fear my son."
"It will be fine. Trust me."