The men of the village had grown to a 100-strong crowd. Waving their axes and shovels, they were angry, and very hungry. Some women had joined the fight as well, having lost their sons and daughters to the cold draughts. They ran down the road to the big man's mansion, leaving a trail of smoke and lights with fire in their hands.
Storming through the decadent soils of the man's land, the men were half-stunned to see his land as dry and cracked as theirs, if not worse. But pity had left their hearts at the thought of all injustice, and they raided his yards, finding all but nothing. No sheep, no oxen, no cows, no millet – absolutely nothing. Except a stench so fierce they tore cloths to use as masks.
Finally, they brought a huge log, and together, brought it forth against the enormous door to the big house, finally breaking its hinges with eight strikes. On the tenth strike, the giant door fell with a roar, shattering in splinters and plumes of risen dust. The men walked through the oaken smoke stealthily.