…Communing with the Gods
Penda Ndale was already in town for a grand performance. He had mounted his gears and was fondly putting together his trumpet as he prepared himself for a short rehearsal before his performance which was due in a few hours. It was a Friday. I regretted one thing—the show should’ve been slated on a Sunday, as it would have attracted more people.
The Radio was just starting to announce the show and I was hoping that in the end the information would filter through and the public shall respond.
Leaving the artist indoors, I went to a nearby provision store to buy water. I heard people talking excitedly about the coming spectacle. On my way back to join the artist, I reminded myself to ask him for his business card so as not to loose contact with him. Getting there, I asked. “I have none I am sorry,” he said, “but I can write it for you somewhere.” I shoved him a piece of paper. He jotted down his address and telephone number and returned the note to me. I folded it with great care and shoved it into my breast pocket. “Thanks. Why don’t we go for a walk before your show? There is still plenty of time. Come let’s have a look at the Mount Fako… you will enjoy it, beside, It will inspire you tremendously.” Penda Ndale agreed and joined me for a walk along the streets of Molyko.
Outdoors and after covering a distance of about fifty-metres, an unusual rise in the atmospheric pressure brought our attention to the fact that indeed the temperature had more than doubled. I cast a glance around and realized that people were moving uneasily. From our position along Malingo Street, we could see a crowd that had gathered at the Malingo junction, about one kilometer from where we were standing. Everyone was gazing in the direction of Mount Fako. “V’wako ama tata vwe,” an old-man who was walking beside us remarked. Simultaneously all of us turned to stare at the Mountain—It was there; calm in look, yet boiling within—a tantalizing combination, which we could feel. A thick cluster of amalgamated clouds of different shades, hung on Its roof. The clouds hadn’t gathered there as heralds of rain but to obey Its command. They hung exactly where, somewhere in the 15 Century Portuguese navigators had seen what they explicated as ‘The Chariots of the gods’— flames of volcanic eruption. “Ima V’wako ama tata vwe,” the Old-man kept repeating as he walked along. ‘Who the hell is this!?’ I said to myself. His alarming incantation obliged me to turn around and take a proper look at him; dressed in a black short-sleeve black shirt over a black loin wrapped over his waist and shielding his buttocks and legs, it was his nose that made me to recognize him. Huge, long and curved like the beak of a parrot, no other folk in the village boasted of such features expect one— Mola Ewele. The most metaphysical man I ever met, he once threatened a police officer who was threatening his son by stating, “Just one more menace to my son and I tell you I will point my forefinger at you and your clothes will be set on fire!” The police officer needed no further warning. He left Mola Ewele’s son in peace.
The entire atmosphere was charged and doused in palpable heat and mounting tension. People started looking around apprehensively. Trees and plants stood proudly on their positions, creating the impression that they were immune from the anger of Efasamoto, unlike their human counterparts who were already scampering around like ripples roused by a speeding boat on the surface of placid waters.
Somehow, and I lack the ability to explain why, I realized that I could see through the surface of the Earth. And what I saw made blood flow to reverse its normal course in my system. Sweat trickled down my spine. A sea of volcanic flames covered every inch of space a few metres below the surface of the Earth, stretching from the Foot of Mount Fako, sweeping across Molyko, encompassing Muyuka and Ekona, enveloping Mutengene and Tiko and not sparing Limbe its surrounding creeks either. The surface of the Earth looked normal though. However, all of a sudden the heat skyrocketed, as the temperature on the ground doubled. With this the soles of the feet were subjected to mounting agony. People really started scurrying now. I asked myself what I should take along in the course of fleeing. Penda Ndale was already metres ahead of me in flight. ‘I shall head with him to Douala’ I cajoled myself as I struggled behind in desperation. Then the truth dawned; there would be no time to flee beyond range. I cast a skyward glance, hoping to be greeted by the view of helicopters dispatched by the authorities to rescue the masses. There was none. Vain pleas from a cornered population ripped open the belly of the sky. Deaf ears of the authorities hung scornfully just below the clouds. Efasamoto, from his fortress, through the window of the Mount Fako, watched.
From the feet upward, the heat started mounting the ladder of my body. Penda Ndale was out of sight. I collapsed. By the intercession of an influx of supernal energy, my escaping spirit returned to its borrowed base—the body, and impelled me with just enough staying power to hold onto giant roots. Finally I managed to my feet.
An inner-voice slowly emerged with a distant message; ‘Those who belong here can never escape.’ Yet in the face of the apparent organized-chaos, a cathartic energy resurfaced, lifting my spirit. Inexplicably, a willingness to give in swept over me. I closed my eyes, calmly inviting Death.
Warsaw, Sunday; May 15, 2005
Moleke Mo-Njie
(Simon Mol)
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