I listen for lions moving through the night, hoping that they be ones that I know. Oh they will find you, they will catch the smell of your koo gone sour, say Jakwu. His voice been gone for so long that I almost miss it. Two slaps and a punch to my chest he get in before I scribble a nsibidi that robs spirits of flight and tongue, for here is truth—I can take his punch or his kick but is his voice that vex me the most. And vexing is all he is doing as we rest on the lone road around the Darklands. In the Uwomowomowo Valley we met as eight, head out as six, and now as we take rest from riding around the Darklands, we down to two. This is what the slaver say, that there are two ways to get to Kongor. Head west till you reach the White Lake. From there you can go around it, which will add two days to your journey, or cross, which will take a day, for the lake is narrow. When you get to the mystic forest you can go around, or through. But think good on it before you ride through the Darklands.
Let us make this quick. Two of us now left riding around the mystic forest, and one of us not among who set out from Uwomowomowo. Two nights ago, darkness catch us on the valley trail on the way to the White Lake. I say we should continue, but the Tracker say we should rest, and his words infect the group. So rest is what we do, what we try to do, but then this Wolf Eye man ask the giant some question, which give him a warrant to chat most of the night. Two time he wake the manservant, who shout about how much he prize the precious gift of sleep. The Leopard climb up the same tree we tie the horses, change form, and start snoring quick. The Tracker set himself down beside the Ogo, who wouldn’t stop talking until he doze off and even in that he still mumble to himself until he drift off into a dream where still he mumble.
The Tracker take off for a thicket of trees we pass on the way. Not long after that the Leopard’s archer, whose name I don’t know, follow, so I of course follow him, for if I not going to get sleep, I at least going to get knowledge. The trees dot the land in clumps all over, like groups of gossiping men who have no business with the other group. But I get close enough to hear the archer spitting two times into his hand, and doing something with the Tracker’s ass as he bend over in front. The archer’s breeches drop, as he slap slap slap his cock awake then push himself straight into this Wolf Eye, who yelp into his own hand. There they go, two shadows slam and bounce, the slap slap slap of skin on skin, both trying to fuck wild yet quiet.
Because you scare them off with you secret loving, I say to myself when the archer wonder out loud where all the beasts gone. But he was not wrong, for the tall tree plains leading up to the Darklands is much loved by giraffe, zebra, and dik-dik, much packed with wildebeest, much noisy with monkeys and I was yet to see any. Nor a hog, or okapi, or any prey, or any cat after prey, or even a bird.
Consider another route, I say to the group, but the Tracker push ahead, then his new mate the Ogo follow, and so do everybody else. He is the one with the nose, but I am the one who smell it first, firewood, ash, popping fat and burning hair, which drop on us a ruthless stink. The trees are wilder here, the bush taller, and hiding the source of the smell until we stumble right upon it. Open flame flaring with each drip of fat. A whole leg cooking on a spit, a leg from a boy hanging from a tree, his right arm, his last limb remaining, tied up. Hanging beside him, a girl untouched and unspoiled. The Tracker chop the rope and free her, which should cause her to give thanks, but instead she scream. Three of them, not far from the fire, jump up.
“Zogbanu!” the manservant say.
Swamp trolls. Nobody have time to ask what they doing on the plains by a clean river, so far from the nearest swamp. Sadogo swat the first into a tree. The Leopard jump the second while the manservant thrust a sword into his neck. I grab one of their spears and hurl at the second troll’s back, and he run until he fall. We don’t have time to look, but look we do, at the white skin, the tusks popping all over his head, lining his brow, poking out of his mouth. Little skulls around his waist. We hear a shout like a war cry and grab horses to take off, but they chase after us, twenty, thirty in number, running near as fast as the horses can gallop. The girl is screaming that she is the glorious offering to the Zogbanu and fighting me off, so the Ogo throw her over his shoulder and run. From all around us come a rumble in the bush and it closing in. My horse is ahead and so is the manservant, until a Zogbanu jump from a tree and knock him off. The Tracker yell Bibi! but keep riding.
To the river we come and in the water is an island I know, a mound of sand, dirt, and trees. The Leopard with the archer at his back ride past me. I shout for him to make for the landing and take the island. We making distance between us and the trolls when first come a zip zip zip and then a shower of daggers, arrows, spears, and rocks. Something burst my left shoulder and the burn follow me all the way to the river. Nothing to do but slash, chop, and ride. Slash, chop, and ride. The Tracker ride past me and I see it again, daggers, small spears, anything iron or iron-tipped skip, dodge, or stop short of him. Some bounce off a barrier not there. The Ogo hop onto the island and it sink a little before rising to meet the Leopard’s horse. The island—Chipfalambula—push away with us right before the whole tribe of Zogbanu throng the shore. On the island waiting for us, Bunshi.
Is not until the next evening that we reach the shore that leads to Darklands. Bunshi come ashore, a surprise to me. There is no time lose, the only thing on which we agree. I can feel the voices coming for me, more than just Jakwu, and know it is because they smell the enchantment in the forest. The only way is around, I say.
“The only way is around,” mock the Tracker in an old witch voice. “The only person you speaking for is you,” he add. Then he ask the girl what she think and laugh when she say that she is the glorious offering to the Zogbanu. He is taking the route right through because he had no time for delay, nor cowardice. I almost call on the wind (not wind) to grab and fling him up a tree. So he turn to go and the archer turn to follow. Only the Leopard call this out as possible madness.
“This is a place of bad enchantments. You won’t be able to trust anyone, not even yourself,” the Leopard say.
“Who feed you that foolishness, mama or papa cat? Around the lands is three days. A man with sense would make the choice. A flighty woman? Who’s to say,” say the Tracker.
No woman ever take a cock the way you take it two nights ago, I don’t say.
“Pick your choice, but we go round,” I say.
“Make sense to me. Come, Fumeli,” say the Leopard.
“Come where? What me wasting precious days for?” the archer say.
The Leopard confused. He don’t see the smile on the Tracker’s face, but I see it, and he see me seeing it.
“Won’t be waiting for you in Kongor,” the Tracker say and ride off. The archer run after him. Then the Ogo.
“Sadogo, why?” the Leopard ask, but he only grunt and follow.
The girl is holding on to me now that she is on a horse and frightened. Evening was going to outrun us, but the Leopard is still watching where the Darklands swallow them up.
“You ever travel through the Darklands?” I ask.
“A small patch to get to lower Ubangta.”
“And?”
“And even then I barely make it out.”
“What about the Tracker?”
“His nose travel to more places than his self.”
“Not just his nose.”
“What?”
“They won’t reach the other side. You already know that.”
“Each is a grown man.”
“That a word for me, or you?”
I ride off. He don’t follow. Bunshi gone too.
* * *