The serenity of the environment is beyond query. There are trees everywhere. Birds can be heard chirping away. It is rural splendour at its best.
The big building, which houses the Writers’ Haven, is quaint. Its red brick walls glitter under the sunny day. Many, who have been there, mostly writers who need to escape the madness of the city to have quiet moments with the muse, have described it as ‘paradise in the forest’.
A writer-in-residence, Solomon Uhakheme, has made this paradise his home in the last two weeks. He is there to commune with the gods of writing. He has vowed not to leave until he is through with the manuscript of his debut novel which he has been working on for the past three years.
At the moment, Solomon buries his head in a collection of short stories. The story he is reading is about a once great empire known as Igodomigodo. It was a pre-colonial empire whose capital was known as Ode. It was perhaps the oldest and most highly developed state in the coastal hinterland of what is now known as West Africa. The British Empire’s invasion, which came to a head in 1897, ensured things fell apart.
In those days, its rulers were addressed as Osigo, whose rough translation means ‘sky king’. The kings wielded so much influence that they were seen as not human. In a single day, the Osigo can make a million men ready for war. He was first among equals.
The description of the Osigo’s square fascinated Solomon.
“It is as large as a town and is surrounded by a special wall similar to the one which encircles the town. It is divided into many magnificent palaces, homes and apartments. It comprises beautiful and long square galleries resting on wooden pillars,” the writer observed.
Solomon was close to tears when he got to the aspect where the ‘sky king’ was rendered impotent by the colonial masters. Though the kingdom continued in a way, that era was gone for good.
On concluding this aspect, Solomon loses interest in the story and abandons it. Somehow he becomes disturbed. He leaves the living room for the balcony and gazes into the horizon. His thoughts are blank. Nothing is really taking shape. He wonders how something so great can become easily eroded.
His phone soon rings. He checks the caller identity. It is Ikponwosa, his friend calling from Ibinu. They have not seen or spoken for some time now. His first instinct is to answer it at once. But he queries his readiness to engage in meaningful conversation at the moment.
The phone rings out and Ikponwosa calls back. Still he ignores it, but Ikponwosa calls back the third time.
“Something must be bothering him,” Solomon concludes and picks the call.
“Hello Solo,” Ikponwosa says.
“Long time,” Solomon replies.
“I have been trying your number in the last one week and could not get through to you…”
Solomon cuts in to explain that he has been away in the Writers’ Haven and that he only has network when he is in his room, but the network disappears when he is in the Muse Chamber, where he works on his manuscript.
“We are leaving in fear in Ibinu now,” he says.
“Why?” asks Solomon.
“It is feared that the Oba has gone into the penthouse…”
Solomon laughs at the metaphor. He understands the culture of the Ibinu people. Even in the 21st century, no one dare say the King of Kings is dead. He never dies. He either enters the ceiling or goes into the penthouse.
“There are fears that the rituals will soon begin and like you know, goats are not used for this sort of sacrifice.”
Solomon cannot but think at this moment. Is it really true that the Oba must be accompanied on the last sojourn by men whose time has not come? Must blood be shed for the sojourn to be worth the while? He has no answer to these questions. But, those are the beliefs out there.
“Many non-indigenes who teach in our school have run out of town. Thank God the schools are on holidays. I actually called you thinking I could escape to your house too, even though I should not really be afraid since I am an indigene…”
Solomon cuts in: “Are these fears really justifiable?”
“It is better to be pre-emptive that wait for evil to come first. Ours is a society shielded in so many myths and secrecy. For instance, our King of Kings is regarded as God’s representatives on earth. He is even the leader of a church which is located at the spot where our people had direct contact with God long before the coming of the European explorers and missionaries.
“A folklore I read somewhere said a powerful spiritual leader offered to take the peoples’ plea to God as a result of drought and pestilence in the land. He gave up his life during one of the prayer sessions. He was expected to return and bring succour to the people. While waiting for him, the people continued their prayers but rather than his return, they got a huge fireball that descended from the sky. At the point where the ball of fire dropped, a huge black stone was found and a place of worship was built there. It was destroyed when the invaders came in 1897. But, it was rebuilt by the father of King of Kings, who is now believed to have gone to the penthouse.
“Service at the church is conducted in our language. Baptism of new converts is done with the white chalk. The sayings of the ancient belief written by the wise men are used to teach the people.”
Solomon bursts out laughing as Ikponwosa concludes his folklore about the mightiness of the King of Kings.
“Is there an official confirmation of the king joining his ancestors?”
“No,” answers Ikponwosa, “It is never done that way. Certain things must be done before such an announcement is made. The only thing we have been told is that he will not engage in any public engagement for the time being. Such public engagements include courtesy visits, hearing of complaints from individuals, families and communities, and in particular, complaints over inheritance and land disputes, are therefore suspended until further notice. So, they are denying that the Oba was in dialogue with his ancestors.
”It has been more than four months now since we are told that. The Oba has neither been seen nor heard in public and we dare not speculate about the Oba. We the people of Ibinu have held religiously to our tradition. Our king’s passing is made public only when we want to. Modernity has tried to affect it, but still you can’t compare it to what happens in other places. We all just have to wait for the chiefs to tell us when they are ready. For now, we can only talk in silence. Our Oba is like no other. There lies our dilemma and the fear pervading our land over what may be done or not if indeed our Oba has truly gone to the penthouse.”
There is a brief silence between the two of them. Solomon soon breaks it.
“I will just advise that you should be careful.”
“Thanks,” Ikponwosa says, “I’ll keep in touch.”
Solomon returns to the bedroom, jumps on the bed and sleep soon comes visiting. Within minutes, he is woken up by a nightmare.
All he can remember is a voice screaming: “The leopard is ill in the savannah bush. The leopard is ill in the savannah bush. The leopard is ill in the savannah bush.”
There is sweat all over him and he keeps wondering: “What is the meaning of the leopard is ill in the savannah bush?”
He knows his time is up in the Writers’ Haven? He will be back to complete his novel. For now, he needs to seek answer to this question: What is the meaning of the leopard is ill in the savannah bush?
And to Lagos, he returns.
- To be continued next week