Wild Born
Page 4
Time was short. Ignoring the stares of her neighbors, Abeke hurried to her home. Like most of the other dwellings in her village, her rondavel had a round base, with stone walls and a conical thatched roof. When she burst inside, she found Soama waiting, looking gorgeous in an orange wrap and a beaded scarf. Abeke was not bad-looking herself, but had long ago lost the contest of beauty to her sister. In any case, she favored more practical clothing, and braids that could be tied back.
“Abeke!” Soama said. “Where have you been? Does Father know you’re back?”
“I went hunting,” Abeke explained proudly, the antelope still resting on her shoulders. “Alone.”
“You went outside? Past the gate?”
“Where else would I get an antelope?”
Soama put a brown hand over her eyes. “Abeke, why must you be so strange? You vanished. Father was worried! You’re late for your bonding ritual.”
“It’ll be all right,” Abeke assured her sister. “I’ll hurry. I’m not as fussy as you. Nobody will complain once they see my fine kill.”
Behind Abeke, the door opened. She turned and looked up at her father, a tall man, lean and muscular, with a shaved head. His eyes were not friendly. “Abeke! Chinwe told me you had returned. I was preparing a group to go search for you.”
“I wanted to offer a fine nameday gift,” Abeke explained. “I brought home this antelope.”
Breathing heavily, her father closed his eyes. He could barely keep control of his tone. “Abeke. Today is important. You are late. You are covered in dust and blood. Your disappearance has put the village in an uproar. Have you no sense? Have you no dignity?”
Abeke withered inside, her pride dissolving, her happiness spoiling. For a moment she could find no reply. Tears threatened to fall. “But . . . I came to no harm. You know how well I hunt. This was a surprise.”
Her father shook his head. “This was selfishness. Wrongheadedness. You cannot offer the antelope as your nameday gift! It is evidence of your misbehavior. What would it say about you? About us? What lesson will it teach other children? You will offer the jar you made.”
“But the jar is ugly!” Abeke said desperately. “An ape could make a better one. I have no talent there.”
“You make no effort there,” her father said. “Returning alive with a kill shows skill, but it also shows poor judgment. We will discuss a punishment later. Make yourself ready. I will go tell the others that we will have your bonding ritual after all. Let Soama help you. If you would look to her example, you would disgrace us less.”
Abeke felt desolate. “Yes, Father.”
After her father left, Abeke unslung the antelope from her shoulders and set it down. Now that she was paying attention, she saw that her father was right — she was covered in dust and blood. She stared flatly at her fine kill. It had become a trophy of shame.
Abeke could barely restrain her tears. Today was supposed to be her day! Her one day. Everything was always about Soama. How thoughtful she was. How lovely. How talented. Today Abeke would drink the Nectar of Ninani. Would she call a spirit animal? Probably not. But today she became a woman. A true citizen of the village. And she had wanted to contribute a special gift.
Abeke wished for her mother. Her mother had understood her better than anyone. But her mother had never been strong, and had been taken by sickness.
Finally surrendering, Abeke started to weep.
“No time for that,” Soama ordered. “You’re late, and you look bad enough already.”
Gritting her teeth, Abeke fought her emotions. Did she want her sister to see her cry? “What should I do?”
Soama crossed to her and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “On second thought, maybe you should cry. We don’t have enough water to wash you.”
“I’m done crying.”
“Let’s get you clean.”
Abeke became as passive as a doll. She didn’t complain about the scratchy brushes or the barely damp cloth. She didn’t offer any opinions about her outfit or her accessories. Abeke let Soama arrange everything, and tried not to look at her antelope.
When Abeke emerged, she found the whole village waiting. After all, today was her day. Starting at her door, everyone stood in two long lines forming a pathway. Abeke had looked forward to this. It had been fun to do it for others.
Her father stared at her sternly — as did most of the other men. Some of the women observed her with disgust, others with pity. A few of her younger acquaintances snickered.
Abeke walked between the people of her village, keenly aware of how she had disappointed them. She wished she could run away and get eaten by a lion.
Instead, she clutched the awful jug at her side, held her head high, and kept walking. The wind had risen, blowing dust. A cloud muted the sun. Abeke did not smile. She kept her expression neutral.
Abeke followed the winding path of people. After she passed, the lines behind her collapsed as everyone followed her to her destination.
Up ahead, Abeke spotted Chinwe. Standing beyond the end of the path, she wore the green cloak only brought out for bonding rituals, draped casually over one shoulder. The tattoo of her wildebeest was visible on her thin, bare leg.
As Abeke approached, Chinwe started chanting. The villagers echoed each phrase using the old tribal language. Abeke didn’t know what most of the words meant, and neither did the others, but it was tradition.
When Abeke reached Chinwe, she knelt, feeling the gritty dirt beneath her bare knees. Still chanting, Chinwe dipped a small bowl into a large vessel and gazed down at Abeke. She didn’t look angry or disapproving. She looked the same as she did during any bonding ritual — relaxed, and maybe a little bored.
Chinwe offered the bowl and Abeke accepted it. There was only a little fluid at the bottom, colorless like water, but thicker. She drank it. The Nectar tasted like unheated soup, the kind her mother used to make with crushed nuts. It was sweeter, but otherwise strikingly similar. The taste brought tears to Abeke’s eyes.
Handing the bowl back, Abeke looked up at Chinwe curiously. Had that really been the Nectar? Or had Chinwe replaced the Nectar with root-and-nut soup? Chinwe took the bowl from Abeke and kept chanting.
Abeke felt unsteady, sort of dizzy and charged. Did everyone have this reaction? Her senses reached wide. She caught the vivid smell of rain on the wind. She could single out each individual chanting voice, and could tell who was off pitch. She could even hear her father and her sister.
“Abeke!” Soama said. “Where have you been? Does Father know you’re back?”
“I went hunting,” Abeke explained proudly, the antelope still resting on her shoulders. “Alone.”
“You went outside? Past the gate?”
“Where else would I get an antelope?”
Soama put a brown hand over her eyes. “Abeke, why must you be so strange? You vanished. Father was worried! You’re late for your bonding ritual.”
“It’ll be all right,” Abeke assured her sister. “I’ll hurry. I’m not as fussy as you. Nobody will complain once they see my fine kill.”
Behind Abeke, the door opened. She turned and looked up at her father, a tall man, lean and muscular, with a shaved head. His eyes were not friendly. “Abeke! Chinwe told me you had returned. I was preparing a group to go search for you.”
“I wanted to offer a fine nameday gift,” Abeke explained. “I brought home this antelope.”
Breathing heavily, her father closed his eyes. He could barely keep control of his tone. “Abeke. Today is important. You are late. You are covered in dust and blood. Your disappearance has put the village in an uproar. Have you no sense? Have you no dignity?”
Abeke withered inside, her pride dissolving, her happiness spoiling. For a moment she could find no reply. Tears threatened to fall. “But . . . I came to no harm. You know how well I hunt. This was a surprise.”
Her father shook his head. “This was selfishness. Wrongheadedness. You cannot offer the antelope as your nameday gift! It is evidence of your misbehavior. What would it say about you? About us? What lesson will it teach other children? You will offer the jar you made.”
“But the jar is ugly!” Abeke said desperately. “An ape could make a better one. I have no talent there.”
“You make no effort there,” her father said. “Returning alive with a kill shows skill, but it also shows poor judgment. We will discuss a punishment later. Make yourself ready. I will go tell the others that we will have your bonding ritual after all. Let Soama help you. If you would look to her example, you would disgrace us less.”
Abeke felt desolate. “Yes, Father.”
After her father left, Abeke unslung the antelope from her shoulders and set it down. Now that she was paying attention, she saw that her father was right — she was covered in dust and blood. She stared flatly at her fine kill. It had become a trophy of shame.
Abeke could barely restrain her tears. Today was supposed to be her day! Her one day. Everything was always about Soama. How thoughtful she was. How lovely. How talented. Today Abeke would drink the Nectar of Ninani. Would she call a spirit animal? Probably not. But today she became a woman. A true citizen of the village. And she had wanted to contribute a special gift.
Abeke wished for her mother. Her mother had understood her better than anyone. But her mother had never been strong, and had been taken by sickness.
Finally surrendering, Abeke started to weep.
“No time for that,” Soama ordered. “You’re late, and you look bad enough already.”
Gritting her teeth, Abeke fought her emotions. Did she want her sister to see her cry? “What should I do?”
Soama crossed to her and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “On second thought, maybe you should cry. We don’t have enough water to wash you.”
“I’m done crying.”
“Let’s get you clean.”
Abeke became as passive as a doll. She didn’t complain about the scratchy brushes or the barely damp cloth. She didn’t offer any opinions about her outfit or her accessories. Abeke let Soama arrange everything, and tried not to look at her antelope.
When Abeke emerged, she found the whole village waiting. After all, today was her day. Starting at her door, everyone stood in two long lines forming a pathway. Abeke had looked forward to this. It had been fun to do it for others.
Her father stared at her sternly — as did most of the other men. Some of the women observed her with disgust, others with pity. A few of her younger acquaintances snickered.
Abeke walked between the people of her village, keenly aware of how she had disappointed them. She wished she could run away and get eaten by a lion.
Instead, she clutched the awful jug at her side, held her head high, and kept walking. The wind had risen, blowing dust. A cloud muted the sun. Abeke did not smile. She kept her expression neutral.
Abeke followed the winding path of people. After she passed, the lines behind her collapsed as everyone followed her to her destination.
Up ahead, Abeke spotted Chinwe. Standing beyond the end of the path, she wore the green cloak only brought out for bonding rituals, draped casually over one shoulder. The tattoo of her wildebeest was visible on her thin, bare leg.
As Abeke approached, Chinwe started chanting. The villagers echoed each phrase using the old tribal language. Abeke didn’t know what most of the words meant, and neither did the others, but it was tradition.
When Abeke reached Chinwe, she knelt, feeling the gritty dirt beneath her bare knees. Still chanting, Chinwe dipped a small bowl into a large vessel and gazed down at Abeke. She didn’t look angry or disapproving. She looked the same as she did during any bonding ritual — relaxed, and maybe a little bored.
Chinwe offered the bowl and Abeke accepted it. There was only a little fluid at the bottom, colorless like water, but thicker. She drank it. The Nectar tasted like unheated soup, the kind her mother used to make with crushed nuts. It was sweeter, but otherwise strikingly similar. The taste brought tears to Abeke’s eyes.
Handing the bowl back, Abeke looked up at Chinwe curiously. Had that really been the Nectar? Or had Chinwe replaced the Nectar with root-and-nut soup? Chinwe took the bowl from Abeke and kept chanting.
Abeke felt unsteady, sort of dizzy and charged. Did everyone have this reaction? Her senses reached wide. She caught the vivid smell of rain on the wind. She could single out each individual chanting voice, and could tell who was off pitch. She could even hear her father and her sister.
