by Ebunoluwa Tengbe
“Konsiloh,” Abu whispered. He lowered his voice not because he was worried he would wake his parents but he could not dare say the name out loud. He and his siblings were seated a few meters away from the makeshift bedroom where their parents slept and that at dawn, would be rearranged to be the living room in the single room occupancy they called home.
The iron sheets which formed the walls of their home gobbled up the sun rays during the day and somehow never managed to excrete it by nighttime. This was partly the reason why the siblings now perspired as they listened to Abu’s story. They were also afraid; even though they had heard this story many times before. It was an old favorite that Abu told very well. It changed a little bit every time he told it. They knew each time he would forget some twists from previous versions and then add some new ones, but they didn’t mind at all. It was just a story. Well, most of it. And it was the parts that weren’t fictional that scared them most. Those parts never changed. Those parts were about Konsiloh.
Konsiloh’s parts came in the middle, usually after some tragic incident, a suspicious death, or some strange event had occurred.
Abu always started by describing Konsiloh’s clothes. The faded rust-coloured rapel he wore was sparsely marked with short white lines and visibly dark brown stains. Abu said he wasn’t sure, but it was rumoured that they were old blood stains that could never wash out, even if he tried, even though it was doubted that he did. He wore no sleeves and the marks that littered his body could easily be seen. They weren’t the scars of an accident-prone youth. They were careful incisions made during sacred and fearsome rituals that fueled his prowess. Around his neck and on his arms, wrists, and ankles were multiple strands of raffia threads, wound together, dipped in concoctions brewed from powerful and mystical herbs picked from the deepest parts of the bush.
His face was last. Abu described him as a man who kept a full beard, a sharp contrast to his bald head. His lips, like other men in the region, were dark and full, as was his nose which spread generously across his face. He could even have been described as handsome, if not for those eyes. Framed by bushy brows, his dark pupils pierced through a sea of redness and not from drinking poyo. His sling bag was never missing from his side and neither was his dog. The mongrel had a uniform jet-black fur that shone in the moonlight to match his master’s skin. No one knew the dog’s name; it really didn’t matter for what use would it have? Even his master’s, which was known, was rarely said out loud.
Konsiloh was a purist. Firm in his belief and incorruptible in his practice. This ensured no compromise to the potency of his power. His potions were guaranteed to work and his curses, irreversible.
“Konsiloh,” Abu repeated. “Stop!” Amie, the youngest, pleaded, fearful that the utterance of the name would somehow invoke the presence of the bearer. Satisfied with the reaction of his audience, Abu continued his story.
It was a tale of an old man, one Pa in a village deep upcountry. His wife had died during the birth of his only son some forty-something years ago. He never remarried or had more children, even after his son left for Freetown to attend university and then work. He did not farm or tap palm wine like most of the other villagers. He lived on bush meat — mostly grass cutter or guinea pigs, for which he set traps in the thinning forest nearby. He was the only one left in the village now. The others had all moved.
Months before, some foreign men had come together with few local authorities. They came with the news that a precious mineral had been discovered in the region and that these men with their strange tongues were going to extract it from beneath the ground with their big machines. There would be new jobs for the young men in the village, revenue for the government, and all kinds of wonderful things. However, the iron ore was underneath the village, and every household would have to move as soon as possible for the machines to begin their work.
The people were excited by the prospect of mining activities in their village. The officials appeared calculating but quite pleased with themselves, addressing the crowd as if it was election season. They made promises to bring large trucks in the next couple of days during which time the village chief and his elders were to impress their thumbprints on bulky printed sheets accepting the proposal.
When the entourage finally left, the air was filled with enthusiasm and the Pa’s indignation fell like a stray pellet in a nicely steamed pot of wallah rice.
In the following days, there were more frequent visits, construction of temporary blocks, and of course, the arrival of the eagerly anticipated machines. A meeting was summoned and the Pa, being a member of the secret society, was invited to attend. The foreigners had come with very thin envelopes that they called ‘relocation allowances’ for the resettlement of the soon-to-be displaced villagers and ‘monetary crop compensation’ for their farms. They also had thicker brown envelopes for the local authorities as appreciation gestures.
The Pa did not like it at all. It felt rushed, wrong and he made it known. He thanked the dignitaries, said his piece, turned down the envelope, and swore to his ancestors that he would never move.
The air was tense as he left and soon the meeting concluded. The insistence of the Pa stifled further negotiations. An ultimatum was given for the deal to be concluded within seven days or all the envelopes would be taken away.
Meanwhile, households were packing up and moving to stay with relatives in nearby villages or settling in a new area. The youth excitedly exchanged stories and tips of skilled employment. But underneath all this was bubbling anger towards the Pa. He was greeted each morning by a deposit of feces at his doorstep, met with nasty glances, and was the subject of multiple curses and threats. The leaders came to him offering more compensation, but his silent disobedience never wavered.
On the seventh day, the Pa remained defiant.
He had to go.
As the sun set and darkness covered the deserted village, shadows crept into the Pa’s hut. It came too quickly for the Pa to call out. The heavy blows met his skull and sunk his lifeless body to the ground.
“Aaaaaaah!” Abu’s siblings chorused. It was over. Tomorrow, life will continue for the rest of the villagers. Or so they thought.
The crows of cocks in the new settlement could barely be heard as the rumble of the machines masked the air with not only constant drilling, banging, and humming sounds but with repulsive dust and soot particles. Meanwhile, by the afternoon, the young men who had left before dawn to start their first day of work returned with unpleasant expressions and dashed expectations. They found that recruitment was not automatic. They would have to endure rigorous health checks, education appraisals, and even skill training in instances where the company had no alternative. Till then, workers from other areas where the company had operated will operate the machines. Maybe few would be hired to do menial work for meager pay.
The dramatics of the day were climaxed by the arrival of Santigie or rather Santos as he now preferred to be called, the Pa's son. Santos announced that he had come to take his father with him since the Pa had expressed unease about the move. Although they offered to take him through the makeshift path that led to the old village, they were less generous with giving him an explanation about the Pa’s whereabouts. Met with unanswered questions, heavy sighs, and the sight of the rubble where the hut once stood, Santos began to breathe heavily, his expression of confusion morphed into something darker. Not mere rage, but rather a haunted look of a man passed the point of no return.
Although he had moved away, Santos still held on to his traditions and as he stomped off that night, he placed his index finger on the ground, touched his tongue, and pointed to the sky, swearing to avenge his father.
And that was when he came. Without warning, Konsiloh appeared the following morning with his loyal companion by his side. His ritual did not require engagement with the people. He conferred with the dead. He walked around the settlement, grasping his beads and muttering under his breath. Ignoring the fearful stares of women and men, young and old, he made his way to the center of town where he knelt down, collected some soil, and left.
A heavy silence descended all around and panic quickly spread. The younger children, in their innocence, were bursting with questions; Kosiloh until that day was the object of threats by their parents. The older folks clustered in small groups, which started in whispers but erupted in angry arguments and accusations of whose fault it was. The elders wore grim expressions, exchanging glances but remaining silent.
Abu paused here, feeling the tension rising in the room, he itched to finish the story, but he knew he had to let it unfold in a crescendo. He stood up, took off his shirt, and used it to fan himself in a twirling motion. “Eeee Abu!” Iye, who was only a year younger than Abu exclaimed, tugging on his shorts. Satisfied with this response, he continued.
Konsiloh returned the following day, but the elders told him that he was not allowed to continue his rituals. Konsiloh assured them that only the guilty would be punished. They insisted, offering him double payment for him to turn a blind eye. At this, Konsiloh became angry and refused their offer. In response, he reached into his bag, took out a small sharp knife, and slit the throat of the spotless white chicken he held in his right hand. He spat on the ground, shook the dust off his sandals, and left.
Then it began. For six weeks, every Sunday evening, in a household, the youngest child fell ill. He or she would start with a high fever followed by an outbreak of stinking putrid sores. Regardless of what treatment regimen was dispensed, the child would die three days later. After burying the sixth child, the community came together and decided to consult Konsiloh. They returned with heaviness. Konsiloh had perceived their offer of a bribe as great disrespect. Having been prevented from investigating and punishing the guilty, everyone will have to pay.
So, one after the other, children in the village died until every household was immersed in grief. Even worse was the guilt that each villager felt that they may have been somewhat responsible for the chain of events leading up to Konsiloh’s curse.
In these weeks, only a handful of men were employed by the company, with the majority discarded for fitness ineptitude or some other reason, and none drove tractors or trucks or anything at all. The bush surrounding the new settlement was difficult to till and bore low yields. The brown paper envelopes thinned and quickly emptied.
Soon the young, able-bodied ones left for the city. There was no reason to stay. While the mining continued, the air got thicker with toxic emissions making the few that stayed behind sicker as time passed. Health complaints predominantly of loss of sight and impotence were rampant in the community. Complaints to the district council and other big men fell on deaf ears and soon the new settlement was no more.
“Aye bo” Iye gasped, cuddling a tearful Amie, saddened by the tragic end.
Ebunoluwa was born to be a teacher. She makes time to enjoy writing and telling stories, through poems, pieces and short stories. As an incurable optimist, she uses writing as a means to create spaces in time for the things she so deeply feels and believes. You can follow her work on Instagram: @ebunoluwa_finda and Twitter: @EbunOluwaFinda