Blessing. Florence Ndiyah

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       Blessing

      Florence Ndiyah

      Publisher: Langaa RPCIG Langaa Research & Publishing Common Initiative Group P.O. Box 902 Mankon Bamenda North West Region Cameroon [email protected] www.langaa-rpcig.net

      Distributed in and outside N. America by African Books Collective

      [email protected]

      www.africanbookcollective.com

       ISBN: 9956-717-23-1

      © Florence Ndiyah 2011

      DISCLAIMER

      All views expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of Langaa RPCIG.

       Dedication

      To my late father John Yuh N.

       Appreciation

      My deep gratitude goes to those who supported me financially and morally while I experimented with writing, especially Prof./Mrs. Ngundam. I am equally indebted to those who painstakingly read over the manuscript and offered invaluable advice: Mr. Julius Ngallah, Dr. Brenda Kombo, Ms. Aissatou Ngong. I also remember those who have always encouraged my writing endeavours, particularly Mrs. Fri Bime. Thanks to you all and to all those who contributed in one way or another towards the publication of this novel.

      Contents

PART I

1

2

3

4

5

6

       7

       8

       9

       10

       PART II

       11

       12

       13

       14

       15

       16

       17

       18

       19

       20

       21

       22

       23

       24

       25

       26

       27

       Glossary

PART I

1

      Thieves love the night because it protects them. What protects the night when it decides to steal? What gives it permission to act with such impunity? How could it steal so easily and pass so undetected? How could it mock them so? Why had it decided to make such a fool of them, drowning them in sleep while it operated silently? How could it have so betrayed the trust they had in it? The family wished they could understand just why the night had resolved to stealing so much from them. They wished it could explain why it had decided to sink the wick into the candle wax, condemning it to everlasting darkness. They wanted to know what could have made it decide to transform a few hours of rest for the body into a trip for a soul. Certainly not the slight fever the child had gone to bed with. What could the night have done to her to make her close her eyes to the approaching light of day? What could it have promised her to make her follow it to the place where it goes? The child had gone with the night. She had followed it to the place where it goes. She had accompanied it on the journey, conscious it will return the following evening without her. Like the trail of smoke rising and fading from a blown candle flame, her soul had risen to follow the night.

      The family woke only to realize the child had followed the night to the place where it goes. They could almost see her disappearing with the last traces of night. They thought of giving chase but how could they? Daylight was approaching too fast, concealing the traces of the fading darkness. Standing in the yard, looking over the hills, they watched helplessly as part of them vanished. They knew they could not get back what the night had stolen from them. They yelled. They yelled at the night for being so cruel and heartless. They grieved at the loss of part of them. Scattered about the compound, their eyes cast skyward, arms akimbo, they mourned. The men sighed. The women wailed. Powerless, helpless, they grieved. Soon the neighbours joined in. Soon the whole village was grieving.

      When the village grieved, the village grieved. Not one compound, not one soul was exempted. It was the job of the village crier to make sure the news got to every inhabitant of the village. A wooden baton in hand, he went around the village, beating the two iron cones of a gong, ‘Dong Ding Dong. Dong Ding Dong.’ The domineering sound of the church bells calling Catholic converts to morning Mass only urged him to beat harder and louder. The village crier marched around Mumba quarter beating his gong to the tune of death, the death of a child. ‘Dong Ding Dong. Dong Ding Dong.’ The rhythm of the beating gave out the simple message: ‘Another skull lost forever’.

      The very early risers, already on the way to their farms, dropped their hoes and stared after the bearer of the shocking message. Children did not die. Death was a thing experienced only by the old. It was a privilege, a reward for a long life. Only after a successful life on earth was a person raised to the rank of ancestor. Children just did not die. They lived. A child who died was a child who chose not to live.

      Disbelief followed the village crier as he made the round of the village. His efforts were soon visible in the growing crowd that slowly assembled in the Fopou compound. Many came with questions: why had a child died? Others came with sympathy. The women. The mothers. Some wailed openly. Some cuddled other wailing women.

      Some shook their heads so hard and so often their lightly knotted headscarves dropped to the ground in protest. Some just sat still, staring at the disbelief all around, immobilized by its intensity. The stronger women quickly pushed aside the grief and went from one kitchen to the other, seeing to the cooking arrangements.

      The men hung about in small groups of two, threes and fives, preoccupied with village customs and beliefs about the dead. The head of an ‘ancestrally departed’ was left in the grave only long enough for it to get rid of its flesh, after which it was exhumed, restored to life and handed over