Loki {Part Three}

As his teeth sunk deeper into my flesh and his counterpart proceeded to release me from my skin, I saw her eyes shine golden as the sun. Her hair as wild as its rays. Her movement as swift as the evening winds that passed through our lands every day.

It was she, Loki, the ancestral spirit protector.

Very few had seen her, and even fewer had been in her presence. Loki, some would say, was a myth, while the older children believed it was a meager scare tactic used by the elders but not me.

I believed in her because I saw her once when I went to fetch water. I saw her once reflected behind me from the water which we drink and I knew from that day that she was more than a simple old wives tale.

She leapt and pounced on the Hyenas that threatened to devour me and my family to nothing.

She ripped them apart and her paws dug into their backs and as she finished off the last one I realized that Loki was I.

The Hyenas {Part Two}

I had resigned myself to death.

The earth that was our grave would become our final resting place. The earth where me and my siblings played about with clay and mama would clean the hut and fetch water with her friends would be our final resting place.

But as I closed my eyes ready to leave this plane, I felt it before I saw its face.

It pierced my foot with such intensity the pain woke me up from my slumber.

It gripped tight, much tighter then when mama would grab me to give me a beaten before bed. These were teeth is what I could gather in my incoherent state. Teeth much different from when Adeben, my brother, bite into my flesh that day I beat him swimming across the lake.

This felt like that except I felt evil instead.

I cleaned my eyes the best I could and strained to see the animal that dragged me to my death. From the laughter and snickering I heard from the east and west, I realized it was the hyenas that played along the forbidden path in May.

The Coffin {Part One}

I remember as a child how I would be mesmerized when mama sang to me as I suckled on her breast.

She always had one hand ensuring I balanced on her lap, and the other stirring the pot of porridge which the older children would have. I loved how she always peaked down at me with a smile and laugh and nuzzled my little nose as her voice shook the hut.

But now, as my weight pressed down on her, the lovely smell that once soothed me to sleep was now replaced with the scent of debwalo, that which we call the final release.

A few moons past, the white men came through our path. They had funny hats and talked in a way that made the little ones laugh but one think was for sure to those that were in charge, they looked just like the gwongo (spirits) those who hide along the forbidden path.

The white men shook the huts, went through our lands and demanded the chief give up all that we had and when they were met with defiance from our warriors who took stand, they vowed to come back for what they knew they couldn’t have.

I remember as a child how my papa would pick me up off the ground and spin me around.

He was strong because of how well he worked the lands and he was mighty because how many fights he had under his arm.

My papa was my everything and as his cold hands now lay a few inches away from my broken arm and the soil they pour over our corpses sinks into my wounded gash, I knew paradise was gone and it would no longer return to our lands.