After many hours of trekking, Temkeu finally sat opposite Samboa, the diviner in Nchusa village. ‘The last person to bring dust into my shrine yesterday was your son. You are the first to wake up the dust today. What would we do without sons to announce us?’ Samboa said.
‘Yes, our sons are our feet when we are young and our walking sticks when we grow old.’ Temkeu answered and then cleared his throat. ‘So tell me, eye of the gods, what have your powerful eyes seen about Saha Tpune, that man to whom my Fatti was sent? I have carried these past two years with much anguish. You are the eye of the gods, and you should know that I had visited Tchafo on this same issue. I invited patience into my bed, just as Tchafo had told me to do, but patience got tired and it has now run away. I know that this matter has already been buried in the minds of many in my compound and beyond, but not so for me… not so for me.’ He paused for a while. ‘Look at my forehead. The furrows are now as many as those on my wives’ farms. I am the head of a large family. I get up every morning and go to work. I do not sleep until I know that my family is sleeping – yes, our fathers did not teach us to sit and wait. That is why I am here. I am sure that you will see something which remained hidden to Tchafo. I am sure that the gods are going to use you to bring peace back into my life.’
The sound of cowries being ruffled on Samboa’s palms was subtle compared with human voices. Silence soon took over as Samboa concentrated on reading the message of the cowries he had thrown on the floor. Temkeu watched and waited.
‘I see a young man,’ Samboa said abruptly. His eyes were now fixed inside one of his many clay pots. ‘You said that you knew Saha Tpune when he was a child?’
‘When I was a child, Saha Tpune was already an adult. He was one of my father’s friends.’
‘I see a young man,’ Samboa repeated and then cried out, ‘Ah, what is happening? The image is disappearing!’ After many attempts at wiping his eyes and returning them to the pot, he looked up at Temkeu, shaking his head. ‘It just disappeared in front of my eyes. I do not know what happened, but all I can tell you is that it disappeared.’
‘But look again. I am sure you will see something. Send your eyes right inside the pot and look again.’
‘I have told you that it has already gone. It has disappeared!’
Temkeu had not moved from the spot where he sat. He folded his arm over his chest, sighed and looked at the ground. He lifted his head and toyed with his chin. He got up and edged towards Samboa’s clay pot. ‘Let me help you to look. I am sure I will see something. Since this matter concerns me, I am sure the gods will use my eyes where yours have failed.’
‘Sit down, Temkeu. I know that you worry about your child,’ Samboa said with concern. ‘What I can tell you is that I think you need to wait. What has just happened is a sign that the gods want you to wait. Come back when some time has passed, and I will try again to see if the gods can reveal more to me.’
‘You mean that I should go back as empty as I came?’
‘The gods sent man to earth with a cock in his hand and a hoe on his shoulder. “Eat the fowl when you are hungry. Spill its blood as tears to us when one of you dies. Live with it in your compound, for it will help you not to forget your cutlass or harmer.” Just go back to your compound, listen to your cock, and make use of your harmer. Do your part and the gods will do their own.’
Temkeu arrived at his compound to find his son Achum, who had been home for a three-day visit, preparing to take off. ‘Papa, I was just waiting for you. Do not tell me that you still put on that old watch which surely no longer works. I will bring you another one next time.’
‘Come, my son, let us go inside.’
Inside his hut, Temkeu took a gourd and half-filled it with water. He stood above his skulls, uttered some words, sipped from the gourd and then handed it to Achum: ‘Drink, my child. May our ancestor go with you and watch over you.’
Achum accepted the gourd with both hands, drank and handed it back to his father. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
Staring blankly at the mud wall, Temkeu said, ‘I have had no news of Makam since he went to Nigeria to add the amount of knowledge in his head. Have you heard from him? You know that you are the only one who gives us news about Makam.’
‘Since he left I too have not heard from him. I sent him a letter through the post and I am waiting for his reply. I will inform you as soon as I have any information.’
Once Achum walked through the door, Temkeu returned to his skulls, this time with a question: ‘Why has Fatti’s life become a riddle which no one can solve?’
When Achum finally left for Douala, thirty minutes later, more of Temkeu’s peace of mind left with him. He ignored his hammer and his chisel and locked himself in his compound for three days – the duration of Achum’s short visit but a very long time for one with Temkeu’s will and principles.
Saturday arrived, a special Saturday since it was a Country Sunday, the day set aside for the gods to bless the land for a good harvest. Farm work was consequently forbidden on such a day. Anyone caught farming paid a heavy fine. Again, popular myth held that injury sustained on the farm on a Country Sunday never healed. Rest from the farm gave the villagers time to trade and relax. The Country Sunday was also the weekly market day, one which rotated on a weekly basis.
The arrival of the Country Sunday was what succeeded in returning to Temkeu some of his former zeal for life. Given that it was a Saturday, some of his children had accompanied their mothers to sell their produce while others had gone out to play. The elderly men of Mumba quarter could be found only in one place: under the palm tree in the village square. Even with his eyes, closed Temkeu could trace the track from his compound to The People’s Club, as Pouafo Fatamba, one of the club members, had named it. The planks that had been nailed around the four corners of the palm tree, as makeshift seats, would have been hard even for someone with surplus hips; however, they served their purpose. So did the female trader’s maimed table chair which had prostheses of two earth bricks in place of its missing legs. Apart from being a drinking spot where men chatted over corn beer and palm wine, the site had also gained a reputation for hosting championships of backgammon or mejang as it was known locally. Some with freshly tapped palm wine, others preferring that with increased alcoholic content because of overnight fermentation, the spectators often sipped as they watched the two contestants.
Temkeu sat down, commanded a bottle of corn beer and joined in the discussion. When someone mentioned kola nuts, he picked up his raffia bag and started rummaging inside: a chisel, a hammer, a measuring tape, a black twine cap, snuff tied in dry tobacco leaves and some kola nuts. Releasing the five nuts from the nylon wrapping, he handed them to Pauofo Fatamba, who said some prayers for protection and in turn handed them to another club member, who segmented them and walked around from member to member, his palms serving as a plate. Each person took one lobe. Amidst the noise and laughter as they encouraged and taunted the two competitors, Temkeu kept his eyes fixed on the palm-size receiver speaking at the corner. It belonged to Pouafo Fatamba, an ex-military officer and another of the educated few in the village. He was notorious for reading any piece of paper the wind threw at him, whether a fading three-year-old newspaper clipping used as salt wrapping or a loose scrawly page from a child’s exercise book. His appetite for information was just so voracious that no piece of inked paper escaped his inquisitive eyes. It was not surprising then that he was the one who kept his friends informed on happenings around the territories and world.
‘Any news for us today, Pouafo?’ Temkeu asked.
‘I am full only of old news,’ Pouafo answered. ‘But is there any subject in particular on which you want information?
Yes, Temkeu was eager for information about