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Kundelungu Plateau
Democratic Republic of the Congo
Minungo makes no sound as he creeps through the darkness back into the makeshift camp between the river and the trees. Nineteen summers in a clan which subsists by stalking animals to exhaustion has made stealth as much a part of his nature as breathing. Nevertheless, a voice stops him in his tracks.
“Is it done?”
Minungo turns his head to see a man with broad shoulders and slim hips barely visible in a pale sliver of moonlight. He is not surprised that Songo has detected his presence. The old warrior has seen more than fifty summers and possesses the senses of the gods themselves. There has never been any dispute about who leads the clan.
Minungo nods. “It’s in their flames. Already they dance in the smoke.”
Songo grunts. Minungo thinks he spots a trace of a smile gracing the chieftan’s lips, but it could just be the flickering moonlight. Songo has long insisted that no fire be lit in the camps of his warriors, to better preserve all the senses for battle. Constant shadows merely add to Songo’s aura of power.
“You have done well.”
Songo pauses, then his voice grows huskier. “It is time.”
Sixty minutes later, Minungo and Songo once again stand next to each other in the darkness. This time, light from a fire fifty yards away is visible through the trees. This time, they are accompanied by four dozen of the clan’s finest warriors. To a man, they are armed with spears and curved nine inch daggers known as chokwe.
More than just a bonfire reveals the enemy to Songo’s clan. A voice floats on the evening breeze, an enemy voice.
Is this not a bad idea? We will not be able to fight in these costumes.
Another voice responds.
There will be no fighting in this darkness. The costumes are the key. These are how we celebrate our power.
Songo motions to his warriors to creep closer. Soon Minungo sees the costumed enemy, elaborate headgear creating twelve foot shadows as they dance around a huge bonfire in a small clearing. Their movements are jerky from the weight and encumbrance of their attire. When Minungo was here earlier, the dancers had been completely without clothing. More voices carry on the wind.
Is this not heresy, to dress as the gods? Only the sorcerers may do that.
Have faith, my friend. This is how we HONOR the gods.
As Songo’s warriors crouch on the edge of the clearing, the chieftain issues commands in a whisper.
“There are only two things to remember. First, you must strike immediately before they have time to fear you.”
Songo’s eyes scan the assembled warriors, their intensity a match for his gaze. The pause is long enough that Minungo can’t stop himself from speaking.
“What is the second thing?”
Songo’s grim countenance is one that could be worn by Death himself.
“Do not breathe the smoke.”