If any of this sounds far-fetched — if you don’t want to believe it — that’s fine. But I swear every part is true. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just keep on ramblin’ on. I do appreciate an avid listener.
After the initial scare wore off, I half expected a megaton thunderbolt to rip open the firmament and further emphasize Shumbuto’s fearsome features. To the best of my recollection, that bit of sky magic did not come to pass. I think I would remember a thing like that.
I stood, leveled at his waist, as he handed me the trophy. Holding the dead head in my hands, I forced every ounce of apprehension out of my body. I dug it up from the pit of my chest and expelled it from the tips of my fingers. Cherishing the cleanse, I transferred my many terrors straight into the lion’s skull.
Shumbuto’s eyes were no longer two chilling, black-filled holes — probably never were. They were tender again, as always.
“What will you do with it?” I asked him, studying the lion’s features for any final remnant of life.
“What we will do, Marcus, is bring this prize to our people.”
Shumbuto sat and I got down next to him, placing the grim animal between us.
“What people, Shumbuto?”
“Did you think we were the only ones in Zambia, my son? Our village is one day’s hike west. We shall leave when Shandra-Namba returns with water.”
“I don’t understand. I thought this was our home?”
“When you fell from the heavens, Marcus, we had just arrived here. Two days before that, a lion,” he motioned to the head between us, “this lion, came upon our village under the cover of night. This beast took from us a babe. The child, Kimbaya, did not suffer. She screamed once but no more. The lion was accidentally merciful in its butchering of innocence.
“Kimbaya’s mother and father awoke during the horror. Loquan, my good friend, had his throat ripped out as he was reaching for his blade. His wife, Musala, lost her leg. The village woke and we ran to Loquan’s tent, but it was finished. This devil darted back into the forest as our arrows pierced the darkness in vain.
“Musala bled through the night. She died at dawn.” Shumbuto breathed. “Her suffering would have had no end, had she survived.”
I looked into the dead animal’s eyes and made instant peace with a raw, unadulterated, seething hatred. I wanted to do the impossible: to kill what had already been killed.
“Have you been tracking this lion ever since I arrived?”
“Yes. And no.” Shumbuto hesitated.
“Please, Father,” I said. “Tell me.”
“It is true. Shandra-Namba and I came here because I was tracking the lion. I am our village’s greatest hunter. In truth, on the day you fell from the sky, I sensed him. I knew exactly where to go.”
A shudder went through me.
“At the riverbank, I was certain I had found him.”
Shumbuto stood and walked a few paces.
“I have the best nose for hunting, Marcus. I cannot explain it. I have always been capable of rooting out my prey. But then …”
“But then?” I repeated. And he turned back to me.
“There, on the riverbank, Marcus. I felt the lion’s presence like never before. His life force was all over me. I checked every direction, but he was not there. I knew he was on my scent just as I was on his. I could feel him getting closer and ready to pounce. But he was nowhere. And then …”
“And then?”
“Then I looked up to the heavens, and there you were, falling.” Shumbuto took three great strides back and knelt before me. He held my small hands in his own.
“The lion was not there at the riverbank, Marcus,” he said. “What I was sensing was you.” Shumbuto’s tone shifted. He straightened and spoke in a regal manner. “You will hear the story of our people now.”
And so I did.
The Shakasantie were a unique indigenous folk. The majority of tribes that populated the region back in the early ’70s lived within a few dozen miles of each other. They formed close-knit social structures and mingled with other villages sparingly. Recognized by the Zambian government, they were allowed certain resources and aid. They paid homage to a king and were awarded bounties for this.
Shumbuto’s people, however, were entirely independent. Shumbuto explained that the Zambian government tolerated the Shakasantie and had allowed them to live outside the general realm for years.
They were at peace. And, by the providence of God, they’d managed to survive, unaffected by rulers or governments. Shumbuto did not know how far back their history went. His people, though skilled at many things, were not, unfortunately, adept at record keeping. The Shakasantie could be traced only as far as their elders’ memories. As Shumbuto noted, even the most adroit elders could pass along but scant recollections of their fathers’ time, and even less about their fathers’ fathers’. Beyond that, it was all kind of a blur.
But the Shakasantie wore their independence with pride. They coupled, raised children, grew old, and died, all in harmony with themselves and the land. They feasted on what the earth provided, cultivating fruits as well as meat.
It was true that Shumbuto was the greatest hunter among his people (or so he said), but most of the other men in the village were also enraptured with the rage of the hunt. After several generations of existence, the people had become masters of the inescapable pastime. Keeping the honor of it all in perspective, of course.
“But,” I asked, confused in so many ways, “you told me this hut was our home?”
“I did. And it is. Wherever we rest our heads is home. This hut is our home now. The forest is our home when we pass through it. Our village is our home, too, when we live there.”
“But,” I continued, wondering if my interjections would reveal any insights or just forestall further frustrations. “You never mentioned any of this. I’ve been with you a whole month and you never said a word about it. You lied.”
“What is a lie, Marcus? Is a lie an omission of truth? I think not. One thing you should know is that Shakasantie never speak falsely. We offer information through casual discussion. If you feel as if I held something back from you, then perhaps I have. But here we are now, and I am showing you the way to truth. By sharing with you the plight of our people, you will know us for who we are.”
“Tell me,” I implored him, “if you are such a great hunter, then why is Shandra-Namba here with you?”
Shumbuto sat very still, waiting for me to complete my question.
“If this lion was so dangerous, were you not leading her into great danger?”
“Ha!” Shumbuto surprised me with his outburst. “There is much you will learn of Shakasantie women, Marcus! It is true they are renowned for being the world’s finest lovers, but they can also defend themselves better than any other women on God’s green earth.”
I knew what he meant by the word lovers. The hut we had shared was, after all, just a hut. And as previously mentioned, I was no stranger to the grunting of sexual gratification. But as to the rest of his claim, I had several reasons to doubt its accuracy. The first was that although Shumbuto believed he spoke the truth in all matters, that didn’t necessarily make it so. For example, in his mind, Shumbuto believed Shakasantie women to be second to none when it came to defending themselves. But what was his frame of reference? Not five minutes earlier, he said that his people were secluded from the rest of Africa, so how many other types of women had he encountered? In this, his notion of truth fell short. Not to mention the woman who lost her family and her leg (and consequently, her life) to the lion now perched, bodiless, by my side. How great a defender was she? I didn’t ask. I knew this question would be disrespectful.
“I can see you are deep in thought now, my son. And that is good. You will learn, over time, that concentrated thought is not only crucial to the formulation of true ideas and a righteous course of action, but is also what makes us human. A man must be able to think, to set forth in his mind how he feels on all matters; he needs to sort his options and choose the best path available. And, if no path is available, he must forge one.”
Shumbuto’s own, literal path came to mind — the path he’d cut from this phony home to the hunting shack. What had his thought process been when forging that?
“True thought separates us from the beast,” he said, and again I looked to the lion’s severed head.
“Father, what is it about the lion?”
Shumbuto reflected on this for some time. So long, in fact, that I nearly opened my mouth to ask something else; something about Shandra-Namba. But at last, he answered me.
“The lion,” Shumbuto said, “is as ruthless as death himself. We have always been at war with him.”
Whatever Shumbuto’s history with the lion was — whatever his people’s history with the lion was — it probably went further back than any living Shakasantie could recall. Now it was my history too.
I can’t say I was thrilled with the idea of being uprooted yet again. Since I’d landed in their world, I assumed I was going to live out the rest of my days on this small patch of dirt in this nothing of a hut, and I was fine with that. I didn’t want to be carried off to some new, foreign place. I was still very much being swept away by this one.
Shumbuto described his village as a peaceful, loving community where everyone made it their business to care for one another. He spoke at length about the harmonious nature of Shakasantie day-to-day life. To anyone less dysfunctional, this would have seemed like an ideal situation. But the prospect of a larger society only threatened to intrude on my newfound family dynamic. Of course, my young mind couldn’t formulate any of these broad concepts in a meaningful way. Instead, when Shandra-Namba returned with water, we made fast work of abandoning our home.
Following my Zambian parents toward whatever fate lay in wait for me at Shakasantie Village, I pouted and stomped my way through the forest.
I knew Shumbuto to be a master navigator, but had yet to witness Shandra-Namba lead the way. She did so now. Graceful in her movements, she turned here and weaved there effortlessly. From what little I could tell, there was no discernible path. There were no footprints in the dirt to show us the way, not even a hint of displaced leaves. Yet, she never faltered in her steadfast sense of direction. It was as if she had taken this journey so many times that the way was imprinted on her brain.
“How often have you made this trip, Shandra-Namba?” I asked her, forgetting I was supposed to be upset.
“More than I care to count, Marcus.” She fell into a reverie, and I realized I’d unknowingly posed a hurtful question.
What little information about the lion Shumbuto had shared was not enough. “This lion you killed,” I began. “This lion we carry in three sacks right now — he was the first in how long?”
“Time is nothing.” Shumbuto gave a bullshit non-answer and quickened his pace. I surprised myself when I halted and held my ground.
“What is it, Marcus? Are you weary so soon?”
“I understand your people have a terrible history with the lion. I only want to know more, to understand your ways.” They were hiding many secrets from me. I knew it as sure as I knew that I was wise beyond my years.
“In time, my son.” He caressed my cheek in what I assumed to be a fatherly manner. “You will understand many things.”
Shandra-Namba smiled and took up the hike again.
We walked most of the day. Just before sunset, we stopped and I helped Shandra-Namba pick wild berries for supper. She had taught me which ones were edible and which ones were poison, knowledge that has saved my life on many hungry occasions over the years.
We ate in relative quiet. We picked and ate so many berries that eventually the smell of the nearby sack of meat became less maddening.
I was still anxious and addled by the lack of relevant answers. As we lay down for the night, I opened my mouth to ask again, but he beat me to it.
“Sleep, Marcus. Just sleep.”
“But …”
“Sleep. Tomorrow, you will meet your new people, your true family. Before the day is done, I promise you, any question you have will be answered.”
I didn’t want to wait, but I knew Shumbuto would be an immovable statue of stubbornness. So, I gave way to my weary body. I fell asleep to the gentle sounds of Shandra-Namba’s humming.
In the morning, the sun passed our heads as we walked, reenergized, through the deepening forest. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that, at last, the trees parted and we emerged into a green pasture. Shakasantie Village lay before us, a small cluster of tiny huts (much like the one we’d left behind) set around the Zambezi.
Shandra-Namba held my hand. She smiled down and whispered, “This is your home now.”
As we approached, a small boy looked up from a hole he was digging and shouted, “They have returned!” He met us, laughing and jumping about. When he noticed me, he did not waver in his delight. He didn’t even stop to question my presence.
“This is Marcus, Nuhari,” Shumbuto said. “He is your brother.”
Nuhari’s jubilance knew no bounds. He took hold of my hands (practically ripping the right one from Shandra-Namba’s) and led me in a sprightly dance around our elders. All this time he was screaming, “They have returned and brought Marcus! They have returned and brought Marcus!”
Soon, what I perceived to be the entire village came running and cheering. The men pat Shumbuto on the back and the women kissed Shandra-Namba. Many children joined Nuhari and me in our joyful dance.
Until that moment, I had not known true happiness. I lost myself in it.
At last, we settled into a celebratory march. I, the sole white face in a sea of dark ones, was accepted by all, without explanation. At some point, Nuhari let go of me and picked up the sack of lion meat I had been lugging for the past day and a half. Two bigger, older boys lifted the other sacks. With Nuhari, they ran away with them.
When we entered the center of the village, we came to an extraordinary wooden table. It spanned the distance of ten huts and sat as the centerpiece of Shakasantie Village. Symbols and faces were intricately carved into its many legs. As we sat, food was immediately brought out and spread across the length of the table. The entire village dined together on delicious meats and vegetables (there was a bountiful garden past the last hut).
When we finished the meal, Shumbuto told the tale of how he found me. He made a great spectacle of the moment my body crashed into the river. His arms waved humorously to indicate my flailing in the water as he swam to my rescue. He was animated in a way I had not known him to be. The many children laughed at his antics, while the men and women hung on his every word. They often looked at me in amazement, and some of the women took turns stroking my hair. They seemed to think I was some kind of miracle, and they fawned over me. Happily, I let them.
In all, there were thirty-six men and thirty-two women. The children were more difficult to count, as they were constantly moving. I figured there to be approximately thirty of them. They all regarded me as some kind of fallen angel. I was confident I would make easy friends. If only someone could show me how.
Shumbuto came to the story’s end. A man at his side asked about the lion. Shumbuto hesitated. This was what I had been waiting for.
“Before I tell that story,” Shumbuto said, “I must first tell our people’s full history to Marcus.”
The villagers shuffled uncomfortably. A few of the women escorted their younger children back to their huts. Shumbuto went on.
“He is an inquisitive boy, this son of mine.” Shumbuto said. “In the short time Shandra-Namba and I have been blessed by his presence, Marcus has asked repeatedly about our history with the lion. As you all know too well, this is no easy story to tell.” Many of the villagers nodded in solemn agreement. “Come, let us sit by the fire.”
Would the stalling never end?
With my patience faltering near its breaking point, the flames rose high. I sat at my father’s right as his … our people gathered around. The moon, now a small thing in the distance, would grow large by the time he finished.
“The Shakasantie, Marcus, are outcasts.” A hush fell over the word. It was clear that it was one of shame, and as I looked around, no eyes met mine. Heads hung low.
“Decades ago, when my father’s father walked the earth, some of our people integrated into Zambia’s cities. A select few enjoyed some prosperity when they took to honest labor. We wished them well and hoped for the best.”
The people raised their heads.
“What you see assembled here, Marcus, is a tribe, a family. We love our life the way it is, but have always been open to allowing individuals to explore their true nature. But we never forget.”
“What happened?” I asked in a mousy voice. I was not even sure I wanted to know anymore.
“What happened, Marcus, was the lion came.”
I was about to question this when Nuhari, as if on cue, brought forth the lion’s head on a pole. Just outside the fire’s stones, he slammed the pole into the ground — giving the head a most ominous, terrifying look. The orange blaze lit the frozen death face. Smoke caressed its jaw. It was a thing of nightmares, but I was not scared anymore.
“What you must understand, Marcus, is that we are a special breed of people; by that I mean the same blood runs through our veins. True, we are not all directly related, but our blood possesses a quality that makes us unlike any other. We are tainted.”
“Tainted?”
“Our blood draws the lion. It makes him wild with hunger. He can smell it from many kilometers away. No one knows how long this phenomenon has existed. However, when the government became aware the golden-haired beast was stalking and hunting Shakasantie, they began running their tests.
“They visited hardworking Shakasantie who had migrated to the cities. They drew their blood and tested it right there in their homes. At first, our people were willing. But after the initial few were rounded up and taken away, they got wise.
“My father’s father was one of the fortunate. He recognized what the government was doing and realized, just in time, that his people who had been taken were not returning. What seemed for centuries to be just a gruesome fact of life for the Shakasantie — the sporadic lion attacks that plagued our people — was now officially classified as “systematic killings, driven by special blood.” We were classified as a threat to all. And, well, we were. It was true then. It remains true today.
“The unique aroma of our blood is what draws them. It is a smell only the lion can discern. It makes them mad with hunger. The prospect of a Shakasantie meal would cause them to penetrate a populated city, roam streets, enter houses, stalk, track, even organize. During these hunts, the lions would slaughter anyone and everyone who crossed their paths. Yes. It is our blood that makes the lion smarter than he should be — far more brilliant and cunning than God intended.”
I didn’t believe it. He was putting me on. Had to be. There was nothing in a person’s blood that could attract a lion. Was there?
“So you see, Marcus,” Shumbuto said, “the lion has always hunted us. We, as a people, have always known this. It wasn’t until our elders ventured further inland that the reason for the lion’s hunt was identified.
“The Shakasantie are bound together by special blood. It is our bond. When my father was very young, his father gathered as many Shakasantie as he could before the government could take them away, for once they got their hands on them, they were never heard from again. My grandfather and my father — who was about your age at the time, Marcus — returned to the village with 300 like-blooded men, women, and children, for it is better to face the predictable, bloodthirsty beast you know than the terrible whimsy of man.”
Everyone nodded.
“The government allowed our people to leave the cities. There was no massacre. They vacated of their own free will. They left to save the non-tainted Zambians from senseless slaughter. They left to save themselves from the unconscionable government. They were heroes, Marcus. They were heroes and they were outcasts. Do you understand?”
I could not find the word yes, so I nodded. I did the math in my head. If this all happened when Shumbuto’s father was around my age — if 300 people left the city during that exodus and there were only 68 adults left today, what unimaginable horrors had they survived in the past eighty or so years? Shumbuto understood my realization and spoke to it.
“The lion hunts us, always. I am saddened to say he is winning this long war by leaps and bounds. We are the last of our people.”
A few of the women began to weep. I looked to Shandra-Namba. She was struggling with her own tears. I had to search the ground for another place to look. I could not bear witness to her pain.
“Now you know our story and understand, Marcus. There is much more to be recounted. The Shakasantie are an extremely complicated people. But I think you will agree that we have had enough sadness for one evening.”
Before I could think of a response, Nuhari spoke up and the melancholy mood was miraculously lifted. “Tell us of your kill, Shumbuto!”
The tribe raised an enthusiastic, unanimous agreement and Shumbuto, though surely parched from the telling of his first tale, stood up tall and began yet another.