My parents became Christian missionaries to a small village in West Africa after I turned thirteen. I cried and screamed, tried to negotiate and then from the doorstep of our home all the way to a mud hut in a distant continent, I let a silent anger fester. My father didn’t seem to care, or at least his care did not ascend beyond the heights of God’s will. One day on a walk to the local church he tried to reach an understanding across a chasm of pre-adolescent angst and rage.
"I know you don't like it here," Dad said.
"Yeah," was all I could think to say.
"I bet you'll look back years from now and realize these were some really exciting times. You'll want to tell your children and grandchildren about it."
"I doubt it."
"I'm going to be honest with you, Peter. I'm not so sure about this either, but faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. I thought it might help you if I shared that."
"I hate it here. I hate that you brought us here. I hate… you."
"You're allowed to be upset. I won’t take that away from you."
Dad tried to diffuse the situation, which made me angrier. I wanted him to lash out, to yell, to tell me that I was a terrible son. I needed as many excuses as possible to hate him. We walked in silence for the rest of the journey, and under the oppressive African sun I grew hotter, not just from the merciless rays of light, but because of my own pride and selfishness.
The church building was a pious establishment since it had no walls, only six posts to frame it, and a thatched roof with the sole purpose of keeping the handful of congregants guarded from sun and rain. Twelve wooden benches, six each to the side of a center aisle lined the dirt floor. I sat in the front row, and for the next thirty minutes during the service I dreamed of air-conditioned rooms, indoor bathrooms, video games and life back home.
After the preaching ended, Dad led the group in a song, and then talked with a few members. A village boy named Afi and two of his friends walked down the main street, past the church and toward a nearby dirt field. Afi, the son of a local leader, spoke English, French and the local tongue Bambara, but I hadn’t the courage to approach him directly in the months following our arrival.
Even though I was excited by the prospect of joining them, I was captivated more by the beautiful girl in their midst. Her dark skin stood in stark contrast to the brightly patterned headdress she wore. Her sleeveless indigo shirt and long, faded skirt were well worn, and I could not pull my eyes away.
Dad noticed my interest in the group's activities, startling me by calling Afi over to the church before the group was too distant. Even Afi was surprised, but he handed the soccer ball over to the other boy and walked toward us.
"So great to see you again," Dad said, reaching out to shake Afi's hand. Afi shook in return, but it was easy to see he was afraid my father wanted to proselytize. Everyone had been warned about our activities, which created an unspoken common bond; they wanted us to leave, and I wanted to satisfy their request.
"There are only three of you, which would make for an unfairly matched game of football, wouldn't you say?" Dad asked.
"Ode does not play. She just watches. We don't keep score either," he said.
The pity my father had on me was noticeable enough, and it placed Afi in an uncomfortable position. His respect for authority overruled his discomfort with our presence in his village and he relented.
"Peter can still play though. We have no rules. We just kick the football between us. Can he find his way back?" Afi asked.
"I can find my way," I said with confidence.
"Be back in an hour. I have some business to tend to, but will leave soon after. Mom will have lunch waiting," Dad said.
"I will."
Afi turned and walked away from us, but said with his back turned, "Come, Peter. The others are waiting."
I never had the wind knocked out of me until that day. When my breath returned, I was lying in the dirt on my side, coming back to consciousness. I rolled to my back and sat up, taking deep breaths. The last I remember, Afi's companion slid his legs between mine in a feeble attempt to steal the ball. Ode was kneeling over me on one side, and Afi was standing on the other. Afi's companion was nowhere to be found.
"You take a hard fall,” Afi said laughing. “Kafele thought you were dead, so he ran off to his home."
Although I was hurt, I was more embarrassed that Ode witnessed my fall. I stood up and shoved Afi to the ground. I had more fury than I knew what to do with, and needed to feel the release, no matter who was on the receiving end. He got up slowly and brushed himself off, and then started toward me. Had Ode not stepped between us I’m sure he would have injured me severely. She said something to him in Bambara, and he backed away. I was surprised by her influence, and I recognized there was a bond between them that went deeper than friendship.
Ode brushed the dirt off my arms, a touch that immediately cooled my temper. Then she left me and Afi alone. For a brief moment I was terrified she had instructed him to beat me in her absence, a feeling that subsided when he reached out to shake my hand.
"She tells me your soul is troubled," Afi said.
"What does that mean?" I asked, shaking his hand back.
"We are having a fire tonight at this field. Ode would like you to come. I will be here, and so will Kafele. He will be happy to know you are alive. It will be late, after your mother and father have gone to bed. You will need to leave without their knowledge. Can you do this?" Afi asked.
"I don't understand."
"I will explain it to you tonight."
I wanted to be in Ode's presence again. Her touch was intoxicating, and the blatant act of disobedience gave me a sense of freedom I hadn’t experienced since arriving with my parents.
Escaping into the night was easier than I anticipated. The cots that my parents slept on were divided from mine by a tarp draped between. It was a frail attempt at normalcy and privacy, but it also provided a sound barrier. I would offer no excuse if they discovered my absence, a choice to embrace rebellion over caution.
African nights are some of the darkest in the world. Dad showed me a photograph of the continent by satellite at night before we left America. A few glowing speckles dotted the coastlines compared to the clumps of light that showered the States. Without a flashlight I would have lost my bearing within minutes. A single flicker of brightness in the distance indicated the presence of people gathered around a fire.
There were several kids in the group, all sitting along wooden benches for two, with Ode being the only girl. She sat alone. All looked in my direction as I stepped into their midst. Afi got up and made an introduction and they returned to their conversations.
I sat down next to Ode, who looked over at me and smiled. Prepared for this moment, I said, "Good evening," in Bambara. She said something I didn’t understand in return, leaned back and looked up at the sky. I didn’t care for the starlight, the brightest attraction being grounded right next to me.
Afi nudged me on the arm and passed a drink in a clay mug. I drank it liberally, only to discover it was bitter and fermented. I continued drinking, determined not to look so out of place, and then I passed it over to Ode. She walked over and poured the remnants into the fire, which roared a white and blue flame. No one seemed to care about what she did, and I felt stupid for not asking Afi about the contents. Ode returned to her seat while the group quieted themselves.
Afi turned to me and recited a story in English, which Ode translated to the group.
"In Africa there are many religions. They all share a common belief. There is a soul within us that gives breath. When a man dies, the soul leaves his body and takes the breath with him. Some say the soul lives with Allah in splendor. Others say the souls of our ancestors are trapped here, wandering the earth in confusion. Some believe the soul is given a new birth into the insects, animals and even the trees.
"Among these souls there are two natures. The first nature is that of a man who has led a life filled with happiness. He would have many children, obedient wives, a good crop, and he would care for his parents and brothers. He will not wrestle with his soul when he dies. He will let the breath slip away freely. The second nature is that of a man who lives in turmoil. He cares for no one. He burns with anger. He wants to be released from his position on earth, but in his death he will grasp at the breath, keeping the soul confined to the body. When the soul is finally released, it is troubled. Peter, you will be this man."
I felt the effects of whatever Afi gave me to drink. The crackling wood in the fire grew louder as I watched embers dance upward and dissipate. I looked over at Ode who continued to focus her gaze toward the sky, as if waiting for an arrival, possibly of the form that started to take shape above and behind her. I blinked to try and focus, only to have beads of sweat drop down my forehead and into my eyes. My view clouded, but my other senses sharpened.
Afi continued, "We believe that a troubled soul in great agony will torture the ancestors of others, and it walks the desert plains, persuading the living into acts of mischief and war. So that we would not be influenced by such a soul, we made a deal a great time ago. Our tribes have lived in peace since then."
"What… deal?" I asked.
"We made a deal with our Kikiyaon. A man who meets this beast will no longer have breath because his soul will be taken by force before he dies. The soul will be trapped within the body of Kikiyaon until the day when the earth passes. I'm sorry, Peter. There is nothing that I can do. Kikiyaon comes for you in flight, a head like an owl, spurs on its wings and talons on its feet."
I tried not to cry, fearful and regretful of my choice to pursue Ode, but focused on a burning anger directed at my father for bringing me to this place.
"There is another way. You can save your life and soul. Name another. Name another for Kikiyaon and your breath will be returned back to you. Who among your bloodline is it that brings trouble? Whose burden do you carry? Name another!" Afi yelled.
Ode stood up, grabbed me by the arms, helped me to my feet and spoke mesmerizing words of comfort in Bambara, which lulled me into a trance. She then kissed my lips. This touch did not cool my body, or remove the impending dread, instead spreading an unbearable electric heat over my skin. All I could think to do was run.
The flashlight slipped from my grasp, forcing me to enter into the pitch-black night by the soft light of the moon. Any cloud cover would require that I return for it, something I was unwilling to do under the circumstances. It was then that I thought I heard the strangled screams of souls trapped in the body of Kikiyaon.
The flapping of the creature’s wings and the deep guttural cry of the monster pierced my ears. I sweat profusely and my arms and legs ached from racing along the path. I could feel the breeze now from the large beating wings, and I looked up to see the massive body of an owl-man with razor sharp claws for hands and feet. The creature’s deep red eyes, once fixed on the horizon, now looked down to me, growing larger as they came closer.
Afi’s words echoed in my mind. Name another. Who burdened me with this horrific time in my life. Who sent us here? Who forced us to endure these people and this place. It was my father. He was the only one to blame. Name another. I stopped and fell to the ground, sobbing and exhausted.
"My dad. My dad. Please, no," I screamed.
All went quiet. I could not sense the presence of anyone, or anything, but I did not want to look up or out into the night sky. I finally stood up and had the courage to peer out into the emptiness. What had I done?
The shame churned my insides, and I knew that death was on its way to our hut to take Dad. I ran again, the pain in my arms and legs unbearable, pins and needles jabbing through my muscles. When would this end? I imagined arriving at the entrance seeing my mother crying over what would be left of my father's body. She would know it was me, a truth she could not bear, and in her disgust I would lose both of them at once.
"Please, God, please, no. I made a mistake. Come back for me," I screamed again.
In the distance a light came into view, embers from a small fire. I could not see clearly yet, but two shadowy figures stood by the doorway of a hut, engaged in conversation. For an instant I envisioned wings rising up from the back of one of them, and the other I recognized as my father. I ran with what little energy I had left, desperately wanting to save him, to warn him.
When Dad finally recognized me, tears filled his eyes. He ran to greet me, pulled me tight to his chest, and said my name in comforting whispers while he stroked my hair. The other shadow, my mother, stood patiently by his side. In Dad’s arms, I promised to let go of my hatred and hoped that Kikiyaon acknowledged my change of heart. If repentance gave no grace, then I would sacrifice myself to save us all.
I slept heavy that night and dreamed of America, the land of the free and brave, the land without Kikiyaon.
I liked the story a lot and I just felt bad for the kid being yanked out of his home and life and sent to a completely different continent. I thought in metaphorical sense, you did a good job of capturing the sheer frustration and helplessness he's feeling.
On a theological note, if we took a literal interpretation, wouldn't the presence of an actual supernatural 'pagan' entity punch a hole in the entire point of missionary work?
I was very engaged by the story but I find myself wondering… the son and father are still alive, Afi and Ode are near, the son has been branded as a troubled soul by the other young people. Though he's relieved to find his father alive, and though he feels bad about the hatred he had for him, nothing has really been resolved. What happens tomorrow when he meets the kids of the village?