Homecoming of the gods Read online

  It was evening when he arrived the station. The sun had almost disappeared into the eastern horizon when a train nosily and clumsily arrived the station. He sat out the beginning of the journey following the fleeting path of the savannah traced by the moving window of the train, finally slipping into a sombre sleep sometimes into the night

  It could have been midnight when he heard indistinct voices. He stretched and turned to return to his sleep. He slept off again for a while to wake to those indistinct voices again. This time, they were a bit louder and clearer than the first time.

  He sat up, stretched and turned to return to his sleep but he found that he could not. The voices had gotten clearer and he could make now out the words though the dim lights and his fuzzy sight, which made the lights sting, made it hard for him to see the faces.

  Every other person in the coach was asleep except for the women who were in a conversation. He closed his eyes and listened.

  ‘She was having problems with her husband. The pastor invited her to his office for a marriage counselling session. She came and he did her inside the office,’ Zach heard a weak and low voice say. He had not met the discussion from the beginning but even at that, it caught his attention.

  ‘When the husband found out, he sent her away.’ The woman finished. ‘The man of God that was meant to save a marriage destroyed it. But do you know what? He blamed the woman, saying it was she that led him into it. You should have seen that woman the day she left, the tears…my heart was broken to pieces.’

  By now Zach was fully roused. They stopped as if his waking up had startled them. He looked up to see that four of the women were awake. He thought that his waking would stop them from gossiping and him from eavesdropping, and so he turned and pretended to have gone back to sleep.

  In a moment they continued.

  ‘My sister, you have not seen anything yet,’ the second woman began after a moment of silence. About two months ago, a boy in our neighbourhood was by invited over by the Anglican priest. The boy was unfortunate. The priest raped him.’ She stopped and looked at them with sensational eyes. ‘I don’t understand what is happening… my heart was broken when I heard the story. The worst of it all was that the priest invited the boy over to ask for his forgiveness and did him again. He stuck his big organ into that boy’s anus. Can you imagine that? The boy started the same with little boys on the street. It was when he was caught that he confessed what had happened. It was after the priest’s that he developed the urge to do same to his fellow boys, many whom were much younger than he was. The reverend denied and the boy was flogged. It was other boys who the reverend had stuck his organ into their anuses that confirmed the story.’

  The other women gasped, though under their breaths.

  ‘Is it that we can no longer let our young boys out on the streets again?’

  ‘What has this world turned to, my sisters?’

  ‘It is the end times. Church people have become worse than those in the world.’

  ‘What are we going to do to our children?’

  ‘We have to always pray for them.’

  ‘Pathetic.’

  ‘Men of dogs, they are not men of God. Damn them!’

  …

  Zach did not see the expressions of their faces, the dumbmoves, the claps, the muffled shrieks, the gasping, the ooohs and the arrghs, the shaking of heads… and all those others things typical of feminine melodrama. They would have added to the effect that the stories had on him in general.

  He was somewhat angered and somewhat enraged. But at who? At the women or at the ‘men of God’ who were sticking their organs into little boys’ anuses?

  The women were still talking when he saw himself jump up in a frenzy and start screaming at them: ‘Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!’

  Everyone in the cabin woke at his screams but instead of paying any attention to him, they all started out of the cabin. It was as if they hadn’t heard him, as if he wasn’t even there at all.

  He looked at himself, at the people leaving the cabin and at himself again.

  What had he done? What was he doing? Did they not hear him? Did they hear him?

  He was breathing hard and fast. He could feel the wetness of cold sweat under the collar of his blue coat and at their folds at his arms. Everything was whirling in tight circles about him. His head seemed to throb with ringing pain. Balls of sweat were trickling down his face with tickles. He had apparently shouted with all his strength.

  He stood there for could have been an eternity.

  After a moment passed during which the cabin was emptied of its former occupants, he realized that the screams had been part of a nightmare and that he was back in real life with the golden light of the dawn streaming through the windows. He had passed out on the market women and into a nightmare. Apparently, the screams were part of the nightmare that had coincided with the blasting of the train’s horn and their arrival. As to the rest of the nightmare, he could not remember.

  He was not sure whether the nightmare was over until he saw other people coming into the cabin to join him. Realizing that the he was probably at the station of his destination, he took his coat and walked out into the station and out of it.

  # # #

  It took him a long while, after he had gathered his wits about him and was in a taxi, for him to remember what he had heard inside the coach. When they came back, they returned to him as clear as if he was there with them and having the conversation from the first. In fact, he even remembered other stories, more bizarre and obscene ones as he had heard them. I do not think I should tell them for the sake of discretion. Anyone that wants to hear such stories let him catch a group of market women on an overnight train.

  The women had talked at considerable length. It was obvious that they gathered in the same cabin from time to time and gossiped about a subject or another. When women talk, especially when they ‘gossip’, they sensationalise their talk, each person weighing the effect of the other person’s story and trying by embellishments to out-do the others when the stage was passed to her. Everyone does that, both male and female but being a writer and a poet, I can assure you that you can leave such to the women or to writers. That regardless, the truth was still present. When a man tells a woman that he loves her, she can wink at that but when a man tells his fellow men that he loves a woman, that cannot be winked at. When a man tells a woman that she is ugly, she may judge him to be a bit harsh and cruel or self-seeking and when her fellow women tell her same, she will dismiss them as jealous or spiteful. But what happens when a child tells her that she is ugly? She knows without questions and without asking for further proofs that she is ugly, the reason being precisely that childlikeness has nothing to gain from telling the truth—as it has nothing to lose. And when it tells the truth, the child tells it for its sake and with all innocence. That was the situation of these women. Their childish abandon was there in their voices though it was mixed with a great deal of cynicism and poetic sensationalism.

  Zach had expressed anger at someone in the nightmare. But the question was: at whom?

  Was it at the women? It could not have been because even though they were nonetheless sensational, they were honest anyway. He knew that they were. Had he any reason to be angry with them? Had they not told the truth? They may have salted it but they had told the truth. There were no doubts about that.

  The men? They were as guilty as hell very much as the missionary he was on his way to meet. There were no questions about that. He did not need any further proofs as to that as I suppose that no one ever asks for proofs for the validity of bad news as we do for good ones. There is something that rejoices in us all over the failure of others especially people of certain calling and mettle. As to good news, it is often received with scepticism. But then Zach knew almost immediately that they were not the reason why he felt a sudden upsurge of rage.

  Who was the object of his anger?

  The best answer was that it was something that had made an
appearance in the nightmare. Even though he still could not make much of the nightmare, he was awed at its realness. It was quite real and had felt so too. There was no doubt about that.

  Was someone following him? Was someone playing mind games on him? Were all of those to torture him and to drive him to insanity?

  He would have to wait to see and so would we.

  Chapter Four: Silas Ańgō

  Silas Ańgō lived in a small and old bungalow among many other such bungalows with his mother in a low-brow neighbourhood in the outskirts of the city of Mōia .

  There was something about the city, though not very quite unlike other cities, and Zach felt it as the blue taxi pushed into the city. It was strong in the air and it was even stronger for Zach who hadn’t been in the city for the first time. It smelt of coarse and unbridled animation tempered with a strong dose of brutish sensuality and abandonment. It was everywhere even in the posts and billboards and posters and in the faces of the people as he saw them.

  There was something musical about that city too, some sounds that seemed to float about in the air above it, the sound of which was wanton and sensual.

  It was still very early in the morning but Zach felt it intensely like the hangover of yester night’s indulgences.

  The city was spread out on soft hills in a conspicuous and artificial way with an abundance of roads in valleys, bridges and switchbacks.

  The buildings, in addition to the hills underneath them were tall and imposing, the sight of which gave Zach a feeling of strangeness. He felt very much like a stranger. He took the sights in and as he did so, he noticed that the driver of the taxi was looking at him from the side of his eyes. At that, he decided to engage the man.

  The man was a beer-bellied man with thick beards, who looked very much on his way to his sixtieth anniversary. He looked jovial anyway and Zach did not feel he had a reason to be afraid nor cautious.

  ‘It’s a nice city. The war did not as much as brush past it. It looks solid.’

  ‘Oh’, the driver added. ‘I see. Nice observation. Well, a lot has changed since the war…’ And on that pathetic note, the man began to tell the story of the city and of the things that had happened and the things that had not happened since ‘74 and of the things that could have happened.

  The drive was about two hours and Zach regretted having let the noisy cat out of the bag. He sure did feel its sting as the man was a damn talker. He knew everything, every politician in town, every celebrity, every drug dealer, every restaurant, French and Asian and African, every club, every whorehouse, gay and straight—and was willing to offer information. It seemed very well like part of his job—or who he was as a person.

  He talked about anything with childish abandon, which made Zach shudder.

  When he saw the ring on Zach’s finger as he stroked his beards, he began: ‘I see that you are married. You know we missed a lot, people of my age. I mean, this generation really enjoys.’

  It was at this that Zach was obliged to say something. ‘Enjoys what?’

  The man laughed. ‘Our women liked the hair but you know a lot of things have changed. It’s different with these cuties, they keep it shaved now, you know. And they say that it’s better without the hair. What do you think sir?’

  At that, Zach turned his face to the window in embarrassment. He was somewhat offended as he did not wish to speak of his relationship with his wife in such terms but the same time, he did not want to deprive the jolly man his good time. He seemed to him a very lonely man who had a lot to speak of but none to listen to him.

  ‘And it’s even worse, now I have to walk around with a semi hard-on. The women don’t want to go naked and they don’t want to keep their clothes on either. I mean, think about it. I heard it is the same with the hair. They are shaving everything off their bodies. Their legs and eyelashes… And that other thing…They say it is better without the hair, you know. Not that I have tasted…’ Zach did not hear anything else that the man said. He did not wish to. The talk had begun to give him a headache.

  He was grateful when the driver pulled up for fuel at a gas station with the words: ‘We are a few blocks away from port, sir. I could do with the petrol here.’

  # # #

  It was late into the Thursday morning when they made the last turn out of the city and into a small town that was outside the city, which had very well woken. It was holiday for the schoolchildren as they were nowhere in sight unlike every other person that had a place to go every morning in the fulfilment of ‘job’/’work’. It was a quiet town anyway and very much unlike what was obtainable in the inner-city, the air was gentler and softer though not any less wanton.

  In a few more minutes that were thankfully spent in silence, they pulled up at the address that Thaddy had provided him.

  The small town was typical of many others you’d meet outside of a big city, that is, of people who wanted to have the ‘girl’ but could not afford her. Here the houses were not any taller and though not entirely shabby but cheap and they hardly took notice of strangers.

  Their destination was a bungalow that was the fourteenth in a wide street with similar bungalows astride it. The agreement was that the man would hang around so they could both return to the station together. He would pay him for the extra time. It would be a day’s job and a day’s pay for the man.

  About that town, I should say that its inhabitants were mostly soldiers. There was a barracks somewhere close and what spilled off mostly in retiree soldiers found themselves in Rumōia as it was called, reminiscent of its relation to the main city Moiā. So safe is it to say that the place looked like a typical barracks though not entirely like it. It had its own brothel, its own club, beer halls, a Catholic Church, and all such other things that make a typical southern town.

  # # #

  Zach knocked on the wrought iron gate repeatedly but there was no immediate answer from the other side. He stood there like a fool and observed the driver of the cab smile, nod or wave at anyone that passed by. Zach knew he was probably weighing them to learn what he would tell his next passenger of the neighbourhood and its people.

  The second series of knocks were louder, longer and knuckle-aching. Only then did a middle-aged woman looking older than her age came to the gate. It took her an awful lot of time and work to open the gate. And when she did, she did not look happy as the august visitor with his rough beards had woken her up from her sleep.

  She stood there and stared at him allowing her still-sleepy eyes to ask the million-dollar question: Who the hell are you anyway and what brings you here?

  Zach took it and answered ‘Good morning ma. The name is Zachariah Bādu.’ He then stopped and thought about the second part of the compound question for a minute longer before finally adding: ‘I am looking for Silas.’

  It was a good thing that Zach did not use the second name. It made it sound much more personal. Thankfully, it threw the woman off her guard and gave her the ease she needed.

  She observed him for a while longer than was normal allowing Zach the chance to make a mental portrait of her. She looked frightened. It was evident in her eyes that she had suffered great misfortunes in her life and had resigned herself to them having neither the will nor the chance to do otherwise.

  ‘I’m sorry. But may I ask, why do you want to see him?’

  When she spoke, the voice was soft and weak. There was nothing insinuating about it. And that kept Zach in his skin and his heart in his chest.

  The situation was a very sensitive one and Zach knew he needed to be cautious and being cautious sometimes meant hiding some things – sometimes for the sake of revealing other things. But then his openness and honesty had saved him many a times. He had to trust that it would this time as ever and besides he owed the woman the truth. He swallowed hard and turned back to the woman: ‘I want to talk with him… about the incident. That’s if he doesn’t mind.’

  The woman stopped and observed him this time with more inquisitiveness than
the first time.

  ‘Well, I am sorry. I doubt if he won’t mind.’

  ‘I just want to be of help – in any way that I could be indulged.’ Zach said hopeful of something. Anything at all would be worth it. That had been his prayer – anything. He was hopeful of something that would make the stress worth it.

  The woman coldly observed him again with her hands still holding apart the leaves of the gate and her frame between them. This time, she seemed to weigh him in a favourable light.

  It took the woman a great deal of thoughtfulness to finally capitulate. ‘A minute,’ she finally said and closed the gates again with the same measure of work and time as it had taken her to open it.

  It took her almost a quarter of an hour for her to return. In the time apart, Zach was almost sure that she was not going to be back and was more than grateful seeing her return and hearing her work at opening the gates.

  ‘What did you say your name is?’ She asked.

  Zach told her. She nodded and went to work on closing the gates again.

  It took her a little less than five minutes to return and a minute more to work on re-opening the gates.

  Now, I should say that it was something far deeper that his mere appearance or some good sense about his mission, or his offer to ‘help’ that had won Zach his pass. However, all of that had positively aided the way she assessed him and his mission. But more than those, there was some unknown prudence to her assessment of him that bothered not on them, but on a higher and more profound sensibility belonging to a woman who had suffered and for all her sufferings had been rewarded with a profound knowledge of the world.

  There was no way she would have known what exactly it was. But she was attended by that prudence when she finally eased her hold on the leaves of the small and rusty red iron gates to let him through. As to whether Zach knew that it was not his mission or his personality that had earned him his pass, he certainly did. He could not quite tell what it was but he was grateful, as he knew both mother and son did not want to go down old rugged path again.—Not to satisfy his desire to ‘help’ or his need to indulge in himself. None of that was worth all the humiliation that was payment for their sins. It had taken a lot of courage for them as it had for him.