Anthills on the Plain
Chime ran like he’d never run before, at eight he could run faster than his peers and even competed with seniors two years ahead of him in school. The shops and faces he passed were a blur as he continued his sprint through the market. He had to get back home and quickly. Pain shot up his legs as if he had tiny ants injected into his veins. A little more and he’d be back in the safety of his father’s compound with the high fence and big black gate. He should have listened to Nnenna, his cousin, going to see the masquerades alone is not a feat for an eight-year-old city boy from Lagos.
Earlier that day he was listening to her tell stories about where masquerades come from, how they were spirits of their ancestors who come to the land of the living during festivals and when old people die. They honoured the old people because they were closer to the land of the dead where the spirits live. The masquerades crawl out of tiny anthills near the forest and come to dance and celebrate with the living during these festivals. Listening to the story didn’t seem so scary while watching Netflix in their comfortable room, besides he’d seen enough Walking Dead to know these were all tales. So, he decided to test his theory.
Nnenna was reluctant to give him directions to go but after promising a pack of Kit Kats, she softened up. His parents were out visiting, leaving the kids to their devices and making it easy for him, sly as he was to sneak past Nana and out of the gate. He didn’t take his tab because he didn’t want to risk being robbed.
Following Nnenna’s direction, he got to the field where the masquerades were gathered. It was a very large field but he couldn’t make out any anthills on the plain. A small crowd stood afar off from the masquerades and in the distance, he could just barely see a masquerade in particular that was avoided even by all the others. It looked as though two different spirits were combined in a body to bring it to the land of the living. Its entire right side was black with a mesh that was made from the heads of several cocks, the droplets of blood splaying over the cloth and forming patterns that almost looked like it was conscious painting. In its right hand, it held a sword by its blade instead of the handle and used it to cut down tree saplings growing around him. Its left was made of a spotless white material. It seemed even the cock’s blood did not want to stain something so pure. By now he had moved closer and the throng of the crowd reminded him of a game he played many Christmases ago, here in the village. It involved squeezing into an old tyre or a drum and being rolled down a small hill or on the street. His mother banned him from playing after he came home bruised all over. He inched forward and broke free to the front of the crowd. The instant he did he felt a pit in his stomach and everything was gloomy, he didn’t want to be here, didn’t care about anthills or stupid masquerades, he just wanted to go home. The feeling of despair came from the lone masquerade, no wonder the others avoided him.
The left hand of the masquerade held a trowel and at its feet a small watering can. The saplings he cut with the right hand were picked gracefully and planted in a small hole he dug with the trowel. With the same hand he wet the stalks from the can. Chima thought he had misjudged the spirit until five minutes later, he saw that the stalks were drying out and some even caught on fire. The “water” must have been acid. He ran away as fast as his legs could carry him, away from the darkness of the spirit, away from the crowd and their dancing and to the comfort of his father’s compound with the high fence and big black gate.
That evening, his father came into the room to have a talk. Nnenna had spilled when she didn’t see the promised Kit Kats. In his characteristic manner, his dad had his night socks on and a toothpick in his mouth, those two items were always with dad after dinner time. He relayed the experiences of day to his father and mentioned his fear at the sight of the lone masquerade. He thought his dad would give a deep talk about the symbolism and deeper meaning of things so he’d been thinking of what the masquerade could’ve represented. He asked, “Do you think spirits are real? And that they come out of anthills?” His father replied, “Son, you’ve had a long day and the events you experienced today will become clearer as you grow older. For now, sleep well my prince and know you have a dad willing to sacrifice everything to protect you.”