Long ago, an heir became sick; his feet were hotter than the mid-day sun. The baby’s blanket dripped sweat, and the queen sobbed until her tears drew river-like stains on her cheeks. As soon as the sun kissed the treetops, the witchdoctors instructed everyone not to sip any leafy tea until the satanic fever had loosened its grip over the heir. 

The wind blew hot air, and the tearstained cows had sensed the worries scribbled on the faces of the herders. At the fireplace, a black dog relaxed with its belly upward and its legs in the air, faking a slaughtered calf. Suddenly, a child pointed his pink tongue at a black bird nesting between the prickly bush that made up the holy fire. Now, in the chaos, a black ram coughed, hinting that the heir had a demonic flu. 

In response, a servant squeezed the bitter water of an aloe leaf into the heir’s mouth. The herbs only worked for an hour, but soon the heir fainted. In retort, commoners waved thorny branches to keep him cool. Afterwards, the king pressed his swollen eyes at the mooing cows; quizzing the red cows about the fever, while villagers spoke by reading each other’s lips. 

The clucking hens almost dropped a hint, but a naked-neck rooster fighting a white rooster distorted the clues. Later, the queen crawled out of the hut like a dung beetle. Soon, the onganga advised her to roll in the skin-peeling ash in the hope of pleasing the spirits. 

Now, the commoners carted the heir to the roaring waterfall. 

“Take the baby to the termite hills visited by wild dogs,” said a hunched back man, translating the message from the trickling water. The 100-year-old man notoriously claimed to understand the talking waterfall. The heart-skipping news was whispered into the queen’s ears, but she shook her head left and right. This time, the king shuffled his feet towards the waterfall. 

“The flowing tears of our ancestors had spoken,” shouted the King, pointing his hockey-like stick at the salty water. 

“The spirits will guard the heir,” said a healer, tossing jawbones in the air. 

“By the fourth doodle-doo, the baby will be unharmed,” said a seer, narrowing his eyes at the copy of the heir giggling inside the hand-held mirror. 

The commoners squinted at the overlapping painted dogs’ footprints that were as fresh as an elephant’s poo. Later, the evening sun shone like a hunting lamp, while commoners squatted around the campfire with their poison-tip arrows pointing in the direction of the wild dogs’ den. Then a crowd of naked-chest girls jumped through the bone-melting flames, pleasing the spirits to glue together the bone-crushing jaws of the spotted dogs. Finally, the morning sun filmed the heir poking fingers into a dog’s mouth, while black-tail puppies licked his face. In the end, only his cotton diaper had been chewed to pieces. 

-Mungambue@gmail.com