Tales After Twilight: Eyen Nsabo

​_{The original story you are about to read is inspired by a tale I grew up listening to, from the Efik author Mary J. Edet's "Obufa Edikot Nwed" literacy book series, published in Efik language. Recently I have tried to collect these classics, with very little luck. All I had of this one were faint recollections of this poetic rendition from above book, and I decided to make a story from it. In that quest I had sought the wisdom and moral lessons in the tale before concluding that this is one that was meant to entertain than edify. I guess that is what Mary intended at its creation. Published by Macmillan in the 70's as part of a larger collection to aid Efik literary comprehension in elementary schools, in its original form "Eyen Nsabo" reads with the rhythm of poetry.}

_{Appended as footer is a Youtube link of a rendition of the original (in Efik) by highlife singer of the 80's, Bustic Kingsley Bassey. I must admit I am tempted to think this is a folk piece that preceded Mary J. Edet. I hope you enjoy my original (very adulterated) story inspired by a fraction of my heritage. Don't expect to be educated. Be satisfied with getting buried in the strange world. Walk the paths along with this tale. This is exclusively published on the Steem blockchain through Steemit. Enjoy it.}

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_{Art by Victor Ekpuk}

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Eyen Nsabo

My name is Ananse, son of the renowned entertainer, Nsabo. My father and my grandfather, and the ones before them, entertained their Kings and made the people merry during festive events in the village, many many generations.

I am a lean man, but the heaviest wrestlers in Netim and the neighboring villages cannot throw me in a bout of wit. My grandfather played the flute so much the people said a strange spirit was upon him. His father could juggle six matchets while scribbling nsibidi signs on the sand with his foot. I grew up to hear that my own father once made a widow laugh to a joke about her deceased husband at his funeral. I myself, am a storyteller.

It is the farming season, but the village has been deafening quiet of late, since that teenage boy died from falling a great height from a mature palm tree.

The air still smells of burnt bush whose fire was quelled by a violent first rain: a ritual that ushered in this season. A smell mixed with one from raffia mats that were spread in the open wilted lawns of every compound, with darker brown patches that mapped where the bedwetters in the household lay. The rains won’t let them dry ahead of the night, so they have to be rolled in for a fresh dousing of urine and brought out to air the next morning.

This rain had made the palm tree too slippery for the climbing harness (hand-woven from raftan) that that boy used to climb. Every experienced climber and tapper knew you stayed away from trees at such times. But he was exorbitant. He attended a Grammar School the missionaries built in the village, and spoke big grammar. He took pride in dismissing every believe my fathers held. He made his own luck. But I was not going to accomodate thoughts of my little nephew in my head on this eerie morning.

I trod on, struggling in vain to not dwell in my reverie. As I negotiate the bend on the foot-traced path that snaked all round the village, I walked past the last house into the part that was all foliage and squeaks of crickets and chirps of birds. I walk. I walk on. The sun is struggling to peek out from behind the clouds, from behind the large leaves of the baobab trees. I am heading east. The last cock greeted me with its crow.

As I approach the part where trees canopied the path, where the sound of leaves rubbing against each other became ominous, I gave in to being buried in my thoughts. My father took me on this road when I was younger. According to him, to reconnect with the spirits that flourished his mind and gave dexterity to his fingers, in order to do the bidding of our ancestors: make his people happier. I never stopped coming back, long after he was gone.

Just as I thought of him I heard a thud of something falling near me. I looked around and I saw a heavy bunch of oil palm fruits with slightly smudged side where it landed on the earth and rolled over. The palms in the wild were sparing and the village harvesters never bothered to come here, so it caught me by surprise to see one. I looked closely, the fruit was fresh and the cutting too, which suggested it didn’t fall off on its own as I first thought. So I spoke out loud, “who is there?”

The monkey’s voice came from up the tree, “Eyen Nsabo, Ami nnam.”

Oh dear monkey! I had totally forgotten about you.

"What are you doing, my friend?"

"I am harvesting palm fruits, son of Nsabo."

I walked closer even and asked the monkey if I could indulge, and he nodded. So I took one fruit from the bunch and buried in my right cheek. Another tingly red fruit went in the left of my mouth. Then I took a few more and put them in the woven bag that saddled beside me and bade the monkey farewell as I turned to leave. Further into the forest I went.

An army of shy-plants curled their leaves to make way for their in-law.

The fattened goddess sat in her full grandiose, like it did in the stories my father used to tell. She wore a skimpy skirt laced with beads, and had dotted marks drawn on her face and bare belly with clay from the stream behind her. She was adorable, as the other maidens tended to her. I wished to give her a grinding stone from basalt and walk hand-in-hand with her on the next big market day of Urua Afong, but all I had now was this palm fruit which I gave to her. She put it in a side of her mouth. Not able to take our eyes off each other I walked past.

By now the sun was in full blosom. The drums had begun to roll. I could hear the pronounced sound of flute and I knew my grand-father was in that band. "Eyen Nsabo!," the tortoise hailed. This was going to be a long day.

Being a stout man, it didn't take too much effort to get into the hut. I sat on the ikwuk that was made with wood from shreded fronds of the coconut tree. The red clay beneath my bare foot and on the walls were new and still moist. The hut smelled like the river. I stretched my legs on a smaller ikwuk so the servant could reach and trim my toe nails. Carefully he placed every cutting of the nail he took beside each other like a decoration piece. He did same for my hands. Afterwards he wrapped the cut nails within the fresh green leave of a cocoyam plant and handed it to me with all carefulness. In gratitude I handed him one palm fruit from my hand bag. He buried it within his cheeks. I walked on.

It was evening now. I spread the twenty frailing nails in a straight line on the narrow path that snaked round the forest, and went to hide in waiting behind thick leaves. Hours passed. The evil spirits refused to cross over it. The python in its cockiness noticed the nails but chose to crawl over them, and immediately stopped dead. I bent beside it and wrapped it in a curl to fit my saddle bag. I kept walking.

I dragged the bag behind me to the market that sold at night: the one my father told me the evil spirits sold too. But there was silence where there should be battering banters and whistles from the rat poison seller. The air smelled of baked harmttan earth. I walked on, dragging my heavy carriage behind me.

I made a fire and fell a young banana fruit. I peeled off its hard green skin and grated the white flesh into a paste. My remaining nails were turning purple. I sliced the python into my pot to prepare oto with it. The python boiled with such rage that it toppled the pot and quenced the fire. I took the remaining of the python and stretched it at the backyard.

Then I kept walking, into the dead of the night...

To be continued...

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Thank you for reading so far. I hope you enjoyed it. Here's Bustic's music as promised... in Efik language 😉 :