The Death Of A Chief

A gentle and imposing flute player,

Lie awake in the early hours of the morning, 

He scratched his bald head with his right hand, 

An overpowering sadness numbed him deeply as, 

He tried to strike a favourite tune,

For his mentor and friend.

The village crier, accompanied by his faithful hounds,

Had announced the death of chief Konge,

His lamentations and drums had roused the hamlets of Nkalandu.

The stars shone in this quiet and icy night, 

The nocturnal owls nestled in clusters, 

Hooted softly on the branches of a Muvule tree with big glowing yellow eyes,

There was no usual croaking and crusty noise in the large swamp,

Only casual flirting and dancing of the tiger moths shadowing the bright silver moonlight,

The mating season had begun.

Hot tears gushed like a river,

Down the grey beard of the flute player.

He raised his polished gourd filled with banana brew to the sky,

Then, he sipped slowly and dreamily,

He spilled some beer all over the ground,

To appease the spirits of his forefathers.

Chief Konge had devoted his entire life to this community. 

The flute player recalled his efforts to educate and train young people. 

After he had returned from the USSR as a young erudite, and teacher, 

He found Nkalandu without potable water, no roads, no schools, or food supplies.

His mother had served a sour maize meal with weevil-infested hard-boiled beans!

This defined the moment in the chief's life,

He had summoned the village crier, 

Who crossed each homestead to round up all on a designated market day.

He kept quiet for minutes as the community whispered among themselves, 

On the substance of such an impromptu gathering.

From his lofty pavilion on a built-up shelter, 

Made of yellow bamboo and thatched grass,

His deep voice had bellowed, and rumbled like thunder,

Everyone had stopped mumbling! 

He had recounted to his people,

The marvels of the Soviets.

As they had surmounted all hardships, war, famine, and death,

To reconstruct their land, to feed their hungry masses,

Exploiting local raw materials and people skills.

The chief laid out the plan and the resources required to transform the homesteads.

The first years pained and strained, everyone,

But their efforts had yielded fruit, Nkalandu received fresh and filtered water for domestic use and animals, 

Schools multiplied in each hamlet to teach the young generation, surplus food, coffee, cotton was traded for machines.

This evolution had started four decades ago.

The flute maestro fell asleep for about an hour,

Someone squeezed his arm tightly,

Mpalo, his eldest daughter, stood over him,

She pointed to the dark valley below, 

The ageing man couldn’t believe his sleepy eyes,

Nkalandu community had lit fires in every compound, and village streets,

Strong, sorrowful singing and drumming rumbled for miles and miles. 

He drank his sweet-sour beer and took out his flute again and blew over it,

The winds carried his sweet, soulful melodies, acknowledging the demise of a great leader, 

A passing generation. 

Death to him remained a meandering procession, just a fleeting shadow, a return to mother earth.

He closed his eyes momentarily, and wished chief Konge safe sails beyond the celestial divide.