“Hey! Who’re you? “
The invisible borders of the forest bounced the notes back in an echo: Permeating the consciousness of its solitude. Tortoise shivered, not as expected. That shouldn’t have happened. Ain’t this every-kinda-forest? He’d thought. Even at that, being at the depth of the village’s rear should not change the fact that twas yet a forest – where animals dwell- to him. What could have spoken was still a mirage to him- extended hypnotism.
Famine had taken another form in his village – a gigantisque form that merged with the torpedoes in brutality. Their offshoot being an enormous drought that plied the harvest ruthlessly till it became lean, stressing its inability of bearing the inhabitants of the land in strength and health. There by in extension, amounting to prolonged demise and sickness, seconded by the motions moved by disease against the inhabitants of the land.
Since the land – mother Earth- had refused to complement the efforts of the farmers in the land, tortoise then had knuckled under straying off the surburbs of the geographic setting to make a plantation in another land, especially in the heart of the Alumajara forest where the voice had startled him as he dug his hoe into the earth to make ridges.
He’d nursed the idea tossed at his brain by the plight, – take to his heel – but five days relentless journey would not spare him if he’d sustained the idea. Thus, he spoke back at the voice, ensuring that the grandeur of his tone was remixed by gentility, per syllable:
“I’m Tortoise “
“What do you want? ”
More assertive now.
“I want to make ridges. “
At that, he thought that he would be sent away or demanded of a price before such step would be taken, but to his utmost dismay, the chip-off-old-block of the strange voice elated his being:
“Hey all, tortoise is here, he wants to make ridges, let’s all help him out. “
Before those words were out, hoes held by invisible hands were seen plying the earth as bushes were cleared and hundred of ridges took their turns in an heart taking assembly.
Tortoise was swept off his feet as his eyes betrayed his heart, “oh my ghost, ” he wanted to scream.
Thus did he traverse that route at intervals for planting, hoeing the weeds as assisted by the invisible hands jerked into actions by their master, until his son noticed his absence and followed him stealthily on the day of the weeding, until he saw the heart taking yam ostending their healthiness.
Few months later, tubers of yam yet to be edible, Tortoise’s son made for the forest for harvest. On arrival, he drove the hoe into the earth as it went flying in the air at the call of the strange voice – yet, unknown to him:
“Hey! Who’re you”
” I’m tortoise’s son “
None of Tortoise’s offshoot was ever a coward.
” What do you want? “
Now glazed with joy.
” I want to harvest these tubers of yam “
He couldn’t wait for the response. He was about extending nuances before the voice rung again, calmly now:
“Hey all, Tortoise’s son is here, he wants to harvest these tubers of yam, let’s help him out. “
Before he could think, heaps of tubers of yam in sundry range mocked his height as they tend to be pillars towering over him.
He took two weeks with him to gather the produce, and absconded with all to a village beyond the Oriasanpe river, where he was wholeheartedly welcomed by thin throats.
At the time when the tubers of yam should be edible, Tortoise haven eaten leftovers at home, trailed the tracks, toppling through in gay. But arriving at the spot, his eyes betrayed his heart, not in former suit, but in a new regalia, fashioned with thorns and phlegm – citadel of heartbreak.
“Yeeeeee…… paaaa……. hhhhhh”
His throat almost went out of his mouth at the scream as he dropped on the earth, hitting his head ferociously with his hands – a rhythm as jive, rendered to him by the sight.
“Hey! Who’re you? “
The thud made when his body
hit the earth had jerked the strange voice into sanity.
” It’s Tortoise “
His voice embroidered with tears, breaking in sobbing melody, idiosyncratically.
“What do you want? ”
His brain was his no longer. Blinded by emotions. No rethink before the comet went off his mouth to explode his sky:
“I am crying. I want to hit my head again and again till I die. “
His plight had driven his larynx and the strange voice couldn’t discern the mood of humans: matter-of-factly, it ain’t one.
Tortoise wanted to continue blabbing curses owed to his plight before the voice – stranger now- intruded, joyfully.
“Hey all, Tortoise wants to his head again and again till he dies, let’s help help him out. “
19:08:03:16:55
Note: According to one of the African oral folktale as narrated by a favorite lecturer, Dr Jegede.
Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. Ancestral Piece. A Folktale
Ancestral Trail 