K-Leg Protocol: A Novel

Prologue

There was a time when folktales walked a fine line, surviving centuries and moving from one generation to another. But this generation, it has become extinct—through lack of interest, perhaps. Nevertheless, there has been a flicker of light, showing all hope of revival hasn’t been lost—for it has been discovered that the telling of folktales has not lost its flavour in the village of Neke, a community in West Africa.

Enthusiasm has flared to relight the tradition and spread it like wildfire among those who heard folktales whenever they were told. Little children, especially, were at the forefront of this revival, and would gather under the sacred tree in the village square to hear folk tales told by the elderly people. If, you graced the gathering and got to hear the retelling of one of these tales, you would be reliving a long oral tradition of story-telling and left yearning for more. This would be especially so should the folktale be told by a particular raconteur, a man deemed to be the oldest in the village. This man, as it is believed, was one who witnessed the beginning of the last century as a child.

It is not surprising, then, that this man’s story-telling was fascinating and unique. It never stopped charming many people, both old and young alike. His name was Nnaa Bob, but he was nicknamed ‘Old Soldier’ because he took part in the Second World War when his regiment was taken to Burma. From there, he was moved to the Congo fighting the enemies. He was the only surviving war hero from the region of his remote village. His kinsmen, believing he had died together with ten others who were recruited from the village, organised a memorial service, for they had not seen any sign of them for three years after the war had ended.

Suddenly, however, seven years after that memorial service, the Old Soldier reappeared, and the village erupted like a volcano! But this time it was on account of great excitement as the villagers welcomed a ‘dead man’ back to life. Their enthusiasm knew no bounds. Any other activity that day other than celebration came to a standstill.

As the years rolled by, the Old Soldier improved with age. He never had a day’s serious illness. Out of curiosity, he was asked about the secret of his longevity. He smiled lavishly, revealing a white set of teeth. All were intact! It bewildered many, considering he never used toothpaste or a toothbrush, but preferred a chewing stick instead. As the Old Soldier started his story, to the surprise of his audience, he told them, it was the invention of the hospitals that brought more germs to their land. The people were better off, he maintained, relying on local herbs they could gather from the bush. These could be boiled and used in bathing water, should there be sickness such as malaria. Or better still, they could be cooked and drank to cure illnesses such as stomach ache and headache.

When he stretched out his right hand one noticed, near his armpit, a scar. Perhaps it was a reminder of his military involvement and a ‘badge of war’, as he preferred to call it. According to him it was the herbs in the bush he picked and squeezed, extracting water, which was poured on his gunshot wound. A few minutes later, he said, the bullet was extracted from his wound without any infection.

Time and time again he had consultations in the bush—a good ‘hospital’, he thought, for the foliage he’d use for medicine. Without an iota of doubt, some, consciously or unconsciously, have died in silence. Shyness has deprived a lot of people of good things. His free medicinal service was one, which he rendered to those who cared to come, and they were few. Usually, they would come at night, like Nicodemus, to receive some medicine from him in order to avoid being upbraided by their friends for patronising him.

However, two of his great-grandsons were ardent admirers of him and lovers of his medicine, despite the objection raised by their parents. The boys virtually lived with him and went to school from his house.

Many loved the Old Soldier, for his grasp of history was excellent. But his critical opinion about hospitals was not acceptable to most people. He was entitled to his opinion, nevertheless.

Nnaa Bob would sit on a three-legged wooden chair, resting his aching back against the fibre back of the chair, stretching out his thin legs whose flesh barely seemed to cover the bones. His eyes had sunk an inch deep into his face. Little children would sit around him, not minding those bony legs which, they thought, a palm-kernel could be broken on without any harm to the legs. Because the story he was engaged in telling was as exciting as a novel, they would keep their ears wide open to catch every word from him.

With an effort of will, despite his frail body, he walked to the village square one night, as usual, to do what he knew how to do best, a mental exercise that has kept his memory alive and was a form of release for his imprisoned mind.

He was mulling over what story he could tell. Perhaps it would be the story of a great man, a former leader of a great country during the Second World War; he could tell his listeners how the man broke the news to his nation that they were at war. In his raffia bag, he had the famous picture of the great man, holding up two of his fingers. In that war, when it ended, they raised their heads high. Or he could tell how oil was discovered in his village and his people’s happiness had waned. The latter was gaining more momentum in his mind because recent events in his village had shown he had to, for they were very topical.

But again, he was hesitant because another subject was in his mind, very strongly. Whichever topic he settled for should touch his audience in a vital way, and must be urgent, too.

As usual, he was being assisted by two of his great-grandsons. One carried the three-legged wooden chair whilst the other was helping him walk. It took him close to thirty seconds to make a single step but he was a dogged man. He had survived fierce mind-wrenching artillery, what many would deem a mortal wound, random bombings, indiscreetly hauled dynamites, and crassly mauled artillery, among other lethal weaponry. So, walking for him was a minor issue. Old soldier, he thought, people would say, never dies!

Within the perimeter of the village square, Nnaa Bob abruptly stopped. He took out a small piece of old cloth, which he often used as a handkerchief from his raffia bag, dabbing his face. Then he lobbed the old cloth-cum-handkerchief over his shoulder, chasing off a wasps. He gritted his teeth and gave a moan of horror. Suddenly, he quietly spoke to the night as if he was addressing an enemy in the battlefield. He staggered a bit before his great-grandson held him by the hand. He mumbled something to the boy.

Hey! Bobby, the boy said.

Bobby was four steps ahead of them. He stopped and turned, struggling to balance the chair on his head.

Great daddy, the boy continued. It was a short name the two boys coined for their great-grandfather. He said, today, we are going to the open field instead of the village square.

The field, which was owned by the missionaries, was located at the outskirts of the village. It used to be an ‘evil forest’ before their arrival. Then, it was given to them because the villagers thought that the missionaries would be killed by the wild animals or the evil spirits. If, they entered the forest as folklore had it. No harm befell them, except suffering from malaria—and they had medications for that. The missionaries built a school, apart from their residential buildings.

But Ken, we are almost at the village square, Bobby protested. The great daddy’s movement is… to say the least, not good enough. He was thinking he could be carrying the wooden chair on his head for the next thirty minutes because of their snail-like pace. And the wooden chair was not getting lighter, either.

Your agitation is uncalled for, Ken countered. Go faster to the field and drop off the chair. Wait for us, we’ll get there. Ken spoke with a commanding tone. He was fifteen and four years older than Bobby.

The idea seemed good to Bobby, and he took off without delay. He recalled how he would play before the arrival of the old soldier and his elder brother. At least one schoolmate had promised him during the school session that she wouldn’t miss today’s folktale.

One more thing, Ken called after him, with an air of authority, let the people at the village square know that we are heading for the field.

Bobby never stopped running but the message was very clear to him. He had to drop off the seat first and deliver the message later. He thought his elder brother was becoming too bossy for his liking. It would result in massaging the mutinous instinct in him. Why shouldn’t Ken deliver the message as an envoy rather than the boss, he thought he was by the way he acted? Bobby jabbed his fist in the air, and letting out a long sigh of anger.

When the message was delivered to the people at the village square, many were disappointed and grudgingly went home. Some grumbled as they took their children towards the arena. Among those who were moving to the arena were those who did so purely out of curiosity, because rumour was making its way around that the Old Soldier was nearer to his grave now than ever before, and that this time he would never resurrect. Children, who were old enough to act independently, slipped away from their parents in order to secure a place in the arena.

Two friends bumped into each other in the rush.

Oh! Sorry. Nnaa Bob is not even at the field, a woman in her mid-twenties said, looking at the field and then to her side where her friend was almost running to keep up with her pace. She felt pity for her friend who was panting and couldn’t match her pace because she was pregnant. She reduced her pace, allowing her friend to catch up with her.

My dear, I learnt it’s now at the back of the school, the other woman replied.

Sometimes Old Soldier will play some tricks we can’t fathom how to explain, the first woman said. Had it not been for Nkechi who insisted being there, I should have been fast asleep in my bed. She drew nearer to her friend because there were some other people within the vicinity that were on the move. I’m keeping an eye closely on my girl, she confided. Nkechi and Bobby, the Old Soldier’s great-grandson, are schoolmates, but the way she is going she might eat the forbidden apple before her teens, which is an abomination.

You are right my dear, her friend said. And then she added, Do you know that Adaku no longer takes her bath in the open? She goes to the bathroom. God knows how many hours she spends there nowadays. Simply, two things like little mushrooms have appeared around her chest.

Chineke! the first woman exclaimed. Your daughter, she is only seven or eight years old.

She’s eight, her friend replied.

Yeah, the first woman quipped. Now I think of it, Nkechi is three years older than her.

They stopped talking when an acquaintance they both knew joined them. Not every issue should be for everybody’s ears. Silence was a handsome groom in such a situation and it never disappointed or betrayed any confidences. It pained the two women, thought, to resort to silence because conversationally they were on a high cruising altitude. In fact, they had engaged top gear in their chatting. At the point they could barely restrain themselves from discussing the intimate family matter that had engaged their interest.

Walking into the arena, they were a little late, for Nnaa Bob had started his story. From what they heard, layers of memory were being slowly peeled back like a chef does with onion; a real story was in the offing, not a fable, nor the tortoise myth. They were surprised by the size of the huge crowd already gathered there, despite those who had left due to change of venue. The silence was total, and only the voice of Nnaa Bob could be heard, crystal clear—to the shame of those who traded in gossip, saying the old soldier had one foot in the grave. His voice tonight rang out loud and clear, and never betrayed any sign of weakness or diminished strength.

The moon was at its brightest, shining from its full 360-degree circumference. There was no need for the local ‘Otanja’ lights which were normally placed at the rectangular points around the gathering.

The two women searched within the gathering, seeking answers to their unspoken questions about Nkechi and Adaku. The first woman told her friend that Nkechi had disappeared from the village square when the venue was changed. It was the same with her daughter, her friend replied. Luck smiled at them, as they didn’t ask many questions before they located the two girls.

Without doubt, it was them. The two women, relieved, sat down three rows behind their children, keenly watching as they lent their ears to the storyteller.

One

In the lobby of a three-star hotel two men were engaged in a game of snooker, at the far end of the room. Once in a while someone directed by the receptionist approached them, wanting to know how he could locate a room. If they recognised a person as a member, one of the snooker players, who wore a big cross suspended from a necklace, would press a button with his leg, whereupon a door leading to the underground stairs would open to allow the person to walk in. The two snooker players argued about everything. The two were engaged in an argument over something concerning the number when four to five persons came in, all within an interval of ten minutes. After leaving, the players would resume their game. It wasn’t long before they agreed that the number had been completed and the time had come for them to join the others. They dropped their snooker sticks and went to the location underground.

It was a meeting point for an organisation. The room was spacious, sparsely furnished, but eyebrows were always raised each time a non-member mistakenly walked into it. Maybe because of this, doll babies were arranged on a big table. Each had a name tag of a thing or a place. It might have been fascinating had it not been for a red substance that was poured on some of the doll babies with dates attached to them. And there was a huge candlestick with a red candle burning at the centre of the table.

The people, who had trooped into the room, were fifty in number, well trained on how to ride horses. Their trade included gun toting and throwing of arrows. Their machetes always smelt of human blood. The job they always accepted was to annihilate.

Not even once had they failed to collect their stipends in full and up front for a job that needed to be executed with precision and without any trace. Some lived among the locals whilst others were outsiders. The locals never played an active role if the target happened to be within, although they did provide the logistics.

If anything entered into their radar, which included Neke for long a time, the mercenaries would stop at nothing to fulfil their part. Except, perhaps, where it seemed the logistics indicated they’d had some glitches before these were rectified. But tonight they would stop at nothing to carry out the job they were paid to do.

A man who wore a long black cloth and a white hood on his head approached the table. He examined the dollies, one after the other. When he got to the one tagged ‘Neke’, a flicking smile of hatred lit up his face as he raised the object. Others gathered, circling round the table. When he stretched out his other hand someone put a small bowl in it. Then he put the bowl down on the table and dropped the doll baby into it. Reaching for a knife, he pierced it and poured some red wine over it.

He removed the tag and wrote the word ‘Midnight’. Almost at the same moment others consulted their wrist watches. It was three hours before their macabre party, when they planned to close a chapter and punch their ticket for another. A ‘job well done’ would always attract a similar one to the executioner.

Is the informant back? the man in black attire asked, sipping some wine from the bowl. Then he passed the wine to the next person on his right.

Yeah, the informant replied.

This time, no f**k up, right?

Only a few little hitches here and there.

Again, the man in black attire fumed, elucidate.

The old soldier was at his tricks once more. A message went round to the people who had settled at the village square that their venue has been changed; it will now be at the missionary open field. There was a maze of confusion, the informant said. The bowl of wine reached him. He sipped from it and handed it to the next person on his right. I checked out those places and nobody was there. However, I saw people going to their houses but the crowd was not as large as it ought to be, he added.

Do you think they have left for another village?

Not unlikely, the informant said.

The paymasters might have termed the project a failure because of time lost, time that would not be recovered. So it became imperative that anything left must be salvaged at all costs. Again, plan-A apparently not going to plan, plan-B was resorted to. The man in black attire was caressing some dollies with future dates. As for the old soldier, he wouldn’t wait to dismember him. The man thought and then said, It has to be tonight. Given the urgent alacrity and vulgarity in his voice, no-one present had the courage or the effrontery to challenge him. The bowl returned to him. He drank what was left and dropped it on the table.

They hummed.

As they came, they left, leaving no trail at the hotel.

They lay waiting in the nearest bush near the village square. At midnight, as agreed, they rode out in full force, set the market on fire, and then proceeded to the houses in the village: within twenty minutes these were also on fire. They waited to ensure that any human being who came out was silenced. Convinced that no single soul was left alive in the village, they fired their guns into the air. Shouting and the neighing of horses trailed their exit.

Nkechi never liked the idea of staying near to Adaku on the night of a new moon, though they were close friends. She thought, the nearer Adaku stayed with her the further Bobby would keep away. She knew that Bobby disliked her because she parroted a lot.

Even so, though she hadn’t seen his face properly this night, his voice told her much. So, Nkechi deliberately snored but was never near to sleep. It was a pretence, to get Adaku to sleep. Perhaps it paid off or attracted her friend as well. It was about fifteen minutes or so before Adaku fell asleep, resting her head on Nkechi’s lap. She waited for another five minutes, and when she was convinced Adaku was in deep asleep she methodically and gently removed her friend’s head from her lap.

She reached for Bobby, whispering into his ears, and he agreed to her proposal. Nkechi left immediately while Bobby waited another few minutes before following her.

She was scared to death during the few minutes she was waiting for Bobby. She hid behind a tree, softly humming, calling out Bobby’s name to let him know where she was. She was relieved when she got a response. The sounds and panting combined were getting closer to where she was. She hummed, Bobby, is that you?

Nkky, I’m he, he hummed back. Hope you weren’t in any trouble? The two had learned this soft humming form of communication, and it had become a language to them, except when they were at school where it would have sounded peculiar to those outside their coterie.

No trouble at all, she said, trying very hard to cover her initial fear.

It pleased him to hear this. Meeting her like this, in secret, was an excitement that enhanced the pleasure of being with her. Then, he kissed her. His hands went to her chest. She gently brushed them away. Still, he told her that her boobs were growing beautifully well. When he tried to get to her undies, she jumped up as if something was about to bite her leg. She reminded him about their agreement, to keep the consummation of their relationship as a birthday gift in their eighteenth year.

He whined, and then conceded. But, he pointed out, he would be surprised if they could keep a birthday cake for six years and a few months without eating some pieces of it before the D-day.

Mildly, she laughed.

They sat down together, enjoying each other’s company. Nkechi was eager to learn music and its dancing steps which had eluded her mainly because she was shy. In the area of music, she was a misfit among her female peers. She expressed her wish to have some coaching in musical chairs and dancing. At first, Bobby discouraged her, but then stood up and built her confidence. Listen, he said, it’s supposed to be a game played by four or more people. One person must be running around others while they clap their hands for the person. He was gesturing to indicate the positions of imaginary people. He asked her if she understood.

Yeah, yeah, she crooned.

If you are the person running round when the music stops, you must touch someone among those who form the circle. That person will take over from you; then her position will become yours, too. Now, do you understand?

Yeah, she muttered.

Satisfied that she was keenly following his instructions, he continued, The song is a ‘kpa-kpa ngolo’ lyric. You must reply, kpa ngolo.

Realising that she would be able to fall in line without much ado whenever their playmates gathered, her face lit up with laughter—what had seemed difficult to her she now understood. She had learned with ease without any sense of personal shame due to a failure to grasp the explanation. Bobby was a patient teacher, so there was no danger of any sense of humiliation of any sort under his guidance.

Bobby excused himself to answer the call of nature. A little distance away from her, he pulled his trousers down and began to empty his bowels. At that moment the silence of the night was shattered by a noise one might associate with an inferno! The sound of planks and roof zincs cracking down heavily was pervasive, mixed with some kind of human wailing. Hurriedly, he finished his business there.

Then, he moved swiftly towards the village from where the sounds were coming. He stood transfixed, seeing tongues of flame leaping up to a dangerous dimension. Was the entire village on fire? His entire body was shivering before he managed to bring it under control. Then, he ran back to Nkechi, urging her to hurry back to the missionary ground. He ignored her queries of what had kept him in the bush longer than necessary.

Two

No place like home, John Ikeoha thought. After a long journey, it was nice to breathe in the fragrance of his house, and his Obi. Tired, famished, he nevertheless needed to read a story which had gory pictures. Ignoring the rumblings of his stomach, he sat down in front of his house, crossed his legs and settled with a newspaper. He yawned and began to read.

Not long thereafter his