TILL WE MEET AGAIN

For centuries, these words have been in my tribe, living on the lips of its people. Death has also been in my tribe. As common as it may seem, in our tribe, it comes at expected times.

There’s a tradition in our village. Every two years, a young lady from each of the twelve tribes must be go to meet the gods of the land so that the people might be blessed.

I was a little girl then holding the rigid finger of my mother. The sky was dark and it was filled with smoke. A huge fire could be seen in the middle of the village square. Its red and black fingers reached up to the sky. There were women dancing around it. Each of them holding a captured chicken by its legs. The men stayed farther behind, playing their instruments and conjuring strange spirits and invoking incantations.

Among the children there, I was the only one who appeared afraid. I saw my mates, most especially my half siblings running around the square in reckless abandon. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood.

Slowly, the music came to a halt. Everyone stopped moving. The only sound that was heard was the crackling and spitting sound of fire. The women stood at attention looking straight at the fire, then they killed the chickens they held and bathed themselves in the blood that poured out.

We all stayed there, waiting. For what??

All of a sudden, a booming sound was heard. Someone had blown the glorious gong. Immediately, the women let out a victorious shout and ran straight into the fire or rather….they all jumped into the fire. My eyes widened in shock. My lips were suspended in thin air. They lost their function to speak. I could hear their screams. The sizzling sound of roasting flesh, the sound of ooze melting in fire…

I looked up and beheld my townsmen. They were all quiet. Their lips silently moving….”Till we meet again in the world beyond…go and serve your purpose”….

For minutes that never seemed to end, the screams could be heard. Soon, it died down and another kind of scream arose. Ululation, cries of joy and happiness filled the air. The men had come closer, hugging one another and juggling down kegs of the local drink. Some other women were seen praising the gods and praying for their own time to come when they can also serve them in like manner. It was then I noticed the familiar hand that held mine. I looked up at my mother. Her face showed a true feeling of sadness but her words spoke different. When I asked her what all that was about, she only told me to pray that I get to be chosen for the same purpose.

The same purpose. But mother, your daughter was among those women??? I yearned to tell her. The girl you’ve been so proud of. The same one who defended you when those sly market women wanted to cheat you of your space. She just jumped into fire and had her bones and flesh not only seared but burnt to ashes. You want the same for me. Have you no conscience, no emotion? Her eyes were wet with tears and her lips quivered, even the words she said shook with pain.

“Till we meet again…go and serve your purpose”

I was a little girl then but now I’m older. I understand better. At least, more than before. But I’ll be lying if I say that I’m not confused at it all. Now as my aged mother gently rubs the divine substance on my body, preparing me for the journey to the great one, I am mad, angry, frustrated at the culture of my people.

As my thoughts drove me through my reality, I felt a burning pain on my arm. I shifted back at the sight of the heated iron the priestess held to my face. Her old, mashed up face, donning a simplistic but evil look.

‘Be quiet. You’re not allowed to speak until the ritual is complete.’

She pressed the hot metal unto my skin. My eyes screamed tears in agony. I stared at my mother who had been standing by the door, watching everything with weak eyes. At that moment, a pain greater than the one I felt on my skin seized my heart. Rage burned within me as I glared at her.

She looked at me and turned around and left the room. The iron was lifted and a glowing red mark remained. The mark of death.

The ritual was complete. Now, I was to wait in the room until the gods called for our lives. Mine and the eleven maidens chosen.

I was no longer a human. No longer a living creature. My life had been offered to the deities in exchange for peace and plenty. Tradition considered me a living corpse, slowly drifting towards the final abode.

So, this was fate. I have surrendered to fate.

I sat in that room for hours, not thinking, not speaking, not seeing, not breathing but living. It was quiet and lonely, until the last day when I was brought out and pushed to the market square where that hated fire danced, burning with rapid intensity.

The scene of twelve years ago played itself. I saw the maidens being led to their death, the elders chanting as they stood far away, the women speaking in hushed tones….

My half-siblings now watching with placid eyes, some children running around just as they did years ago and my little sister holding the rigid fingers of my mother.

I smiled at her and she smiled back. Her innocent eyes begged me to explain what was happening. I couldn’t. I wish I could.

Just then, when the evening sky had gone completely dark and the heavens seemed to have been enveloped by the smoke, the glorious gong was blown and I, with my eyes and heart reaching to the heavens, went to fulfill my purpose.