The Clans

A priest was dead.

A dead Priest was nothing unusual here. The clans cared about dead priests as much as they did the expansive sky or the huge rocks atop the hill where snakes basked after ecdysis. They were just things that were always there but had nothing to do with them. A priest would die, and another priest would be sent to replace him. That’s how it had been for the past five hundred years.  Long after the white man had built his church and proclaimed himself the Lord of the Land. Long after the white man’s clans had declared wars against each other, mopping the world in blood. Long after the white man had granted The Clans and other African clans the rights to be people, albeit to lesser degrees of ‘peopleness’. Long after the African governments had risen and, with the help of the white man, crumbled in the debris of their co-making. The church and its priests had been here for a long time, and the clans, much, much longer.

On Sundays, the majestic cathedral atop the hill would teem with ‘heaven-bound life’. All the clans wearing pristine smiles and immaculate suits would gather here in rare moments of unity to pay reverence to a god they never cared to understand. The gong would sound at exactly 9 AM to signify the start of mass, and the choir, dressed in robes whiter than the priest’s skin, would begin doing what the priest says everyone will do all day long in heaven.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena…. Ave, Ave Dominus. Dominus tecum,” the choir led the singing in Latin.

“Apee Maria min Yesus Kristus Ruodhwa…” the clans chorused in Luo-nized Latin. This would go on for an hour, sometimes more.

Veni Creator Spiritus, the monks invoked the spirit of the creator.

Mentes tuorum visita

Imple superna gratia

Quae tu creasti pectora

Their symphonic voices engulfed the ageing Cathedral like the stench of rotting flesh.

It was all ridiculous. This was one of the few things the clans could agree upon. Going to heaven to forever sing about a virgin woman who gave birth over two thousand years ago? Who would want to go to such a place anyway? Which clan of nitwits would want that? The clans exchanged accusatory glances: Not us. Not us, either. Certainly, most definitely not us. It was settled then. Like their forefathers before them, none of the clans ever bought into these ridiculous performances.

But this white priest and his people believed the tasteless wine he served the clans was the blood of the son of god, and the dry bread was his body. The clans found it hilarious watching him clown around, saying one bad thing about the Creatures of the Night, and another about the Messengers of Juogi, the ancient spirits. They laughed inwardly at his gaucherie – plain stupidity and chorused Amen! when he mentioned heaven.

The truth is, there were vicious things lurking in the shadows of this village, crawling beneath its forests and revelling in the cover of its darkness. Things that would literally and figuratively explode Father Makarios’ head if he ever knew of their existence. Things so powerful and feral that even his god wouldn’t be able to save him from their claws. The clans were only too happy to protect the oblivious priest from these secrets. So every Sunday, they wore sharp suits and shiny Kitenge dresses, ascended the hill for the church, yelled Amen to Makarios’ god, and rebuked this guy called Satan, who was jealous of Makarios and his people.

But when the evenings came and the sun had gone to the realm beyond, they offered sacrifices to Were, the God of the Eye of the Rising Sun, on the same hill, and thanked the spirits for the continued prosperity of the clans.

For it was neither the building nor the god that resided within its walls that was poignant to the clans. It was the hill—what it was before the white man built his church, what it is now, what it will always be for the next generations until the end of time, the source of the clans’ power. For so long as the hill held its place, the clans would always be here.

***

The imposing Got Okumba hill held a defiant stance against the rather plain countryside, almost like an errant Superhero standing over the debris of a building he had just smashed. It was not very high. At least not as high as Got Rabuor or the Gusii hills beyond the lake. When you stood at the hill’s feet, it didn’t seem like its head touched the clouds like the other hills. But somehow, it appeared more regal. Even enigmatic. As if it held, within its core, ethereal secrets to the foundation of the universe.

A cul-de-sac meandered across Got Okumba’s feet, cutting through hamlets of related clans that despised each other most of the time unless it was Sunday, Christmas, or Easter, or there was a new priest at the cathedral or a person who was hated by everyone died. The death of a beloved clansman, on the other hand, would almost certainly prelude a war since good people didn’t just die, they had to be killed by the other clan.

At the helm of the clans was the JoKaChieng, Creatures of the Night.  As they were revered for their strength, so were they loathed. What’s not to hate? This clan insisted on defying every known law of nature. Instead of a brief human existence, they could live for centuries. In place of human frailty, they had the strength of 10 horses, the agility of cats, the speed of the wind, and the annoying ability to evade death.

But it was not always so.

In the old days, when the world was young and the lush green of Got Okumba was a rippling cloak of many colours, tiny human families foraged the wild vegetation that colonised the hill. But they were weak and struggled against superior predators whose hunting prowess they could not match. Possessing neither the strength of the lions nor the speed and agility of the cheetahs, these families clamoured at the mercies of those who bested them. And in the presence of ferocious wolves and other beasts who ruled the nights, they stood no chance of safety or survival.

The sun rose and set, rose and set, and the forests grew louder with the roar of overfed lions, the chatter of hyenas whose numbers multiplied by the day, and the laughter of chimps who swung on high branches teasing the frail humans on the verge of starvation. The vultures watching these emaciated bipeds lumber about, salivated over their living corpses. The cheetahs ambushed their caves for fun, and the monkeys violently robbed them of their gatherings just because they could.

Every day, the families looked up to the sun, waiting—waiting for the gift of Were, the God of the Eye of the Rising Sun, waiting for the light.

Suddenly, looking up, one morning after a long night, the families saw the rising sun descend upon Got Okumba. The world was covered in solid, palpable darkness but the hill shone with such blinding light. The lions swallowed their roars and ran for their dens, the cheetahs and the chimps scaled the highest trees for cover, the hyenas whimpered for their lives, and the forest fell silent but the soft murmur of the trees.

The Earth trembled like a beating drum and the hill coughed out fire and smoke. Then the trees and the rivers and the tiny birds of the forests broke into an awesome singing of a song never heard before:

It’s time. It’s time.

For the intelligent ones to rise.

It’s time.

For the clans to begin.

It was a grandeur like none had seen before, a power unlike any the Earth had ever experienced. Finally, Were, the God of the Eye of the Rising Sun, had come. And the families rejoiced, breaking into a song that had been cooking in their hearts since the beginning of time—a song whose time had finally come.

Ndalo osechopo

Gweth Were Nyasach wang’ chieng’

Osebiro mopoto

Wabiro rieny nyakachieng’

The rivers and the trees joined in the singing, and the birds riding upon mighty winds carried these ageless tunes to the farthest corners of the Earth.

It’s time. It’s time.

Suddenly and without warning, so it’s told, a voice like thunder sounded from the dazzling hill, chilling every bone that heard it speak.

“Let the families die. Let the clans begin.”

Arrows made of light flew from the hill, landing on each family member. Thus, the families became distinct clans, with each clan a custodian of a unique gift and responsibility that would protect and sustain the clans for generations to come.

To JokaChieng, the gifts of strength, speed, agility, and endurance were given. They would forever be the superior hunters, top-of-the-food-chain predators, and the protectors of all the other clans. Where other predators could bite, they would bite harder. Where they had speed, they would be faster.  Everything was heightened.  As the primary protectors and food providers, they also became nocturnal, spending the nights prowling the forests hunting. For as long as the sun’s rays graced the hill every morning, Were the God of the Eye of the Rising Sun, decreed that this would always be so.

JokaLal, the second clan, was bestowed with the rarest gift of all; the power to heal. To them, Were revealed the ancient secrets of the universe and all the creations in their vivacity and splendour. Nothing was left hidden under the soil or above the clouds. Not the secrets of the succulent roots buried deep down the ground nor the dust of stars above. Human, animal, and plant anatomies laid before them with as much clarity as the thoughts in their heads. JokaLal would speak the language of animals, and understand the whispers of the plants, for Were had gifted them his omniscient understanding, and healing touch. They became Ajuoke, forever preserving the health of the clans.

The third clan, JokaMbaga became JoJuogi, the living link between the clans and the realm of the Juogi, the ancestral spirits. As long as they lived, the clans and the spirits would co-exist, affecting each other’s world and being in service to one another and to Were. When JokaMbaga spoke, they did so with the voice of Juogi. And when they were silent, it was because they were in communion with the spirits who revealed the secrets of the past, the present, and the future. There was not a thing that happened without their knowledge. They knew of every birth before it occurred and every beating heart before it stopped. They had long foreseen the coming of the white man centuries before it happened. And before that same white man laid the first stone for the church, JokaMbaga had foreseen it.

The semi-immortality gifts of JokaChieng allowed them to play custodians of the clans’ past.  And now more than ever, that astute ancient knowledge was needed to save the clans. For their very survival was in jeopardy.

Trouble was coming, and everyone could see it. Even those blinded by ignorance felt the imminent catastrophe. Got Okumba looked sadder by the day; like it was held in a loop of eternal shudder. The air was less brisk. Thick dark clouds hung low and sullen, and when it rained the water was bitter and acidic. The soils were progressively turning into patched rocks. And the forest’s morning and evening songs had long dissipated. The hunts were less and less successful. The medicinal portions barely worked. And it had been many nights since Nyawawa, the windy chariots that carried Juogi the ancestral spirits, visited the clans.

***

Ruoth Omollo Ka Nyunja, the head of the JokaChieng clan, and the supreme leader of all the clans held his two fangs in the palm of his hands to the disbelief of the other two elders who sat beside him shaken and stupefied.

“That’s impossible!” Jaduong Ochieng Sijeh of JokaMbaga spat.

“It cannot be!” Jaduong Omaga Sirony of JoKaLal added, shaking his head apprehensively.

“And yet it is,” Chief Omollo said pointedly, his solemn face betraying no emotions. The other junior elders craned their necks to catch a glimpse of this rare spectacle; the two fangs now laying on the odundu table.

Besides Omollo Ka Nyunja, only a few other members of the JokaChieng clan had lived long enough to see a chief lose his fangs. Omollo himself had only witnessed this happen once – to his old father. But when his father lost his fangs, he was way past his time at 380 years old.

A tall, middle-aged-looking man with a thick coal-black mop of hair, sharp brown eyes, and a lean muscular build, Chief Omollo Ka Nyunja could easily be mistaken to be the youngest person in this gathering. On the contrary, at 205 years old, most people were not even a quarter his age. Chief Omollo, the most experienced warriorworrier alive had lived long enough to defend the clans in hundreds of wars stretching over several decades. He even fought for the White Man in faraway lands like Burma and Egypt, securing victories for the white clan he said were called JoBritain. While the members of his clans were known for their superhuman fighting abilities, Omollo was especially renowned for his phenomenal strengths and such great speeds that in battle, it is said, he slaughtered his enemies in a blur.

And now, while his countenance revealed nothing, the great Ruoth Omollo Ka Nyunja, the son of the late Ruoth Nyunja Oballa of the JokaChieng clan, a mighty combatant; the deadliest fighter ever to walk the earth, was scared. And everyone knew it, for Chief Omollo Ka Nyunja was far too young to shed his fangs. Something had to be seriously amiss. This truth hung heavy in the air like a dark stormy cloud.

As usual with the clans, someone had to be responsible for this, and that someone had to pay with their life. JoKaChieng, fangs and claws out, snarled viciously, ready to shred every JoKaLal and JokaMbaga elder present into pieces. JoKaLal were the healers, surely they had to know about this strange illness affecting the great leader that was now threatening the clans’ very existence? And JokaMbaga with all the spirits whispering in their ears should have seen this coming and done something about it!

JoKaLal readied their deadly concoctions to defend themselves. JokaMbaga began chanting spells to summon the spirits of their dead clansmen to protect them against JoKaChieng.

But then strange unprecedented happenings occurred.

The super-agile JoKaChieng, sprinting mid-air in the attack, suddenly dropped to the ground like rotten fruits. The usually potent JokaLal’s magical concoctions were useless and the spirits did not heed the summons of JokaMbaga.

“What’s this?”

“What’s happening?”

For the first time ever, the clans’ disagreement had resulted in no bloodshed. The mayhem died almost as suddenly as it had begun and the clans looked up at the three senior elders like baby birds looking upon their mother.

Chief Omollo rose to speak. “I reckon we’ve now each had a first-hand experience of the gravity of our situation,” he began. “We were once inferior, unremarkable beings, foraging the dark underbellies of the forest. We had no light. We had no strength. We would cower in the presence of those who bested us. And then, Were, the God of the Eye of the Rising Sun, graced us with his light.  Now look at us!” He made a sweeping gesture. “See what we are.”

“We became strong. We became immutable. We became a great people. Those who rose against us, we crushed under our feet. And those who loathed us for our power, we laid to waste!”

“Ay ay!” the clans cried.

“We have always followed the path of the light, haven’t we?”

“We have!” JoKaMbaga and JoKaLal yelled back the loudest. It was no secret that some members of JoKaChieng, especially the younger ones, still untrained and susceptible to their raw primal urges, occasionally accidentally disemboweled strangers during their nightly prowls.

“We have made offerings to Were, the God of the Eye of the Rising Sun, every Sunday to thank him, and we have called upon Juogi whenever we are in need of help and guidance. We have protected the weak and returned good with good. We have extended a peaceful hand to those who mean us no harm. We have honoured the sanctity of the forest and all therein. We have always blessed every hunt and have never been as greedy as to kill more than we need.”

And then Chief Omollo’s voice dropped. “But now Were’s light no longer shines on Got Okumba.” He motioned to Jaduong Ochieng Sijeh of JoKaMbaga who rose to speak.

Outside, dark ominous clouds, heavy with rain hovered threateningly low.

“It’s true,” Jaduong Ochieng Sijeh began. “Those of us from JoKaMbaga have noticed this for some time now and I’m sure most of you have too,” His words were steeped in sadness and fear. “We are losing our power because Were’s light no longer shines on us.”

It began to rain, and ominous storms cackled from the hill.

“As long as the morning sun does not shine on the hill, I’m afraid…” he paused, swallowed hard. “I’m afraid we will all be wiped from existence.”

The rain drained the clans’ loud gasp. The howling of the winds sounded like a mighty door opening distance away. Some members of the clans clasped one another and began to weep.

Is it time? Is it time?

A flash of lightning lit the room—another monstrous cackle of thunder.

“Juogi no longer speaks to you, how do we know what the gods want?” A junior elder asked, her voice shaking with every word.

Juogi had saved the clans from all kinds of trouble in the past, always lending their guiding wisdom whenever needed. They’ve guided the clans through every disease outbreak. They’ve guided the clans through every tribal war. They guided the clans through the white man’s invasion. When little gadgets killed human relationships and a strange illness held the world hostage for years, Juogi covered the clans in its protective cocoon. Their guidance was needed now, but the spirit realm had severed its ties with the clans.

A flash of lightning. Thunder.

Jaduong Omaga Sirony’s shoulders stooped, his face a sunken hole of helplessness and fear. “O, Were Nyasach Wang Chieng’” he began an ancient prayer known only to the oldest members of JoKaLal clan. “Chief of the gods and the ancient spirits. He who speaks in thunder and says ‘Mondo Obedi’ and there is. He who lives above beyond, hidden by the clouds, that our mortal eyes might not see your greatness and be blinded by it. O Were, the creator of all, the seer of all, the ruler of all. He who was at the beginning, and shall always be for time and time again. In your love we’re never lost, under your grace, we’re never afraid. Ah God of Wang Chieng’ hear us now. Yes, mighty one, like our ancestors before us, we want to live. Come back to us once again, Nyasach Wang Nyieng. Reswa kendo wakwayi!”

The clans fell to the ground face flat, like their ancestors had done in the beginning of time.

“Kinsmen, I beg you, let’s not lose hope just yet,” Chief Omollo Ka Nyunja spoke pacing up and down with a sudden exuberance. “Didn’t our Ancestors say, once the mushroom has sprouted, there’s no turning back?” he posed for an effect. “We are here to stay, we are not going anywhere, there must be a solution…”

“Actually, there could be,” Jaduong Ochieng Sijeh cut in. “Before the spirits, well, cut us off, they did mention something.”

“Speak old man!” the clans cried in unison.

“The priest.”

“The priest, the priest, the priest.” The word reverberated from the hill to the rivers to the forests so every nook and cranny of the villages heard it. It all made sense now. Everything suddenly made sense.

***

At 35, Father Makarios Solario was the youngest priest ever posted to Got Okumba Cathedral. His thick-rimmed owlish glasses and hairy hands made him look older than his age, and his voice didn’t quite realize he was a mountain of a man. But he loved it here. The hilly terrain and the rich vegetation of this part of the world reminded him of his native Sicily, seas, and seas away.

On some evenings when the sun was a luscious orange in the sky, and he was particularly feeling homesick, he loved to take a leisure walk downhill to the streams where he would dip his white legs in the clear water and relish the wonderful sensation when little fishes nibbled on his hairy toes.

“Vatican was misguided,” he often thought to himself whenever he received yet another goat as a gift or when a clansman brought him some roasted meat which he would graciously receive but politely feed the four overgrown Alsatian dogs he came with from Italy. The Alsatians had been particularly helpful in game hunting which he and his friends occasionally indulged. With the dogs, he had ridden the forest of almost half its wild residents and had already started clearing sections of the forest for some tea plantation. And the clans’ villages were sequestered in some prime arable land. He would burn their grass-thatched shacks and force them to come live in the church. He chucked at the amusing thought of the clans living in the church. Maybe he would even plant grapes and make some wine for the church. Surely, an initiative like that would put his name on the Vatican’s tongue.

The clans were like nothing he was led to believe. They were barely human, uncouth savages, yes. But the Vatican had exaggerated a little. What were the words the Vatican had used? ‘Uncontrollable barbaric spiritualists’. “Human Demons” the Pope himself had spat out. He was controlling them just fine. The procession to the church had only grown larger since his arrival, and recently, he had even gotten some of the clan members, especially the younger ones, to serve in the church.

Today was not one of those evenings. The sun had not shown its face in weeks, and the lush green of the hill was wilting day after day as if some invisible force was draining the very essence of whatever kept the village alive. “Whatever kept the village alive,” Father Makarios stifled a giggle at the thought. Could it be true that there was more to the clans than he realized? That there was some truth to the Vatican’s warnings?

He would have rubbished these thoughts as the mere products of an idle mind, which is of course the devil’s playground, if a man he had thought was a myth wasn’t standing right on the other side of the confession box.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned,” Ruoth Omollo Ka Nyunja said in a monotone, his voice betraying no emotion such that Father Makarios could not tell whether or not he was mocking him.

This man looked exactly as he did in an old photo he had seen. But the photo was dated 1918. How could this be?

“I have never seen you in the church. Are you even Catholic?” Father Makarios asked apprehensively. He had heard a lot of things about this man, none of which he believed. He was the supreme leader of the clans and was supposed to be over two hundred years old. But the man standing here looked only a few years older than forty.

“I have walked this hill for a very long time, I cannot say for certain that I believe in anything like a god who lives in a building,” Omollo Ka Nyunja said. “But I’m about to take a life, and I doubt your god would be able to prevent it.”

Here, standing before him, Father Makarios could tell, was a being of ancient primal power. And even his refined suit did little to conceal the monster behind those brown eyes.

“You know Father, given our primal, violent nature, we are indeed the savages you and your people think of us. Still, I take no pleasure in what I’m about to do.”

Chief Omollo Ka Nyunja turned towards the giant window and stared outside at the once forested slopes that were now lying barren.

“It used to be so beautiful here,” he said, his back turned to the Father. “This was once a paradise, Father. The birds high up in the trees chirped both day and night because the forest was so dark they couldn’t tell the time. And the sweet scent of ripe succulent fruits pervaded the air in every nook and cranny of the villages. The rivers were so fresh, the water so pure.”

“And then you came and destroyed everything.” When he turned to face the Father, his eyes were like burning embers. And Makarios legs gave way for his knees. He wanted to say a prayer, but his tongue couldn’t move. He wanted to run, but to where?

Father Makarios saw the sharp claws like that of a giant eagle, and then he saw nothing else for the next second, his heart was beating on Omollo Ka Nyunja’s hand. The Chief let out a feral roar, and all the church’s window panes shattered.

That night, a great earthquake, never experienced before, brought down the 500-year-old church. And the next morning, the gladsome rays of the morning sun draped Got Okumba in an ethereal radiance. Soon, the birds would sing again.