Confident in the prowess of her warrior, Katisa had not the slightest doubt that Karamu would be victorious in his olmaiyo. Yet Chitendu spoke as though the youth were already dead, before his quest had even begun.
As though he were reading her thoughts, the oibonok laughed again. His cold eyes held Katisa’s like those of a serpent transfixing its prey. Katisa averted her gaze and tightened her grip on the hilt of her dagger.
“Must I ask you again to leave my manyatta?” she demanded. “If you do not go now, I will tell Karamu of it. Then, even my father may not be able to prevent him from turning you into food for the jackals.”
Briefly, something hateful and inhuman stirred in the depths of the oibonok’s obsidian eyes. Then it was gone.
“Soon, Katisa, you will learn that your posturing father and simple-minded lover are no more to me than straws underfoot,” he said. “The learning will begin when you hear the toll of the Death Drum for Karamu. Think on it.”
Before Katisa could respond, Chitendu turned and squeezed through the door-hole. Only iron-self-control prevented her from hurling her dagger at his retreating form. She did, however, spit at the ground upon which he had stood.
Though her courage was exceptional even among a people for whom fearlessness was the primary virtue, Katisa still felt a sense of unease as she contemplated Chitendu’s words. The very thought of becoming a “Bride of Ajunge” caused her to shudder inside. For it was well-known that such “Brides” actually belonged to the oibonok, not the Spear-God. And the uses to which Chitendu was rumored to put them were far from religious ...
After returning her dagger to its hiding-place under her bed, Katisa allowed herself a final glance into the looted mirror before bending to pass through the manyatta’s door-hole.
Let others worry about Chitendu, she thought defiantly. I am the daughter of the ol-arem, and will soon become the wife of mighty warrior. Why should I believe I will ever be a Bride of Ajunge?
Yet for all her unbounded confidence, Chitendu’s implicit threat remained a small, dark cloud of foreboding ... a cloud that did not dissipate as she stepped out into the full glare of Jua the sun.
THE SHADOWS CAST BY the collection of leather-walled dwellings that was the temporary village of the Kitoko clan darkened as the sinking sun set the horizon ablaze. Half-naked herd-boys urged the ngombes – the long-horned Ilyassai cattle – into the thornbush boma, where the animals would spend the night. There were no fields of millet or sorghum for the animals to avoid trampling, for the Ilyassai disdained agriculture. Throughout the widely scattered manyattas, lean warriors and shaven-headed women silently awaited Karamu’s return from his olmaiyo.
Also silent was the group of women and girls gathered near Katisa’s manyatta. Though their garments of antelope- and cowhide did not match the splendor of Katisa’s muvazi, the women of the clan would have been the envy of the seraglio of any East Coast potentate.
The women had watched as Karamu and the warriors who accompanied him strode away from the manyattas in the morning. Katisa had favored the stalwart Karamu with a smile in anticipation of the reward she would bestow when he returned triumphant from his olmaiyo. Chitendu accompanied the warriors. For him, Katisa spared only a glare of contempt.
Katisa wished her mother, Junyari, were present. But Junyari had died of a wasting disease several rains before. And her father, Mubaku, had not been the same since. He had given her only a slight nod of acknowledgement as he accompanied the warriors on their hunt.
In the hours that followed the departure of warriors of the olmaiyo, Katisa and her friends and relatives chattered about the festivities to come: the feast of antelope meat, milk and cow’s blood the older women were preparing; the ritual kidnapping and chase in which Karamu would seize Katisa from her manyatta and carry her away, with Katisa’s family in mock pursuit; the mating in a manyatta built especially for that purpose...
But as the day dragged beyond the time when warriors usually returned from olmaiyo, the bright mood darkened, and the chatter stilled. The eyes of Katisa’s friends began to gaze at the ground, not her. For they knew as well as she that a delay of this length could be accounted for in only two ways: either Karamu had been slain by his lion, or – even worse – he had fled in fear from his foe.
Katisa did not believe the latter alternative was possible. She knew Karamu would never turn ilmonek; never run in cowardice at the moment when his manhood came to the test. Despite the lengthening of the shadows and the lowering of the sun, Katisa refused to consider the only other explanation: that Karamu was dead.
She impatiently dismissed the pitying gestures her friends now made. Not until she knew for herself that Karamu was not coming back alive would she accept what the others new to be inevitable. Chin upraised defiantly, Katisa continued to scan the horizon for signs of the warriors’ return.
Thus, she was the one who first spotted line of dark figures descending along a slight rise in the yellow plain.
“They come!” Katisa cried. “The warriors return!”
As she ran toward the oncoming spearmen, other eyes saw what Katisa’s hope-clouded vision refused to recognize. Makaro, the aged warrior who was responsible for beating the Death-Drum, was saddened, for he had seen this sight many times before.
The returning warriors did not leap or dance or clash their spear-points against their shields in joy. No shouts of victory carried across the Tamburure. Narrowing his eyes, Makaro ascertained that the warriors were not carrying Karamu trussed to a pole – the signal that the youth had turned ilmonek. The old man was thankful for that. Still, he knew what he must do.
With a sad shake of his head, Makaro turned and went to his manyatta to retrieve the Death-Drum. By
