“You are right, outlander,” Guguk said grudgingly as he looked into Imaro’s eyes. “You have marks, even though they are not mbama.”
“I will speak with Imaro,” Tuatat said. “In my dwelling, with one other – Tiba.”
The crowd stirred at the mention of that name. Then the people parted, making way for a woman who stood taller than most of the men – and nearly as tall as Imaro himself. As Tiba came closer, Imaro could see that she was slender as the trunk of a palm tree. Only the wrinkles between the dots of her mbama-marks, and the flat sacs of her breasts, provided an indication of her advanced age. Yet she moved as gracefully as any of the girls who had only begun to receive their marks.
The plaits of Tiba’s hair jingled with more ornaments than those of the other women. That slight excess was the only indication of her status, which rivaled that of Tuatat. For Tiba was the ayake – a combination of healer and diviner – of the Nubala clans. The ayake was the living link between the people and the spirits that surrounded them.
Tiba gazed deeply into Imaro’s eyes, as though she could see beyond their surface and into his soul. Imaro did not blink under her scrutiny. He wondered if this woman of a people isolated from the rest of Nyumbani for such a long time could, indeed, see who he really was ...
Abruptly, Tiba nodded. Then she turned and began to climb toward Tuatat’s dwelling, using shallow hand-and-footholds carved into the face of the rock. A moment later, Tuatat followed.
Imaro looked at the indentations. Although he had been raised on a flat savannah, he had learned how to live on other types of terrain: forests, mountains, deserts – even the sea. Fitting his hands and feet with care into the indentations, he followed the two Nubala upward.
* * *
Golden sunlight poured through the circular entrance to Tuatat’s dwelling, only to be diffused into semi-darkness. The space inside was deceptively large; more than sufficient to accommodate three people, including one of Imaro’s large size.
A clay bowl filled with a blend of milk and blood from the Nubalas’ cattle passed among Tiba, Tuatat and their guest. Imaro savored the taste of the pinkish beverage. A similar milk-blood mixture was a mainstay of the Ilyassais’ diet.
Yet this liquid had not infused the Nubala with the indomitability that flowed through the blood of the Ilyassai. Now, Imaro would learn the reason for what he saw as an anomaly. When the bowl was finally empty, Tiba began to speak. Her eyes were closed, and her voice rose and fell in a singer’s cadence.
“Know, outlander, that we Nubala were not always as you see us now,” the ayake intoned. “Our ancestors lived far to the south, where grass and water were abundant, and our cattle and dwellings covered the land. Our warriors were mighty; none could stand before their spears. Our magic was strong; no curse could be cast against us. Our ancestors believed they could live forever in this way, for no other people dared to challenge them.”
She paused then, and an expression of pain and sorrow crossed her face, although she did not open her eyes.
“It was not outsiders who defeated our ancestors,” Tiba continued. “Our ancestors defeated themselves. Clans began to envy each other. People of ambition were not satisfied with what they had. Clans began to steal each other’s cattle, which had never happened before. Then our ancestors began to kill each other. The grass turned read with blood. Dwellings burned; hatreds flared. And when the land itself began to quiver in shame for what our ancestors were doing to each other, outlanders came and took it from them.
“The invaders had waited many rains for their chance to strike. Our ancestors were too divided to stand against the enemies they had defeated in the past. Now, it was our ancestors who were defeated, for they continued to fight against each other even as the invaders stole their land and cattle.”
Again, Tiba paused – this time for a longer interval. Tuatat did not speak, and neither did Imaro. The warrior had heard similar tales in the past, involving groups ranging from small tribes to great empires. More than once, he had participated in clashes of the kind Tiba described. He would continue to listen, though. For Tiba had not yet told him what he needed to know.
“The few Nubala who remained alive realized their folly,” the ayake finally said. “But it was far too late. If they remained in the land that was no longer theirs, they faced either death or enslavement. Instead, they chose to flee – to the north, for their enemies’ territory lay to the south.
“Their wandering continued for many rains. The places they found were either barren, or already occupied by stronger tribes. Despair devoured our ancestors’ spirits. The Nubala might have ended at that time, with the last of our ancestors dying in some unknown country.
“But then, Besu Jusa sent a vision to my many-times mother-ancestor. The vision led us to this place – Muyum. Here, we found water, pastures for our cattle, land for our crops, and the Wall Rocks and High Rocks to protect us. And Muyum was far away from the invaders who drove us from our old land, and far away from any people who would try to take this new land from us.
“For many rains thereafter, we Nubala lived in peace. And no other enemies came, either from the direction of the Wall Rocks to the south or the Demons’ Smoke to the north ...”
“Until the Jijiwi,” Tuatat cut in.
“The white-robes,” said Imaro.
“Those are the ones,” Tiba confirmed.
She opened her eyes and shot a sidelong glance of displeasure at Tuatat, who glared back at her for a moment; then looked
