In the Shadow of Fear

Anyi found himself in a field with sand beneath his feet and nothing to see as far as his eyes could stretch. Then, suddenly, a man began to run towards him. It was a fellow villager, a soldier, judging by the spear in his hand and the marks on his face. He also wore a breastplate, crafted from hard leather with ropes for straps. The soldier screamed something, but Anyi could not hear it. Soon, another soldier came running. Then another, and another, until they flocked like a swarm of ants—some on horseback, most on foot. A crack sounded in the distance from the opposite side, a crack so loud that it broke through his ears. Anyi turned to see where it had come from, but his eyes were met with pure darkness. A deep darkness that seemed to have blinded him and found its way into his nostrils and throat. Breathe! He gasped, gasped again, and then, he jumped out of bed.
On waking, he found that the darkness did not leave him, nor did the tightening he was beginning to feel around his neck. He tried to scream, but a hand swiftly clasped over his mouth to gag him. The darkness and the claustrophobia it sparked sent him into a panic. He tried to wiggle but this too was futile as an assailant with obvious overbearing strength crushed him to stillness in the grip of an arm. Breathe, breathe.
He could feel his lungs threatening to give, and his heart drummed so hard it hurt with each beat. Breathe, breathe. He repeated the word, trying to centre himself. He pictured himself holding a bow with an arrow in the nook. A target was in the distance, so far that it appeared only as a speck with no real shape or form. It didn’t matter that it was an abstract projection from his mind, it only mattered that it was small and that it shifted its shape. It was a technique his father had taught him on the first day he used the bow. The older man had said then that fear itself was the ultimate weakness—of missing the shot and of being prey to predators. Breathe, breathe. If he could learn to redirect his focus, the fear would starve to death. Breathe, breathe. Some calm was finally finding him. He felt an itch in his nostril, and his head swayed in the darkness. He tried to move his limbs but both arms and legs felt as heavy as sacks of rice, as stiff as rocks. He bit down on his tongue and tasted iron. This was no dream, so why was this happening? A stab of panic struck in his heart, and in that moment, he gave in, surrendering his entire being to the dark that called to him.

When Anyi woke up again, he could hear the night whistling with the hooting of owls and the growl of a beast in the distance. His eyes fluttered as he rubbed his neck in search of the tautness he remembered. He felt nothing. Immediately, he sprang to his feet. Where his softer sleeping mat had once been, there was now only hard clay and a black cloth-bag with strings resting by its side. He looked around, first to his left and then to his right. It was just him, him and the strange mbari he was being kept in. Normal mbaris, he was used to—large houses built in honour of the spirits and filled with sculptures of sacred animals and conceptions of various spirits carved from wood or styled with clay. They normally had a clear altar, with torches, kola nuts and other such sacred items laid out. This one did not look like the home of any spirit he could recognize because there were no symbols to point to—no ram horns, no elephant tusks, no carvings of Ala with her naked breasts feeding men and animals. Instead, there were masks, wood-carved and augmented with raffia threads for manes. There were weapons too—swords, spears, axes, and battle drums. Anyi thought of his father, but he knew the man was nowhere near. How was it possible that he had been kidnapped from right under their roof? Perhaps it was the pig-men, or…? Then, it hit him.
Ekpe!
Someone should have warned him. But then, he himself should have known this was coming. It was only a question of when. Something moved in the dark, and he turned to see. Whatever it was, it was in the darkest corner of the room, holding still as a leafless tree in the moonlight. He wondered if he had seen it move or imagined it. He looked around. Nothing else seemed to be alive. His heart began to pound again and his breath chants did not seem to calm him much. Anyi moved towards the closest weapon, a sword about the length of his leg. Its handle was carved with a good wooden finish, but he bothered little to inspect the craftsmanship. With slow and trembling steps, he approached the shadow, his stomach queasy with a feeling so eerie that fear didn’t quite describe it. If only he had an oil torch. The moonlight had turned this place into a bed of shadows, making it impossible to see further than his nose.
Anyi made it close enough to the corner where he had detected movement, leaving just under five paces to cover. He tightened his grip on his weapon. There was another twitch in the shadows, and then, with the speed of a leopard, something sprang at him. The weapon he thought would protect him was the first thing he dropped. Without thinking at all, he began to run. This was no masquerade like the ones he had seen. This one was very different—black in every conceivable way, save for its white sharp teeth, blood-red tongue, and wide, scary eyes. In its hand, it carried its own weapon, the double-curved ceremonial weapon of kings and great warriors. As the folktales had it, such a weapon was to be swung only when death was desired. Any other use was an abomination.
Anyi could feel his legs moving with speed. In his mind, it should have been impossible for anyone to catch up with him. However, outside of his mind, in the real world, the footsteps of the black masquerade could be heard. With each step, it felt like the creature drew nearer and nearer to him. Then suddenly, there was silence. But Anyi did not stop, he didn’t even dare to look back. He had long since left the strange mbari, but there was no comfort to be found in the bushes that waited outside. It was still dark, the owls still hooted, and the bats now cried. What scared him the most was the growling, and how it felt near and far, all at once. Anyi did not stop until he found a large tree trunk to hide behind.
Instantly, he became more aware of the night chill and how it made his breath misty. His bare feet scratched the clay beneath him as he panted to catch his breath. Wide-eyed, his gaze darted in every direction, even though he was too scared to blink. He recalled his lessons from hunting, the need to listen for the rustle of leaves and the snapping of twigs. This was no bushmeat hunt, but he had nothing else to lean on. Soon enough, the breath he had lost returned to his lungs, and he started to breathe with relative ease. Yet, the panic was far from over. The growling noise now appeared in the form of a panther, or as the people of Eke liked to call it, Agu Oji, the Night Leopard.
The large cat moved with gentle strides, its motion oozing with power it never had to assert. In the dark, it was even darker—two pairs of green eyes hovering like lamps. Anyi did not move. He knew enough to know what would happen if he did. The masquerade had been fast, and he might have been faster, but with this, he stood no chance of outrunning it—not even if he tried to make it up a tree. The panther stopped no more than three paces away, its tail still, its stare intense and unbroken, except when it flashed its red tongue to lick its sharp white teeth. Anyi wanted to take a step back, but the tree trunk that once brought him safety was now a prison. The creature growled again, but this time, Anyi was all out of fear. He growled back and bared his teeth, his face twisted in rage. He had no weapon in hand, but if the animal thought he would go quietly, it would have to try harder than a few growls.
The panther showed its teeth in return, but Anyi did not retreat. Instead, he advanced, taking steps closer until not even a foot separated his face from the beast’s. To his initial shock, the animal took a step back. But this was no time for relief or celebration. He made more sounds, beating his chest like he had watched the gidigbo wrestlers do to intimidate their opponents. Perhaps it would make the panther think him a gorilla. He silently wished he had grabbed a mask when he had the chance in the mbari. Regardless, he did not back down. The panther was now silent, slowly moving backwards as Anyi advanced. A few paces later, it turned around and ran off into the night.
Anyi still raged, his muscles taut and nostrils flaring. Some leaves rustled and a twig snapped. The masquerade! He did not wait, he moved again. If only he had a sword… anything but his bare hands. He wouldn’t be able to fool a masquerade into thinking he was a gorilla, and with his bare fists, he did not stand a chance. Anyi did not run too fast, afraid that he would tire himself. The moonlight was not the brightest, but it was enough to guide him back to the mbari. He only had to follow his prints and the prints of the black masquerade when they were reunited.
The place was as he had left it, so he wasted no time in donning a raffia-maned mask and grabbing a long spear. He ran through battle scenarios in his mind, but he had not anticipated being required to display his imagination so soon. He turned to leave, only to find the door blocked. The masquerade stood there, legs planted apart and a death sword in hand.
If I die, so be it.
Anyi ran at it, screaming a battle wail that carried the weight of his entire being. The pointed end of his spear lead the way, aimed straight at his adversary. With a single swing of its death sword, the masquerade diverted his attack, sending his spear into the wooden door frame. He pulled, but he was not fast enough. The masquerade stretched out its leg and kicked him directly in the chest. The force sent him rolling, but it did not hurt him in the way he might have imagined. At least, he did not feel any bone breaking. The masquerade ran at him with its sword raised for a slash. He avoided it with two quick rolls to the left, but the sound of hardened bronze on hard clay rattled in his ears. The masquerade attacked again with another swing, and again, Anyi rolled to the side to evade.
He shot back to his feet, eyes glued to the masked figure that now circled him in a fearful taunt. He was glad that he too now wore a mask, something to cover his fear. His eyes flicked to the door and then the windows. He wanted to run, but the recent memory of his rage against the panther emboldened his spirit. The battle continued with the masquerade swinging at him. With the weight of the ceremonial death sword, even the strongest of men found their swings slowed down to half the usual speed. This was all the time that Anyi needed, but he couldn’t fight on the defensive forever. He ducked a swing aimed at his head and jumped back to avoid a jab. Now it felt as though death was in the darkness, slowly eating away at him like rust to iron. His ear pulsed with the beat of his heart, and in his mind, pictures flickered - small Ozi, Akpi, his little brother, his mother placing akara and pap in his bowl, his father showing him how to string a bow, and then Onyi and the way she called his name twice in her bold voice—Anyi Anyi.
He flew at it with everything he had. He would not die at the hands of a masquerade on his first night in Ekpe grounds. His arms wrapped around the masquerade’s waist, and mimicking the fights he had seen, he tried to lift it off the ground for a body slam. It worked. The masquerade’s feet left the ground and he pushed it to the floor.
‘Anyi!’
It was his father’s voice.