…And the Night Hissed

As I trailed Olu and one of the guides that very night, moving deftly through thick vegetation, I asked myself for the sixth time what I was doing. I had heard them whispering by McAlister’s tent and had picked the distinct words ‘Adaniloro’ and ‘Olori Ejo’ from their conversation. The guide had pointed towards the forest on numerous occasions as if trying to persuade our interpreter to come with him. Eventually convinced, Olu had followed him and on the tips of their toes they had disappeared into the night. I was uncertain whether their intent was to escape but I raised no alarm—rather, filled with curiosity, I dropped my medical bag and followed them into the forest with little concern for my safety. I had a strong notion that their destination would help unravel these consternating deaths and prevent further tragedy.

The new moon offered no illumination and I relied solely on the stars and two figures ahead of me for direction. The hoots of owls and chirps of crickets were now familiar to me so I was little bothered by them. However, I had heard that it was not uncommon for one to be bitten by a snake or attacked by a leopard in the middle of the night. I reached for the firearm in my coat pocket and brandished it for reassurance. Let’s pray my reflexes would not fail me.

After what felt like hours, we arrived at a cluster of huts. Olu was asked to wait in the bushes while the guide went further. There was a lot of noise in the hamlet. I heard voices—lots of voices—of people drumming, laughing, singing or just talking. Soon the owners came into view. At the heart of the village next to a large fire, an assemblage of young Negroes sat in a circle around a singular old man and his red-clad companion. The aged man was seated on a wooden stool while his companion stood behind him with hands behind his back. For a second there, I thought it was the witchdoctor and his acolyte. Wait a minute! I could not believe my eyes. It was the witchdoctor! But that was impossible! How could such an elderly man have covered this much ground and so quickly?

Our guide approached the crowd with a greeting and prostrated meekly in front of the witchdoctor. It seemed he had interrupted something important—like an initiation—and was making apologies for it. He spoke briefly to the witchdoctor then pointed to Olu hiding in the bushes. The crowd turned, following the guide’s finger until they sighted the nervous interpreter fidgeting in the bushes.

“Ekaale-o!” he shouted.

The witchdoctor mumbled a few words to the guide and promptly he beckoned at Olu to approach. Olu approached cautiously but, experiencing no aggression from the crowd, he hastened his steps and prostrated himself in front of the Oracle. The old man whispered urgently to his acolyte for some time and the man stiffened. He spoke in turn to the guide who, on hearing the news, reeled back in shock.

“Come out, white man!” the acolyte shouted into the night. “We know you are there!”

I was thrown aback by the words! Here I was thinking I was hidden away from view. I was hiding in bushes not less than thirty yards away from the crowd. How they knew I was in the vicinity was beyond me.
I had made no sound. Was this a trick?

“We are waiting!”

I contemplated beating a hasty retreat but realized that I would only get lost in the jungle. With wild beasts and possibly the Snake Warrior lurking about, my chances of survival would be remote. Warily, I stood up from my squatting position and waved timidly at them. I watched Olu’s jaw drop upon seeing me. He clasped his head in dismay as there were gasps from the crowd.

“Um . . . good evening, all.” I didn’t know what else to say.

The beating of talking drums, the laughter, the exclamations of surprise—all these disappeared into the night. What was left was a cold, eerie silence. All eyes were now on me. The only way I could gain their trust now was to act normal. But what was normal about the entire situation? How could I possibly explain my presence to these savages without provoking them? They could be cannibals for all I knew.
I saluted them in Yoruba—a word I had heard Olu speak a few minutes ago. “E kaale-o!”

They were not in the least impressed. The obstinate ones amongst them attempted to rise but were cautioned by the witchdoctor. His acolyte addressed them softly but firmly for a few minutes—like a master pacifying his angry dogs. I felt the pistol in my pocket once more.

“You can come now,” he called out, giving me a wan smile.

I hesitated.

“Courage,” he said.

I approached cautiously.

The crowd made way for me. As I passed, a young man—possibly of royal blood judging from his ostentatious attire—felt the blade of his dagger thoughtfully. The others whispered amongst themselves—some making hostile gestures at me. Once again, the ‘babalawo’ rebuked them and immediately they fell silent.

“Omo mi,” the witchdoctor slurred in vernacular. “Wa a joko.”

“Come and sit, my child,” his acolyte interpreted.

I sat down in front of him and looked around me uneasily. Olu looked away. I wondered what was going through his mind as this was indeed an awkward predicament.

“You want to learn more about Olori Ejo?” inquired the acolyte.

“How . . . how did you guess?” I stuttered.

“The Oracle does not guess, white man . . . he knows. What is it you care to know?”

Again, I hesitated. I was in enemy territory and had to choose my words carefully. “Is . . . he behind today’s deaths? Could he . . . We met a soldier this morning who said his entire company had been eliminated . . . Was it . . . was it Ejo’s doing?”

“Do wet crops in the morning not speak of rain the night before?”

“I guess so. But why? Why doesn’t he stop? Is there no form of propitiation?”

“What is that?”

“I mean, can’t anybody appease him? You know . . . calm him down?”

“Until justice is served it cannot be appeased,” he answered. “All one can do is wait.”

I was exasperated at the response. So many had died from such impetuousness and it had to stop. “Swell! Who made him judge and jury, for Heaven’s sake? What gives him the right to pass judgment on others? Do you not have your courts?”

“He is Adaniloro—son of Destiny and Death. He is the court. Justice of man is always delayed—tainted with deceit and prejudice. The shedding of blood is usually left unanswered and widows are left to cry in vain for vengeance. How can there be justice when the judge is a brother to the accused or the accuser’s lover? How can there be justice when the hearts of men are corrupted with a lust for wealth, power and women? No, their senses grow dull to word while their stomach and loins indulge in wanton pleasures. So man offers no justice—no punishment. Well, so be it! If the wicked have hardened their hearts to the plight of the innocent and defenceless, how do you think they will fare against one who has no heart to harden? He is justice. He is Nemesis—unseen and unforeseen. The white man has set foot on our land to spread a new evil. How will you fare?”

“With due respect to the Oracle, our business is not new,” I argued. “Slavery has been in practice everywhere since time immemorial. Our forefathers practiced it— yours did as well. Why, I do believe you still have them in your very homes and courts as eunuchs! As to it being evil, why then do your very own brothers partake in it and assist? They sell their own brothers to us.”

“So very true, white man. That is why Adaniloro has taken away the partaker’s very breath. He will render you no further assistance.”

“You mean the Oba has . . . ?”

“. . . Met his end in a most violent manner—along with his entire court. Yes. Nemesis has caught up with them.”

I paused for a moment in shock, trying to steady my nerves. I stared at the guide for a while, wondering
whether he was aware of his chief’s fate. If he had, his countenance betrayed nothing.

“A shame,” I said. “And yet the manner of the murders suggests nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing supernatural.”

The witchdoctor listened and smiled sympathetically.

“I pray your disbelief will not be your undoing, white man. Have you not heard his call in the still of the night? Does it not bring you forewarning of doom?” his acolyte asked.

That cursed tootle! Oswald had died a day after the first tootle was heard and Lord Powell had been murdered some hours after the second. I had also heard another tootle earlier on this night—just before O’Brien passed on.

“And the bronze cobra head we saw?” I asked. “What does it mean?”

“Bronze cobra head? You speak of ‘ori ejo’? Ah, so you have seen it? Unfortunate. It is Adaniloro’s staff of caution.”

“This . . . Snake Warrior,” I said, “what does he look like? Does anyone know?”

“Whoever sees the face of Adaniloro sees death.”

At this, I recalled O’Brien’s panic-stricken face and his last words. He had seen something unspeakable— something macabre—that had scared him out of his wits. Had poor Hookes’ seen same?

“Whoever sets eyes on him feels the wrath of doom,” the acolyte continued, pointing a crooked finger at me, “and never lives to tell the tale.”

Could that be the cause of the Portuguese soldier’s blindness?

“Pray how then does anyone know he exists?”

The witchdoctor hissed impatiently and turned away.

“Let me tell you a story, white man,” the acolyte said flatly. “My grandfather was a brave warrior—one of the Alaafin’s finest. Nobody could best him in a fair match and very few dared. As the years went by, he grew arrogant and over-confident, killing anyone he thought stood in his way. He fought his elder brother over a piece of family land and, in one of their arguments, slew him and claimed it. The Council was unhappy that their best warrior had become uncontrollable so they sent a messenger to him—an ‘Ilari’—who challenged him to enter ‘Igbo Irumole’—the forest of spirits—if he were so brave and bring the head of ‘Olori Ejo’. A man of foolish pride, my grandfather accepted the challenge. Armed with a shield made of elephant skin, a bow, arrows, and a heavy sword, he ventured into the forbidden forest, swearing to return with the Snake Warrior’s head before the next Orun festival.”

He stopped.

Eager to hear more, I prodded him. “What happened?”

He lowered his tired eyes and said drily, “The fool never returned. Till this day, it is a taboo to mention his name.”

I fell silent for a moment.

“Pay heed to my words, white man, for in them lie wisdom.”

“You . . . you said something about a forbidden forest. Do you know where it is?”

“I fear you have not heard one word I have spoken,” the acolyte responded with a touch of frustration. “I suggest that you summon your men, release our brethren and return to your ship immediately. Only death awaits you here. A trip to ‘Igbo Irumole’ would only hasten it. Do not ever contemplate such a trip. Entering the abode of Adaniloro—the forest of spirits—is the most dreadful of taboos and nobody who dares has ever returned to tell the tale.”

The witchdoctor murmured a few words to his assistant.

“They say when a child trips and falls, he looks forward but when an adult falls, he looks back. Be wise. When the gods want to punish you, they first make you mad. Go. The Oracle grows weary of your presence.”

I thanked him and rose quickly to leave before he could change his mind. Olu and the guide took their cue from me, prostrating before the ‘babalawo’ as they departed.

We said very little as we trekked back to camp. Olu could barely look at me for shame and apologized in whispers as we journeyed. I insisted on him focussing on getting us back alive for now. Thoughts of a forest haunted by an avenging spirit were quite discomforting in our predicament. Every rustle of leaves, hoot of owl, and whistle of wind made my heart skip a beat and hair stand on end. The journey back seemed longer than remembered. I was drenched in sweat by the time we reached camp and longed only for a cold bath and warm bed. These thoughts vanished from my mind, however, at the sight of Fisher standing in the twilight with my medical bag as we approached.

“Top of the morning to you, Doctor,” he hailed. “I trust the fresh air has done you a well of good after last night’s hassle?”

“On the contrary,” I answered.

“You sweat profusely,” Fisher observed. “From exhaustion perhaps?”

“Trepidation would be more apt.”

“Oh? How so?” he prodded.

Olu appealed to my discretion with large, terrified eyes.

“We joined in the search last night,” I lied. “We must have strayed too far from camp and were unable to find our way back till first light. It was a night best left in dreams—like no other I have ever experienced.”

“A likely tale,” Fisher said sarcastically. “With a guide that knows these parts like the back of his hand? Come off it, Doctor! Do you take me for a fool?”

“I take offence at being called a liar, Fisher. Why else would I be with these two Negroes in the heart of the forest at such ungodly hours save for my own safety and preservation?”

Fisher bent forward till the tip of his nose practically touched mine. His eyes bore into mine with such voracity that I felt violated. “Oh, I don’t know, Doctor? Humour me.

I tipped an imaginary hat to Fisher offhandedly. “Top of the morning to you too, Fisher. I had best get to my tent and prepare for the day ahead.”

Fisher smiled malevolently and stepped aside. “By all means, Doctor. Heaven forbid I stand in your way.”

An Excerpt from …And the Night Hissed