It was a couple of seconds to midnight, and the neighborhood still shone brighter than the morning sun, in hinterland 'Krauna', a tiny hamlet of villages in the 'Aisoli' township, an unverified area of Sub-Sahara Africa. This was the least of the oddities which accompanied that fateful day. "Skora, Skora, Skora!", a wailing voice, was heard in the dead of the night. "Dead, Dead, Dead!", was the English translation of the lament, in his native 'Krollo' dialect.
Panic gripped the remainder of the Santi clan, as Tyza's trademark baritone voice, resonated while he trotted into the hut-like settlement, in apparent distress. Elder Vairo, the oldest, wisest, surviving male in the land, who had the earliest contact with the Europeans, as the legend goes, appeared from within, to fathom the cause of such brazen act from the acclaimed concocter, at such an hour. Pint-sized, with a hoarse sound, and evenly matched grey hairs, he was indeed feared by all. He proceeded, "Wolu?"- Krollo for "What?", usually in a disapproving manner. Tyza quickly knelt, retorting again, "Skora, bo Jida!", meaning "Dead, my Elder!".
The nonagenarian, clearly irked by the seeming recalcitrance from this middle-aged fellow, resigned, sent some men to retrace the concocter's steps to see if they could find anything that would relate to the hapless tale-bearer's bizarre account, whom at this point, was panting profusely. His tussle for air, coincided with a nod from the search party, upon their return, confirming the imminent danger to all.
Perplexed and tensed up, clan members, uttered negligible sounds, and made capitulatory gestures to one another. In the midst of the pandemonium, a distinct silenre rent the air, once Miki spoke.
To be continued....
© Capt_Iyke Art 2020.
@CaptainIyke
#suspense
#newschoolProse
#fiction
#TheMusingsOfAReluctantNarrator
#contemporaryart
#narrativeTechniques
#original
#originalcontent
#originalcharacter
#language
#culture
#imagination
#Deepest_Imagination
#myimagination