The Sands They Tell a Tale

Part One

Deep, deep, deep within the African desert, past the dusty scrubs of the Equator and the coruscating waters of the Niger, there lived a girl. The girl's name has been long forgotten, but for the sake of this story, we will call her Ayana. The name means beautiful blossom—or something of the like—and it suits her well, depending on your concept of beauty. She was dark and plain of face, with the typical wide nose of the Yoruba people. Her hair was wild and unkempt and absolutely refused to be braided—which was just fine by her. The girl called Ayana lived the humble life of a goatherd, along with her Baba and Mama. The girl's family lived apart from the nearest town, Atijo, and they had to walk almost 3 leagues a day to get clean water (and by they I of course mean Ayana), which is far longer than you think and more by thrice than you could walk. You see, Ayana's family was cursed. Ever before she was born, a jujuman (an evil fortune teller who is also a rather melancholy fellow I hope you never chance to meet) predicted that Ayana would be the most deplorable child in the land. He foresaw that Ayana would kill her twin in the womb and forever walk the world as an ugly, skinny reminder of the wrath of the gods. And, of course, nobody wants a curse in their city, so they were sent to tend the goats until the day Ayana died.

Ayana didn't feel like a curse. She felt just like any other person—and she had seen lots of people by the well. There was Kuwo, the pot-bellied youth that collected water on Mondays and Fridays. If it was harvest time his mother, Tall Lady, would often accompany him. Then there was Ochuomaka, the kind, doe-eyed beauty that visited on Tuesdays, Thursdays and twice on Saturdays. Sometimes Bingo the Basenji would come. He was an outcast as well—because no one liked talking dogs. See—lots.

And of course, The Man in the Big Red Mask. He came daily, without compromise.

The Man in the Big Red Mask was the only person that ever talked to Ayana. He wasn't scared or 'busy' like the other people who came. He was never in a hurry, in fact, Ayana had never once seen him drink from the spring. He'd never shouted "ANJONU!" and ran for his life as he saw her approach (now, if someone should ever call you anjonu, you go and tell a grown up right away, or else box them in the cheek—for that person is calling you a demon). The Man in the Big Red Mask spoke kind words to her, and offered her drinks. Although he had never revealed his face, she knew him to be a kind man, despite what her Baba and Mama said about him.

He often asked about the welfare of her goats, especially the kids. The Man in the Big Red Mask always wanted to know their names, their habits and any unusual fur markings they had. Ayana told him about Pofoko, a fiery young buck with fur that gleamed like brass. He was born at under a full moon, which is uncommon in goats, and the mother died in childbirth, which is even more rare. Pofoko was Ayana's favourite—she had raised him herself. He was the strongest, fastest and most agile of all the kids and even rutted with the adults. He would one day rule the herd, Ayana was sure.

What she didn't tell him was that Pofoko could talk.

It had been a recent occurrence, the talking goat. One sun-drenched morning there was an almighty ruckus coming from the herd. Ayana had heard it over breakfast but dismissed it as nothing more than a squabble between a buck and the herd queen over a dusty strip of grass. Haughty bucks were wont to challenge the herd queen for such scraps, you see, and so Ayana remained content in her milk rice.

However, when the time came to lead the goats to the grazing plains, Ayana became sure it was something more. The goats were in their paddock, clustered in a tight circle at the far end. Amaya rushed in, hoping against hope that her beloved Pofoko was not being attacked by the others. As she shoved aside the hulking rumps of the does and wethers she saw the kid, butting its stumpy horns against another kid.

The sounds of the young goats bleating sliced through the air. No, not a kid it was...

—it was a Tokoloshe!