Tumbling along the dusty floor the bones kicked up powdery blossoms red chocking dust. After each throw the dust slowly settled back down on the floor, and who knew how many times the dust had risen and fallen; far more times than the sun rose and fell each day.
The witchdoctor wrote prescriptions for fertility, longevity and every ailment known to the village based on the patterns of the bones. No one knew where the bones originated from – it could have been a cow, a goat, or even a distant relative – but everyone trusted what the bones told of tomorrow. Whether a warning about future danger, or celebrating future success, the bones were never doubted. Umama held them in her hands and bid them fly well with her hoarse voice before throwing them determinately against the earth floor.
Three rainy seasons ago the same bones, or ones just like them – no one knew how long bones lasted – spoke of a young girl being born to a couple who had two other children. She would be the last child for the young couple. The unremarkable prediction was told to a nondescript visitor who passed through the village on the day of the first rains. The visitor looked like a city dweller because he had a suit made of shiny flannel and even shinier shoes. He never bothered to introduce himself to the village elders as was the custom, instead he made his way directly to Umama’s hut with no visible means of paying her. In those times payment was typically a sacrificial animal or maize meal or some other tradable item like tobacco. He swung his lanky carefree frame with empty hands towards the entrance of her hut without a care for the children staring at him, or the men taking a break from their late afternoon millet beer tasting session.
He was unusually tall and had to duck to enter her hut, but his deep baritone voice escaped the hut as he greeted her. ‘Sabonani (hello) Mama’, he said, she ignored him and continued her incomprehensive chants. He was not going to follow tradition and wait for her, a dull clang on the floor interrupted her chant, halting it instantly. Her eyes shone, reflecting the dull yellow lump of material that sought to camouflage itself with the red dust that coated the floor. But it was unmissable. Her mind abandoned the discussion with the ancestors that had kept her in a trance and welcomed the capitalist god that rested in a divet in her floor.
Umama knew exactly what it was, she also knew that what this man came for must be extremely important. The gold nugget focused her, and even made the bones buzz in the tiny calabash where she kept them. She looked into his handsome, lean, naturally smily face and wondered what could he want to know about so badly. He in return, simply asked, “I come asking about a girl child.”