“The Radio”
by Arye Michael Bender & Celestin Clamra

Unknowingly, I was the one who first brought the seeds of destruction to my village.

The tiny settlement of Kindiri is no different than thousands of other villages that dot the vast African continent. Its history, intertwining legend, custom and psychology, has been directly passed on through ancient and mystical rites and oral tradition from the very beginning to the present.

Here there is no running water, no electricity and no pollution from commerce or technology. Kindiri is an untamed beauty. The village is centered within an invisible world of sorcerers, diviners and snake-children, sharing the land with lions, leopards and elephants, surrounded by impenetrable savanna and impulsive rivers.

As anywhere else, Kindiri’s population of two hundred souls runs the gamut from wise to foolish, keen--eyed to ignorant, victors to victims, powerful to fearful, from the esoteric to the exotic and everything in between. Although unique, Kindiri exists in the same reality as do all others on the planet we share. It is the land of my birth. I am proud to be a Kindiri.

March 12, 1987 was the day Kindiri saw its first radio.

It was an ordinary afternoon. The rhythms of daily life were, up to that day, set by nature and tradition, lulled by the songs of birds and the melody of the leaves. The sound of roosters crowing and hens chattering harmonized with the percussion of dozens of women pounding and grinding together, all following a grand, unseen score.

It was very hot. Usually at this period of the year, the sun scorches everything unprotected by cover. Birds, animals and humans alike seek the fresh shadow of trees for rest.

Men, women and children alike returned from the fields, their bare sweating skin exposed to the merciless sun. Uncovered, damaged or deformed feet suffered from the heat stored in the ground. All women and some men carried heavy burdens, bundles of firewood, bales of hay, and food baskets precariously balanced atop their heads. Yet miraculously, none was ever spilled.

My father, some of my brothers, uncles, cousins and I were resting under the shadow of the great Kapokier tree at the center of the village. Each of us exhausted, thirsty, hungry. Because its many branches stretch so broadly that the entire population of Kindiri would
gather here, it was the place where all important events occurred.

Two days before, I’d been to the city where I purchased the little traveling radio I now carried. While cooling off in the shade, I wanted to listen to the latest news. When I withdrew the transistorized box, many surprised eyes widened and turned toward me.

"What’s this? A white man’s toy?", asked someone. N’dey, one of my older uncles jumped from the ground and rushed to my side. His face expressing both curiosity and distress, he asked: "Is this the little machine that makes noises?” He did not have time to hear my answer. Another relative stole the object from my hands. Someone else said: “I am afraid that Clamra spent long time with white men in the city and now behaves childishly like them...” While my ears listened, my eyes watched my relatives snatch the radio from each other. Each of them seized the opportunity to touch the curious box. Some shook it, others smelled it, one attempted unsuccessfully to pry it open with his hands, and some simply turned it over and over again. The radio became the new plaything for the adults of Kindiri.

When the radio finally came back to me, I switched it on. A jumble of words, music and static poured into the air. Distressed, Uncle N’dey suddenly covered his head with his arms, turned around and shouted to the others: "Dear friends the world is plenty with mysteries... God, why are we permitted such some thing? The little box is speaking!"

Beneath the big tree, a curious agitation swept through all except my father who remained calm, seated regally in his chair. Uncle N’dey stood up and started calling loudly the neighbors to come and behold the wonder. Curious villagers emerged from their huts and rushed to gather around to see from very close this magical white object. As new Kindiris returned late from their fields tired and hungry, they impulsively rushed to the tree to see the object of commotion. Uncle N’dey continued: "With such a creation of white arrogance, one can definitely expect every kind of surprise and problem.”

The news crossed the entire village in a flash. Old and young, men, women and children all rushed over, momentarily forgetting that they were tired and thirsty. All tasks ceased and burdens were dropped . Everyone joined the crowd in order to participate in what was happening. Oh, yes! Villagers love being informed. They are very curious.

As always, it was time for Roget to provide the answers. Roget, one of the villagers in his mid-thirties and otherwise quite a nice fellow, liked to show off his superior knowledge of all events, past and future. Radios? He had seen radios when he spent time in the city. Ripping the new toy from one of my brother’s hands, he started pushing all buttons on the machine. "You see, this is the way it operates..." He took a quick look at the crowd around him which moved from one place to another every time the radio transferred to a new set of hands, and he announced proudly: "I know how to switch it on and off." One of my brothers, Naratoym said: "I am warning you, Roget is vanity. He will damaged this machine in only a few seconds". Everyone laughed because they all had been baptized to Rogue’s ways. Roget was too busy figuring out how he could show to others this advanced technology so that he cared not about my brother's comments nor the crowd's laughter. But my father, sitting in his chair, reproached my brother saying: "You, the youth from the new generation lacks respect to older people. How do you dare address such an insult to a person older than you?... I believe that Clamra, the one who spent many years with the white man, is in a better position to explain what the device does exactly”. Normally when my father speaks, all the villagers pay attention, but Roget, still not listening, continued murdering the machine by pressing and turning buttons. The radio, it seemed, was already bringing a new form of unwelcome behavior to the village. Finally Roget succeeded in switching off the babbling device, then started to pronounce loudly into its speaker. My uncle asked, “What are you doing?” Roget said: "I want the toy to record my voice and play it for you.” Villagers went wild desiring to hear also their voices from inside the little box. I laughed discretely while Naratoym and two other brothers of mine joined in. Their laughter multiplied and cascaded so rapidly that their bellies began to hurt. Still they could not stop. Finally one of them recovered enough to say: "Roget, you don't know what you are doing. This is not a recording machine, it is a radio. And the radio cannot record your voice. Only recording machine can." Roget cut him off: "Keep quiet youth! I had already done this many times with emancipated people in the city". Everyone else silently looked at one another, while understanding that the joke was really on Roget.

Villagers were hungry to know more. They pressured Roget to return the machine to me. Roget would not give in. He held the radio tightly for another ten minutes without being able to switch it on again.

Ladies sitting aside, segregated by gender, watched carefully the behavior of men. From time to time, they murmured words amongst themselves because men were not interested in their points of view --in public. For centuries in Kindiri, men were the speakers while women were the admiring audience. So, that day everyone except women and children expressed an opinion on the radio.

Djas, a man who was considered to be ‘funny’ for getting married to his half-sister, expressed that he had once a very bad experience with a radio. He told the following story: "Some time ago I went to the city to see my cousin. We hadn’t seen each other for over a year. When I arrived at his house, he was sitting there very busy with that kind of toy you have. He clearly made his choice to listen to the machine rather than having conversation with me. His radio endlessly babbled nonsense as I breathed. It was worse than hundred jealous women arguing over a common husband. I became so bored than the second day I decided to go home. My cousin was surprised and asked my why I was leaving so soon. I told him that I came to see him, but since we have nothing to talk about, I was going.”

Djas continued: “Empowered by his recently acquired understanding of the universe, my cousin lectured me, saying that one should -at any time- be informed by what is going on around the world. He pointed out that his machine contained all the news everywhere. Surprised, I said: ‘All the news in the world?... I am thinking that it keeps prisoner millions of white men whose complaining voices only prove their longing to be heard...You know, there is probably not enough room inside your machine for all those poor beings I hear.’ My cousin just laughed at my ignorance. But I carried on, Djas said: ‘When are these voices going to tell us what going on in my village right now?’ My cousin’s only response was that I would never understand white man’s world.

Perhaps not. But either my cousin was lying when he proudly announced that his radio contained all the news in the world, or he was having fantasies! Because after two days I never heard any news from Kindiri... And God knows how constantly the machine talked, day and night.”

Murmurs of agreement rose from beneath the Kapokier tree.

Another relative of mine piped in: "White man invented another machine that allows him to talk to others at great distance. From his house, he can talk to his friend living in another city just as I am talking to you."

Djas raised his voice: "I pledge in the name of our ancestors, I will never believe such a thing exists in this world...” A few of us had heard about this technological wonder, but none of us had any experience with it. The gathering was now so excited that Djas could not finish his thought. All talked at the same time. It was a mess of words.

Someone called for quiet, saying: "Let Clamra explain and tell us the truth". Unwanted attention again found me. Even after living in a town with Jesuits nearly ten years, I myself had never seen a telephone. I knew that such things existed, but I had no proof to bring to the conversation. Embarrassed, I instead offered information of the wonders I had observed.

An old man of the village added: "Where so far will white men expand their invention and domination of the world? Clamra, it is high time you come back among us to teach us all these white men’s sorceries that you learned at their school. We are completely lost about the white men’s madness."

Another uncle went: "Old pa, you are right, but before our son teaches us the truth of these mysteries, Clamra must use the telephone, walk on the moon, verify himself that the earth is round. I always believe in things that I could myself touch, feel, experience and see. Clamra eyes, hands, mind and heart are ours and I trust them. Our son should go to Europe to continue learning and contribute the discovery of new technologies for us."

A hush fell as a tall, slender lady, with very regular features rose from the group of women and cut off my uncle with a deep look. Possessed of a proud strength, she walked toward the men’s group and placed herself in the middle of their private circle. My eyes widened with shock, never before would any woman dare such a thing. She spoke directly to the men: "When comes the time to decide, I strongly desire to express my opinion concerning the subject”. She took a deep look to the crowd around her and said, "I have nothing else to ad." She stood up and walked away, disappearing inside an enclosed concession covered with woven straw. I could hardly believe it, that beautiful creature who dared challenge the absolute authority of men, was my mother. I started thinking that even in our male dominated society, there is now the beginning of hope for women to have their say.

There was a long, stunned silence after my mother’s short speech. Other women, some shocked, some proud, quietly left the Kapokier tree.

Djas offered his opinion on this historic break in etiquette by turning attention back to the radio, declaring: "I don't like this white toy at all!” To me he begged, “Why my son, do you introduce such an evil object to our village? White man is nothing else than a symbol of destruction. His toy damages our traditions. So we all will die...”

Before I could answer, my father broke his silence. He told of a myth popular in the West. The story of a man of science who became so arrogant in his power, he tried to emulate God by creating a man in the image of himself. His technology was successful, but his soul immature. What he created was monstrous and turned on him. Everything was lost. Then my father concluded: “This is the sadness of the white man.”

The discussion was over. We all began feeling again hungry and tired. One by one villagers said good by to the radio. Those who remained, cooled down. Most fell sleep. They spent much energy in the long discussion and excitement, in their heavy work in their field and in fighting against the heat. I could finally listen to the news quietly.

As the scene changed, I reflected. Everyone had something to say. Young people seemed delighted by the radio. Old people were more curious about white technology. They wanted to know more about it, while the young generation envied and dreamed about these magical toys.

At that moment, I realized that everything had changed. The genie had been released. Traditions as ancient as the African soil itself had been challenged. I looked around and listened. The cadences of the village were no longer set by nature and tradition. I prayed that this was only a brief interruption, that Kindiri would return to its natural purity. But I knew this was not to be. And yet, I still desired to listen to the radio. The knowledge that Pandora’s box once opened, cannot be closed again filled me with both dread and wonder.

As the others rested, I cautiously switched the machine back on. I searched for the strongest signal and then listened for the news. Soon a headline: the outcome of Baccalaureate, the test that ends high school studies, will be announced in few minutes. In Chad, like most other African nations, the result of this very important examination is spread by radio. I bought the radio especially to provide me with news of the test because I had recently taken the exam.

The radio was about to cite the names of successful candidates. All my family knew that I was expecting the result. I scrambled to awaken my father and family to hear the coming news. We all were anxious when the radio called out the names in alphabetic order. The closer they came to the letter ‘C’, the greater was my fear. There was not enough space in my chest for my heart which now was pounding so loud I thought its sound would drown out the radio. Beneath the tree, I envisioned having a heart attack with that organ exploding under the pressure, surprising and covering my relatives with my heated blood. Just in time, we heard the name of Clamra, Celestin.

I had passed the Baccalaureate.

For the first time in my life I realized what happiness does to the body, the mind and the heart. Some of my brothers and cousins fell about laughing, others jumped in the air. I was so delighted. Cousins from my mother’s side (the only people one can joke with and show his emotions in such situation) ran to me, hugged me and lifted me toward the sky. They presented me to the sky quilted by sharp stars with shining eyes like glowing, golden and embers.

News from the radio was now picked up by the palpitating drums, spreading the message from Kindiri to fill the far horizons. Their sound flew across the blue night sending messages deep into the heart of Sub-Saharan Africa, and finally disappearing to infinity. My father was the God coming on earth, my mother was the “Virgin Mary”, the blessed among all ladies, my brothers, sisters and me were Jesus Christ, Moses, Mohammed and all other prophets on earth that night. The whole village was rejuvenated and happy, except for some of my father’s wives who were a bit jealous. They would have preferred the benediction I now enjoyed bestowed instead upon their sons and them.

In a minute, the news about the Baccalaureate crossed again the whole village. For the second time today villagers invaded the area to acquire the real information from the source. Those who arrived earlier commented that the radio said: “Clamra, Celestin Naidebal Kindiri, tres tres bien”. It meant Clamra, Celestin, son of Naidebal, village of Kindiri passed his exam with H-O-N-O-R-S. This was not exactly true, but they knew that ‘tres, tres bien’ meant ‘excellent’. Villagers repeated that Kindiri, Naidebal, Clamra was called out by the President of our country and the whole world now knew how important our village was. Uncle N’dey proudly spoke: “Such events crossed seas, pierced mountains and arrived even to the ears of de Gaulle, the superior of all the white people from Europe.” To many in my village, France was the center of the world and General de Gaulle its one and only leader forever.

It was the first time someone from our village passed the Baccalaureate. Now the insignificant and dangerous white men’s toy, the radio, began to exert real power on the villagers of Kindiri. Until this moment, it was just a sign of modernism that some rich people from the city buy to satisfy their aspirations of being "black-white". The radio treated only unreal and abstract subjects and simply made people dream dangerous dreams.

Now that the name of their village and the name of their relative came out from this little object, they started perceiving the magic box with a new view. All were very impatient to hear again my name, the name of Kindiri. They ordered the radio to obey, to give them the news they wanted. I gently told them that tonight at 8 p.m. would be the next time for news and they will certainly hear again the result of the Baccalaureate.

Such as all youth in the world, we sang, danced, and laughed our natural laughter in cascades. We dreamed of great exploits, aflame with great passion.

Men refused to go to cultivate their fields. Kids, naked with heavy bellies, did not bring the cattle to pasture. Instead, they played and it was a perfect image of happiness seeing them playing together. Like the animals, kids were in liberty in the field of the Lord. When big events such as this happen, villagers take every advantage to enjoy themselves, since their time is not counted by watches or clocks. Only women were busy as usual that evening fetching water, pounding millet and preparing food for the feast.

Everybody wanted to hear for himself my name on the radio. One of my father’s assistants, a very important person in the village, stood up in his hastily patched shorts and declared, “If this white’s magic object recognized Clamra, it is because he was certainly in the head of all his competitors.” The audience expressed both surprise and happiness. He continued, “I am telling you because the white men know how well he performed in their school, they will elect him the future minister --even president of our nation”. Some young girls discreetly laughed because his torn shorts no longer adequately covered his behind. Everybody was very excited about the idea of having one of his or her family members become minister. Indeed, they must be considered automatically as minister if Clamra, a part of them (their family, their friend, the child from their village) becomes minister. I could not exist without this small universe of my village and my family. I collapsed with joy.

My father sat in his long chair, silent and proud. One could tell that he had expected this moment for years through his bright and distant look.

The drum messenger, continued to broadcast the news in its secret language to villages situated as far away as eight miles. Within an hour of their sounding, people from neighboring villages invaded Kindiri to check the news. My family started offering local beers, liquors and food to the rapidly growing crowd. Farmers began singing in the praise of our family: “How great were my fathers, my brothers, my mothers and my sisters, everyone related to the name Clamra.” Others sang the glory of Kindiri which will definitely count among biggest of cities in the future. Some old people started making speeches saying that I am as intelligent as the white men --even more because I possess all their knowledge and was initiated as a boy. The white man knew nothing of initiation and did not go through the hard physical tests and mutilations we experienced in the bush in order to join the society of man as an equal.

My brothers and I were the only ones from our village who had chance to be sent to colonial school. None of my brothers completed his high school studies. Everybody understood that I was the one that the ancestors chose to carry the future of the village. That was my destiny and all my family and the whole village praised our ancestors for their generosity. They all blessed me and encouraged me for further achievement.

That night one could hear all kinds of speeches and stupidities. The more drink poured, the sillier the speech. One man said that he could almost predict the news because while he was cultivating his field, a dove came and started singing its cooing song. He asked the bird to sing again if he was going to hear some good news. And the bird repeated its song.

An extraordinary lady from the neighboring village arrived. She was known as a great diviner, possessing esoteric powers. She was treated with more consideration than other women in the region. When, seven months before the exam my family had consulted her, she predicted that I would pass my Baccalaureate this year. But she added an enigmatic warning that her fetishes were terrified by my wealth. Tonight, her reputation soared to greater heights.

She proudly stood up and declared; “The spirits of our ancestors spoke to me last night. They told me that with Clamra, our nation will see all the pastel colors of the planet. Our ancestors sent him to bring changes in our lives.” Another old man said: “Because Clamra is us, we are here to laugh with him and share his joy. In the same way, will be here to cry with him and bear his pains when time comes”.

This spontaneous celebration kept growing.

While men sat drinking alcohol and tea, discussing, making silly speeches and enjoying being together, the women and young girls were very busy doing all the work. Without fail, they proudly pounded, ground, cooked, and served, preparing a sumptuous feast of many exotic dishes.

The combination of the women’s dress with the frenzy of their activity brought a wondrous scene for those who noticed. Some of the women wore tightly bound vegetable leaves that hid their secrets subtly. Others were covered simply with only a small piece of loin-cloth which revealed delicious views as they pounded rhythmically. Still others revealed overabundance that is best left unseen.

This was a great and luxurious day. The women yearned to present the best of the talents. Sauce was being prepared with much rare spice, red and rich with oil like every grower in Chadian villages dreams of. Real salt, the kind used by white ladies and ministers' wives in cities, was absolutely necessary here as well as onions, tomatoes, sugar and chili. But how to get such things in this village where there was no shopping? One of my sisters and two of my cousins walked ten miles to the nearest small town to buy these distinguished ingredients. My cousins, who lacked the proper clothes to go to the town, borrowed others’ loin-cloths in order to make the journey. With uncovered bosoms and bare feet, they walked for miles and hours to bring in the village theses precious elements.

Smoke pierced the roofs of huts and the wind sent it high into the sky. Carrying their pottery perfectly balanced on their heads, other women went to fetch water miles from the village. Although women worked very hard, they had fun working together. One could easily hear them laughing and gossiping from afar. They never complained about their situation as women, which made them work twice or three times harder than the men to feed their males and their children.

What do these girls and young ladies with their sweet, shy smiles think? What are their dreams? Their ambitions were to get married with young, strong, handsome and generous men from the village. They dreamed about the number of kids they would have. Perhaps, like my mother, they dream of other secret ambitions.

When time came for the women to partake of the feast, they gathered themselves in my mother’s private area, not allowed to eat with men. Only non-initiated boys ate with ladies.

In Kindiri and countless other villages in Chad, there was always a big uncrossed gap between women and men. It is believed that males “discuss”, while females “gossip”. Thus it had been for centuries. Our women however, are much more clever than most men will admit --at least in public. Village women always find a way to express themselves, making sly observations of their men and their condition through songs which are composed then sung at night. While certainly reaching the ears of all, these anonymous songs are never openly discussed the next day.

Although men and women are formally separated in most public activities, the sound of "drum love” always unifies everyone. The dance raises passion and dust that burn the eyes, and grind the teeth. Imagine the sight of hundreds of men and women beneath a swirling cloud of dust. Their dark, sweating, vibrating skin illuminated only by scant silver moonlight that manages to penetrate the cloud. Hundreds of frenetic bodies with shining faces, short of breath but elevated by the feverish sound of drums.

All refused to sleep. They wanted to dance, to enjoy, to forget their misery, to make love time and again. Everyone is bound by the excitement, held together as one in the celebration of joy. Their heavy lips wanted to sing, but they were exhausted. Nothing could break their unity, not even physical fatigue. Drums re-ignited the packed bodies, while just beyond the light lions and other wild animals had begun their nightly prowl.

Oh, yes! I was myself captive of these "drums of love”. The rhythm of the night penetrated my whole body, softened my flesh, hardened my desire to the level of a young boy’s ready to ejaculate for the first time. I danced as I never danced before. Fluid and beyond the boiling point , I was cast under the spell. I had the sensation that the sky was collapsing on me. I didn’t feel any more the earth under my feet. Others accused me of being the best dancer in the village. What a night!

One older lady in her forties, carried away by joy, intoxication and the beauty of my dance, gyrated wildly. Her loin-cloth became loose and fell to her feet. Naked, she rumbled on the ground crying, “Let me die for you, my son”. When she stood up, she came by my side and danced as a young girl with all her energy and all her soul. Young men drew closer, very interested by each detail of her exposed anatomy. Another woman found the missing loin-cloth and tried to cover the dancing woman’s sex. The older lady energetically pulled away the loin-cloth, waving it around her head before throwing it far back into the crowd. She was provoking, challenging. Cheering rose from the crowd, especially kids and young girls.

Nuba, a fifty year old man from a neighboring village, jumped up to catch the flying cloth, stating: “Never, not in my life time, will women be greater than us and particularly today!” With his declaration, he snatched off his goat skin underwear and liberated his anatomy as well. Women who rarely had the occasion to see adult male sex were particularly delighted. Nuba leapt to the middle of the circle and danced ever more wildly. He caught the naked lady, threw her down, grabbed his penis and started flailing her head with his sex. She held her arms around her head and screamed in mock terror, “Help me! help me!” Kids approached the couple, some beguiled with curiosity, others giggling self-consciously. Many in the good-natured crowd fell down, convulsed with laughter. When the laughter died down, she stood declaring, “We women will make you do exactly what we want”.

Nuba concluded unconvincingly, “We will every time dominate you”. Even he did not truly believe his words.

Throughout the night, the celebration continued. The celestial world, illuminated by the full moon and stars, was sharing our joy, generosity, insouciance, brotherhood, our communion and spontaneity. Dressed in her purple colors, dawn gently surprised the villagers.

Blessings continued to fall upon us. The next day we were offered goats, sheep, hens, roosters, millet, liquor, sugar, and beer by each adult in Kindiri. From my family alone, I received ten goats and sheep. I had to offer these to my ancestors for protection.

This day, I cut more than fifteen animals’ throats. Before each sacrifice, I called out: ”Please Ancestors, care about my family, the village and me during my studies. Because you need fresh blood to keep you alive, I present you with the blood of this animal so that you will have enough to share with all who dwell with you.” I created four crosses on the ground and executed the operation. The soil of Kindiri became soaked with fresh animal blood, adding a strangely aromatic moisture to the otherwise oppressive heat.

The meat was then distributed to each Kindiri family. Women prepared meals for the entire village and all visitors who arrived. In the afternoon, the people from the nearby villages arrived with another wealth of blessings to present to my family.

Still, the celebration did not end. As we feasted, drank and danced we did not notice what was taking place deep in the bush. It is natural during this season, February through March, for wild fires to burn across sub-Saharan Africa. In ordinary times, whole villages would be mobilized to protect crops and houses. But this was an exceptional time.

Beneath the darkening skies, the fire was conquering all the bush, painting everything with a terrifying coat of red and gold. Such the squadrons of a fiery cavalry came in tumultuous waves.

Now all manner of beasts from rats to monkeys, lions and elephants appeared at the edge of our village. They were fleeing a devouring tide of flame. Over the thick swarming clouds, vultures with their wings largely open and immobile flew in the dense air. A cluster of bees and wasps danced an ardent dance just ahead of the advancing flames.

The wild fire rapidly approached our village. It illuminated the altitudes with huge rose-colored smoke. We could no longer ignore what had now become obvious. Suddenly, the bush close to our perimeter was aflame. Soon, devouring flames would demand to join our celebration.

Ordinarily we would feel the searing heat and smell the acrid smoke as an advance warning. But we had been cooking so much meat that the sky had been filled with smoke from our very own fires. Our minds were intoxicated with jubilation and otherwise directed into acts of joy. So, it was not until too late that we took notice of the threat at our doorway.

Now what to do? We were neither worried about the fire nor fearful of the wild animals who were just frightened victims of the fire. To the farmers, the savanna fertilized itself with its ashes to be revived at the next season. It was all a natural rhythm, although nothing would grow for months. Besides, that day was special. No natural disaster will stop our celebration once begun. Africans must enjoy their lives no matter what. We are accustomed to living on the edge of life and death everyday. Today it was decided not to struggle.

Still, our immediate survival was at stake.

Flames advanced to the very edge of Kindiri. Our beloved village was clearly threatened. Thick, dark smoke polluted the air and interfered with our breathing.

And then a most curious thing occurred. When the burning destruction met our blood soaked soil, it hissed and crackled, sending puffs of steam toward the heavens. Then, the fire refused to cross this threshold. At that very moment, the winds changed direction and the fire retreated. Kindiri was spared. Could it be the ancestors had begun protecting us so soon?

More reason to rejoice. Besides the abundance of fresh, domesticated meat, we killed many other wild animals to add to our storehouses. Farmers will feast for many days.

Even the poor dogs of the village, who very rarely ate meat, had cause to celebrate. For many days to come, there would be a wealth of bones to savor and later bury.

Few were concerned about the crops they didn’t finish harvesting. As a result, growers didn’t work for another two and a half days. But for the villagers days like these, where they can consume meat and eat sufficiently, are far too rare. The meat that provides energy and virility is a luxury object of envy. Moreover, my people know there is a time for everything. A time for resting and a time for working. A time for sorrow and a time for laughter.

And so the innocent-looking white box transformed the realities of our village in mysterious ways. It changed the rhythms first, by replacing natural sounds with electronic ones. It spread news far and wide, leading to a joy-filled, three day celebration. But the celebration distracted the farmers so that much future wealth was lost by inattention to the seasonal fires.

I retreated from the festivity to reflect, realizing that my future had passed into the hands of forces greater than my own. It caused me to look back upon my life with a sweet longing for simpler times. I could sense that what was ahead of me would be vastly different from all that had been, perhaps more difficult than anything I could imagine or handle.

I knew that nothing would be the same for Kindiri or myself again.

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