Pride of Lions

by Jason Colpitts

©Jason Colpitts

     Yellow raptorial eyes searched for the boy.  The lion's light fur appeared black against the moon.  It was out there, hunting.

***

     The young boy awoke with a start.  He shook with fear, studying the ground far below as his crimson sun had disappeared.   Cheetahs and hyenas could climb.  Darkness blanketed the gloom, but nothing stalked his Shea tree, for now.  Only some tall grasses swayed quietly below.  Thankfully, he was high up and alone.

     The child nursed a stinging wound on the side of his face, the source of a dangerous blood trail.  He shivered.  

     Sounds of the African night surrounded him.  They were unlike the pleasant obrom or the sakara drum which played on most village evenings.  These were terribly unsettling.  Calls from civets and jackals joined each other.

     Then, in a horrifying moment, everything went silent.  Field mice skittered for shelter as a deep bellow raced across the Nigerian savanna.  The lion was on to him...

***

     New nightmares would chase the boy for years to follow, the boulder, the lion, his parents.

     He remembered the gunshots that assaulted his village only a few days ago.

     Many lie dead.  He sat weeping at the feet of his parents.

     "This is what happens when you abandon Nigerian custom!" The militant group's leader spoke without a conscience as his rifle hemorrhaged smoke. "This is your fault too, little one!  Your village men went to school!  Now your parents are dead!"

      The child had barely learned to dress himself, never mind argue village politics.  He was a mere five years old.  Earlier that day, the kids played chase, caught bugs, and even debated whether there were lions or zebras still alive.  Most said the animals were gone.  Now his village had joined the animal kingdom.  They were all dead.

     Due to his own wailing, the child didn't hear the cackling guerrillas approach.  Before he could run, the militant leader put his heavy boot on the little one's back and forced his face into the red soil.  Black rubber tore through his thin shirt.  The whole group laughed.

     "Get up, boy!" he ordered with wretched breath.

     Wiping salty mud from his eyes, the boy stood.

     The man with coarse fatigues, bullets across his chest, and brown stained teeth demanded, "Tell me it's your fault, that you are responsible for their deaths, and I will let you live!"

     The little one shook uncontrollably.  He looked at his father and mother.  They lay still.  Their traditional dress, long flowing robes and headscarves, flapped in the breeze.  He turned back.

     "Come.  Join us.  I will give you this gun, and you can fight for our cause.  Tell me it was your fault!"

     The child didn't answer at first.  After a moment, he, with his bottom lip quivering, whispered a defiant, "No!" 

     The militant leader sneered.  In answer, he swung the rifle brashly, hitting the child across his right eye.  The boy crumpled to the ground like a fallen branch disappearing into the undergrowth.

     As the leader aimed his rifle, his closest friend stopped him.

     "Don't waste the bullet," the second man said. "He's already dead."

***

     A tall woman with rich dark skin and a pretty blouse strutted hurriedly through the halls of Ile-iwe fun ọmọ tosọnu, the School for Lost Children.  Their dormitories were small, catacombs of tiny claustrophobic rooms.

     Behind her, she dragged a boy along.  His steps had a sort of reluctant sluggishness to them.  He was a teenager, tall and lanky.  A long scar traveled down the right side of his face.  The boy had both hands in his pockets and a bored look on his face.  These were a special lot, troubled.

     She was unfazed.

     "Hurry up!" she ordered.

     Her shrill voice made him jump.  The young man, also African and very dark skinned, obeyed, kind of.  He picked up his pace, as his disinterested expression grew into one of irritation.

     The woman's clogs struck the ground like sharp thunderclaps from an oncoming storm.  She was determined.  Marching from one building to the next, they cut through the back pathways.

     Sunlight bleached the boarding school until almost everything matched the color of rice blended with yellow curry.  The hot air smelled like dry reeds.  Scorpions darted away as did the many insects buzzing about.

     With authority, the woman led them into an office building stuffed with teacher's rooms.  The walls were marked and scrapped from years of use.  Old file cabinets, worn desks, and outdated tan computers cluttered the rooms.  Many were broken.  At the end of the hallway, she approached a door.  Etched into the glass was a single name in black ink.  It read: "Mr. Akintunde".  His room had a couple chairs outside.

     "Sit down," she ordered.  Trying the handle, the woman thought for a second, and then added, "Don't get up!"

     He did as he was told.  The kid sank sullenly into the chair like a sack of yams, choosing to hang half-off in a defiant slump.  

     Outside an expensive silver car was parked.  It was out of place, like someone left a bar of gold lying in the gutter.  Whoever drove it had money, and they didn't belong here.  Upon seeing it, the boy shifted, growing judgmental.  She frowned and ignored him.

     After she entered the office, he could see her shadow and that of another man through the glass.  They talked in low tones, but at times their heated conversation slipped through the sorry construction and into the boy's ears.  Not wanting others to see, the African teenager sat stone-faced as they discussed him.  Inwardly though, he squirmed at every word.

     "Nneoma!" An older man welcomed her with a nice voice, deep and experienced.

     "I'm so happy you came!" she answered.  Relief flooded through her.

     He shifted awkwardly, and she glanced at his leg.

     The older man waved her sentiment away with a curt, "This old thing, it's fine.  I hardly think about it anymore.  I haven't seen this office in, what, ten years?  The school system has me moving all over.  There are so many schools in need."

     "The wind is changing in favor of education," she added, trying to be understanding. "More families are enlisting than ever before."

     "Yes," he agreed. "If I know my daughter at all, you didn't invite me here to have lunch!"  

     The stout older man smiled and glanced through the glass window.  He could easily see the boy.

     "No, papa." The woman's tough exterior melted away and her voice softened. "The gangs are getting worse.  There is so much violence, so much hatred, so much pain.  This boy is a gang leader.  Many have joined him, and none of the Counselors have been able to break through."

     "How can I say no to the other children in the city?" he reasoned, stubbornly.

     Nneoma dodged his question.  She looked at him with eyes as round as saucers, pleading like a small child would for some food. "Can't the school district function on its own for a while?  We need help."

     Shutting down, her father took in a belabored breath and turned his back to the room.  Along the wall, his crooked shelves were stuffed with aged papers, personal belongings, folders, and many other things.  His gaze settled onto a metal box, and his heart filled with sadness.

     Undeterred, she added, "He's different, smart, even more than he knows."

     Her father said nothing.  Instead, he ran his fingers along the metal box.  He shook his head slowly.  Letting out a loud sigh, he hobbled back around, already having made up his mind.

     "Curse you, father!" 

     She shoved the papers off the desk.  Hundreds of dusty sheets hit the far window.  He heard them as if they were bricks crashing to the ground.  Mr. Akintunde took a deep breath to speak, but she didn't let him, launching one accusation after another.

      "When did you cease becoming a teacher?!  Look at you!  Your belly is so fat!  The other Directors can handle the city, and you know it!  Why won't you?  This one is worth saving.  Papa, both his parents died, and still he fights!"

     Mr. Akintunde was struck to the heart.  He used to possess the same passion.  Now the paint on the door was chipped and neglected.  He felt ashamed.  Nneoma was right about everything.  It was easy to hide behind the stacks of papers.

     "There is greatness in the boy," she continued. "He reminds me of you, father."

     "Nneoma..."

     "You won't do it, will you?" She was so frustrated.

     "Nneoma!  Listen to me!  Fool child, you are just as stubborn as me!" His stiff round face eased into a teasing smirk.

     "You're going to help?!" Her stormy demeanor changed instantly to glee.

     "You're like a mother to these kids," he answered pridefully, embracing his daughter. "Yes, my little girl.  I'll give you a couple weeks.  Bring him in."

     Happily, she let her father go and stepped toward the door.

     "Nneoma?" He stopped her. "How did he get that scar?"

     "I don't know," she responded, shrugging her shoulders. "He won't say."

     As Nneoma ushered the boy inside, Mr. Akintunde rounded his desk and plopped into the chair.  His hefty paunch threatened to burst the buttons off his shirt.  After she closed the door and left, the young man stood there with a blank expression.  Breathing heavily, Mr. Akintunde leaned forward, placed his two weary elbows onto the desk, and met the young man in the eye.

     "What's your name, son?" he asked with a relaxed tone.

     The boy looked him over.  His lip curled up in disgust.  He said nothing.

     Mr. Akintunde frowned, and he let out a fatigued sigh. "Won't you have a seat then?"  

     A lone school chair sat in the corner.  Instead of sitting, the boy cocked his head, and gave him a challenging look, and remained standing.

     Mr. Akintunde smiled and explained, "Nneoma has to yell.  I understand why.  I've raised my voice many times too.  It doesn't accomplish much." Mr. Akintunde paused to point at the chairs outside his door, and added, "Are you the type of man who sits when he is ordered but refuses when he is given respect?"

     The boy flinched.  What a wise question!  The young African rebel had been insulted in many ways, called either Child, Kid, or Boy.  No one ever addressed him as a man.  After thinking about it, he unfolded his arms.  Then, he moved over a couple steps and sat in the chair. 

     "Have you eaten?" Mr. Akintunde was curious. "Do you like nunu?  I'm sorry I don't have either spicy groundnut soup or agege bread today." 

     Nunu was a form of cottage cheese.  It was a simple breakfast, but food nonetheless.  The teenager's stomach churned loudly.  He hadn't eaten.  Few had offered him such a hand of kindness.

     "Oban," he answered. "My name is Oban."

     "Really?" Mr. Akintunde was surprised. "Thank you, Mr. Oban." As he opened his humble meal onto the desk, he made a few statements.  Each was well-thought-out and a minute apart. 

     "Your name means "King"...  

     "Tell me, Oban, what happened to the King?...

     "Who gave you that scar?!!...

     "I ask because...  

     "I know a bully when I see one."

     As soon as Mr. Akintunde's soft expressions took their final hammering tone, Oban rolled his eyes and shot out of the chair like a snake from his hole.  The rickety seat flopped over with a bang.  Clearly, the niceness of this older man was a setup.  Oban grabbed the door handle and nearly tore the door off its hinges as he opened it.

     "I see I was right..." Mr. Akintunde continued, unfazed. "When confronted with inner strength, bullies always run."

     "What do you know about me?!" Oban yelled back as he slammed the door shut again. "How dare you call me a bully!  We fight oppressors."  He was fuming.  His eyes overflowed with hate - fierce, savage, rage.  The word scar clanged in his ears, echoing from across a chasm of memory.  Oban flashed a knife from under his clothes.  His voice changed from angry to threatening. "We grow like a cub that sprouts wings!  Maybe my boys and I will teach you a few lessons, and then I'll let you leave!"

     Mr. Akintunde placed two large fists down onto the desk.  He rose slowly and menacingly from the chair.  The man looked like a Rhino ready to charge, ready to hurl the desk separating them away, as he growled back, "Oban, I have faced threats far greater than you!  Your weapon labels you!  Mark my words; you will not bully anyone in this room!  DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!!"

     The young man nodded, his spitfire attitude deflating in seconds.  He was exactly what Mr. Akintunde had called him, a bully.

     "Now, who started you down this path, Oban?  Bullies make bullies. Why do you need to fight?  Who gave you that scar?!!"

***

     Hiding behind large green leaves, the tiny child watched and waited.

     After studying the hillsides, the little one found a perfect trap, a boulder on top of a hill.  He wedged a branch under the front, and then nearly killed himself digging beneath it.  He dug for hours with sticks until his hands and fingers were bleeding.  Finally, it started to move.  Scooting out, he tied a vine to the branch, and the trap was laid.  Now all he needed was bait.

     For almost two weeks he managed to survive.  His days were spent running - his nights crying.  Thankfully, the new scar wasn't bleeding anymore.  It didn't hurt as much, but now the pain in his heart was growing.  He felt responsible for his village, for his parents.  Everyone knew Western education was wrong, but the surrounding villages wanted better roads.  Several men left to take classes.  So the bands with guns came.  Like their leader with the stinking fish breath said, it was his fault.

      The little boy swallowed hard.  As his guilt grew, so did the horrible dreams.  He awoke every night to the memory of gunfire, to the smell of smoke, and to the piercing gaze of that terrible man.

     He shook his head, trying to focus.  He needed to time it right: wait for the lion to get close, run up the hill, and pull the vine.  In the language of Yoruba it was called a Kiniun, and tonight he was going to beat it.

     The Kiniun was close, circling.  The little one cursed his stomach for growling so loudly it rivaled the animal.  He couldn't find much to eat, only berries and some wild fruit.  The noise was sure to alert the lion.  Everyone said they were gone, but he had seen it.  The creature behaved differently, unlike regular lions which hunted by opportunity, waiting.  This one was moving around, spiraling toward him, and hunting by night.  Maybe the changing land had warped it into something more, something monstrous, surreal.

     The fire red sun dipped below the horizon.  Ribbons of foreboding orange gripped the sky.  Twilight was settling upon the ground, and a lone black shadow was moving down the far rocks.

    The child took a deep breath, clinging to the memory of his mother.  

     "A cub can sprout wings, my little one, and fly," she had said.

     He felt that this day he might become a cub daring to fly.  He wasn't going to become a meal.  He was going to fight.

     The area was hilly, and it was hard to see.

     He waited.

     Nothing.

     He waited.

     Nothing.

     Not a sound came out of the lowland forest.

     He strained for a glimpse through the blackening leaves.

     Suddenly, the hunter's amber eyes opened only a few feet away.  As straight as a bushman aiming his spear, the animal's body formed a perfect line, from its slitted eyes, to its mane - matted flat - and to the end of its tail.

     The creature looked mythical, crouching along the ground, moving silently under the mist.  Still, the young boy waited.  His heart screamed, begging him to run.  Somehow, he steadied his panicked nerves.

     Then, in a wild scatter of dry leaves, the boy bolted.  If he could have seen the monstrous beast surge out of the trees, he would surely have died from fright.  Like a lone victim helplessly fleeing a landslide, the little one ran.  Its dagger-like claws drove into the soil, inches from his heels.  Muscles rippled up and down the mighty creature as it launched ferociously toward the prey.

     The lion bellowed.  The ground shook violently.  For miles around, small rodents froze in terror.  Not this boy.  He moved like tiny bursts of lightning, agilely scooting under and around saplings and branches.  Again and again the nightmarish beast fought through the underbrush.  It was so big.  Massive paws tore at the boy, just too short.

      Up the hill the boy ran.  Tiny shoeless feet dug desperately into the soil.  At the top, he hurled himself at the hidden vine and pulled.  The boulder creaked and went nowhere.  It was supposed to roll onto the beast.  The boy pulled harder...and the vine snapped.

     His face dropped in horror.  The lion bounded without mercy up the hill.  In a last ditch effort, the child took a dangerous gamble.  Diving under the huge stone, he started kicking the branch.  When it held fast, he pressed both legs to it and pushed with all his might.  This time the branch popped out, flying straight into the lion's face.  Shrugging it off, the lion reached under the boulder, searching, blinded by rage.  Its claws flung this way and that.

     Fur and dirt showered upon the child.  Dodging as best as he could, the boy rolled away.  Then, and only then did he hear it crack.  Still pawing at the gaping hole underneath, the lion didn't realize what was happening above.  The boulder started to roll.

     At the same moment, the lion stretched as far as his sinewy arms would allow.  The boy screamed.  Tearing into his leg, the lion managed to get ahold of him, a single claw wedged deep in his flesh.  The animal dragged him back under.  Digging his fingernails into the roots, the boy tried feverishly to escape, but it was for naught.  His leg was trapped under the boulder.  He screamed even more as the weight of hundred men rolled over him.

     The great cat roared, falling to the mercy of the giant stone.  As it crashed down, the mighty stone bounced, flinging high into the air.  They tumbled together toward the bottom of the hill, lion, boulder, lion, boulder, and landed as one.  

     Then, the boulder crashed to the forest floor with the strongest wave of vibration he would ever know.

     The child fell unconscious.

     The world went silent.

***

     Oban and Mr. Akintunde walked together from a dusty old park.  They milled about, saying little.

     Speaking casually, Mr. Akintunde brought up their discussion from a few weeks ago, "You never gave me an answer.  How did you get that scar?"

     "I..." the boy said, matter-of-factly, not adding any more.

     To a degree he had befriended his old mentor.  Oban didn't know he excelled in mathematics, until Mr. Akintunde planted the seed.  Now, Oban has grown.  He was proud of himself, but like a seedling scorched by desert winds and tossed upon treacherous rocks, Oban still had a scabrous past.  His wounds ran deep.

     "I understand," Mr. Akintunde answered, astutely observing Oban's subtle wince, and changed subjects. "When we first met, you brought a knife.  It wasn't for me, was it?"

     "No," Oban explained with confidence. "There is only fighting here.  Wahala's gang has a blood feud with mine.  My friends are a lion pride, loyal."

     "I see," Mr. Akintunde responded, sadly. "Oban, what would you do if the other gang brought knives to the fight?"

     "We would show muscle, bring more knives."

     "Hmm...and if they brought machetes?"

     "We would bring them too."

     "And if they brought guns?"

     "What are you saying?!"

     "Oban, it's called escalation.  Wahala brings rifles; you bring rifles.  His gang grows; your gang grows.  You kill one of them; they kill one of you.  Where does it stop?"

     "When they are beaten!"

     Akintunde said slowly, "Then you slaughtered our village!"

     Oban laughed, confused. "That happened before I was born!"

     As they talked, Mr. Akintunde led them back into his office.  He explained, making a round-about point, "The lion will return – when we find the courage to live beside them – they'll come back.  We didn't live in harmony with the majestic cats.  We burned their fields, pillaged their food, and stole their cubs.  Of course they retaliated, attacking humans.  Maybe we could have lived together.  Instead, we killed the noble lions, as we saw only beasts.  They fought back, we retaliated, and what did we get?  Extinction.

     "Oban, Wahala is fighting you because you are fighting him.  It's reciprocal." He stared off at the empty horizon.  After allowing the logic to sink in, he added, "At the school you have a room.  You have food.  Yet you think you fight to survive.  You're surviving well-enough.  Your gang has over two hundred boys.  They would kill for you.  Instead, they'll dig their own graves with blood-soaked hands - because of you.  Because someone else pushed you, and you pushed back!  Lions fight to survive; you fight because you're angry!  You can't compare your gang to those majestic creatures!  Yours is a pack of hyenas!"

      "I..." Oban was speechless.

     "You what?!" Mr. Akintunde raised his voice. "I saw the men who burned Nigeria's heritage.  You became just like them.  You adopted their ways!  They butchered the past while you slaughter the future.  What will the king rule in the end, rubble?  When you sow filth and hatred, what is left to reap but filth and hatred?"

     Oban withdrew.  He looked like a newborn infant lying in the path of a stampede. 

     "But..." he stammered.  Embarrassed and defensive, Oban returned with a furious tirade, "What do you know about why I fight?!  My p-parents are dead!  M-my village was killed fighting the Northern Tribes.  My father and mother fled like cowards.  Then they got the fever and died a week later, with nothing!

     "And it got worse.  Our caretaker beat us!  After ten years, I stood up to him.  He gave me this scar!  I vowed nobody will beat me again, nobody!  A cub can sprout wings!!!"

      Mr. Akintunde fell into his chair.  He wiped both hands down his face. "Oban, where did you hear that?"

     "The village people say it!" Oban answered with disgust. "It means..."

     "I know what it means.  My mother said it first.  It means: Dare to be better.  Aspire to be more.  Trust me.  I understand."

     "How can you ever understand, Mr. Akintunde?" Oban rolled the man's name off his tongue like it was manure itself. "Can a person of wealth advise the truly desperate?  You owned the whole village, and yet you fled to the city.  You dance for money on the bureaucrat's stage!  Bow before their pearls and cuff links, Mr. Akintunde, in your city of silver cars!  You know nothing of life here!!!"  Oban spit the words in his face as he grabbed his chair and hurled it across the room.

     It flew past Mr. Akintunde's head and broke the shelves into pieces.  Books and papers cascaded down.  His cherished and abhorred box too crashed to the floor.  Old black and white photos tumbled out - a monsoon of memories - sliding before Oban's feet.

     Mr. Akintunde never flinched.

     Oban knelt.  He looked over the photos, barely breathing, and gathered them to his chest.  Oban blinked.  New tears formed.  He fingered through the images.  They were pictures of torment, a village burned to the ground, a shattered leg, and a tiny child covered in dirt and dried blood, the only survivor of tribal hatred, standing with a strange sort of pride while holding both fists to the air.  Mr. Akintunde's village had been massacred before his eyes.  Oban fell into a dead quiet, covering his mouth.  He had no idea the man was there.

    "How old were you?" Oban asked, barely audible.

     "Five," Mr. Akintunde answered, his voice trembling. "My nightmares team with their guns, Oban!  Every night the militants come for me!  I see their anger in you.  You formed a group of your own!  Why don't you shoot my mother and father too?!

     "We are from the same village, Oban.  Your people came later.  Mine were all killed.  Your parents protected you by running.  You owe them your life."

     Oban saw Mr. Akintunde for the first time.  A long scar ran down Mr. Akintunde's face too.  It might have mirrored Oban's, but Mr. Akintunde was marked by a strength only inner torture can produce.  A set of pain-ridden eyes met Oban's.  Mr. Akintunde's cold look said everything.

     Oban started shaking, ashamed.  He was so confused and angry, but he didn't expect that Mr. Akintunde understood.  Oban thought of himself the hero and now saw only a villain.

     Weeping so bitterly Oban's viscera clenched so hard it wouldn't allow him to breathe.  Fresh hot tears seared his face.  He tried pulling in air, and only got tiny gasps.  He tried looking up again and couldn't.

     Instead, Oban dropped the pictures and ran.

***

     The little child limped through the savanna.  Somewhere along a heavily wooded area, he heard cubs crying to no one.  The parent lion was gone.  He leaned down and pet one of them, noticing fresh carrion left for them.

     Where is their father? he wondered.

     He didn't know the hunter had a family.  Strange.  Now he neither hated them, nor the lion.

     The boy felt a tinge of sorrow.  He didn't know why he was heading back to the village.  No family remained there.  There was just nowhere else to go.

     After miles, he dropped to the ground at the edge of a clearing.  Where beautiful huts once stood full of life, piles of ash sat quietly.  His village was gone.  Gathering  clumps of red soil together, he placed his head upon it, hoping to retain a piece of what once was.  A weak sleep took him.

     Some time passed.  He awoke to the sound of soft footsteps.  Two men were approaching.  Malnourished and beyond feeble, the boy lifted his head.  An odd looking man stooped over him with earnestness.  He had the lightest skin the child had ever seen, as white as clouds.  Many had guns.  Some had machetes.

     They are vicious gods, he thought, delirious. They want to hunt me too.

     The pale-skinned men gave him a canteen filled with water.  Lying flat, the little one turned slightly and choked the precious liquid down.

     They want to make sure I can run.  The sport will be no fun otherwise.

     Many in the safari were searching for food to offer.  The first man, as white as an ivory tusk, leaned forward and turned the boy over, encouraging him to stand.  The child screamed in pain.  Hastily, the group looked down.  Everyone started shouting.  The searing fire in his little leg made everything else a blur.  

     Fighting the agony, the child rose as they dug with fervor through their packs.  This boy was not going down without a fight.  He was barely five years old, and he pushed through the horrible burning pain, and stood, and raised both fists ready to fight.

     Pulling his head out of the pack, the white man smirked.  He held a roll of bandages.  The man turned his head to his African friends and said something in a foreign language.

     "He wants to know your name, little one." The Nigerian's accent was thick.

     The child courageously lifted his chin and barked back with a tiny voice, "I am Akintunde!  I beat a lion.  I will beat you!"

     The African guide nodded proudly and translated the Yoruba into English, "Akintunde means 'a brave one returns', 'a brave one returns'."

***

     Sweat rained off the bed.

     Mr. Akintunde snapped out of the dream, eyes bloodshot.  Every night he relived the terror.  This night was particularly bad.  He dried his forehead, and turned on the orange light, and listened to the drops tapping on the tin roof.  The rainy season was just beginning to take hold.

     "Is everything okay, Papa.  May I come in?"

     "Yes," he answered Nneoma, drained. "I didn't want it, the villager’s land.  I wanted my parents back."

     "I know." Her voice was soft.

     "When the American journalists saw to it that everything was left to me, I thought I was free.  My memories found me again.  When I built the school, when I got married, when I escaped to the city, the nightmares were always there, my demons.  Nneoma, I've been running for years.  I'm such a coward!"

     "Papa," she said sweetly, "Your village was killed because they invited education.  Now you own a school.  You used the money selflessly.  You were brave through mama's death.  You were brave to return and to take on Oban.  Papa, you are the bravest man I know."

     Not wishing to invade his privacy, Nneoma had never invaded his box.  After spying it on the bed, she looked at him for permission.  He nodded.  She opened it and fanned the pictures out.

     Her father withdrew.  The stinging images unfurled before him like the wares of a cackling gypsy, a haggardly woman's cloth laden with rotten things.  Memories tumbled out.

     Nneoma shuddered.  The pictures were real and graphic.

     Pulling out an old envelope, she began to read in the dim orange light.  The letter was written by the journalist, Mr. Kevin Samuel.  It had never been opened.

     Her hungry eyes gobbled up every word.  Their mission was to document the country's bloodshed.  

     After thumbing through the pile, Nneoma pulled out a couple photos.

     "Papa." She sat upright. "I thought you killed the lion?"

     "I did."

     She went on, stunned, "It didn't die.  The journalists found the militant leader dead first.  His group fell apart and disbanded.  Papa, he was killed by a lion.  It was hunting the militant leader.  They said it came out of nowhere, and killed him, like it was protecting one of its cubs.  Mr. Samuel found your attackers first.  Their trail led to your village.  They found you.  Lion tracks bordered the village and off into the forest.  They found the boulder.  Papa...!!!  The lion let you live."

     She held up a photo.  Apparently, the lion had encircled him several times before leaving.  His torn shirt with the black boot mark was still on the ground.

     Nneoma and her father stood in silence for a while, unsure of what it all meant. 

     Suddenly there was a commotion outside.  Nneoma ran to the window.

     "Something's happening!" she yelled and ran downstairs.

     By the time Akintunde shuffled in a hurry down to the front door almost the entire village had gathered.  A mournful sound rose from the crowd unlike anything he had heard before.  He would have called it a wail for lack of a better word.  It was eerie.  The women were weeping, and grabbing at their blouses, and tearing the cloth between their fingers.  The pale yellow moon reflected off their terror ridden faces.

     "Papa, one of Oban's gang tried to kill a Wahala.  They're going to execute him.  He's only twelve!"

     "Come, Nneoma!  Bring everyone!"

    A dangerous glow hovered at the edge of the northern sky.  Near the burning garbage ravine and the water spout which the women use to fill their jugs, Akintunde and Nneoma found the assembly of boys.  Ominous ruby fire filled the air.  At least a thousand had gathered, and the group looked ready to erupt.  Hundreds stood on either side of the ravine waving sticks embedded with nails, machetes, and machine guns.

     Akintunde spotted Oban listing at the ravine's edge.  

     "Oban!"

     He didn't flinch.

     "Oban!  What are you doing?!"

     Oban turned without an expression.

     "You were right.  Mahae bloodied another boy's ear, trying to kill him.  Mahae wanted to impress me..." He said so overwhelmed that he was barely moving or speaking at all.

     "There's still time, Oban.  Make it right," Mr. Akintunde said.

     Akintunde scanned the other side for a glimpse of hope.  Hateful white eyes and seething gritted teeth danced among the red embers.  Then it got worse.  Far behind them was a caravan of trucks which Akintunde knew well.  Akintunde wiped both hands down his face.  They were the Boko Haram - the men who forbid Western Education.  

     Wahala started screaming.  He produced a tiny boy, as skinny as could be, with hardly an ounce of muscle on his body.  A million stars coruscated along Wahala's blade.  He raised the machete to Mahae's throat and the sound of wailing evolved to one of horror.

     "Stop!" Akintunde demanded.

     He grabbed Nneoma's hand and motioned for her to follow suit.  Weaving through the crowd came dozens and dozens of women, little ones, and even elderly ones carefully side-stepping the stones.

     The two gangs grew silent as Akintunde's human train advanced down into the ravine away from the edge of the fire.

     "Get them out of here!" Wahala sneered.

     "Wahala, don't do this." Akintunde ignored him. "Vengeance is wrong.  It only creates more pain."

     Wahala didn't answer.

     Akintunde took advantage of the moment.

     "Wahala, you are better than this.  We all are.  Look!" He gestured to the group and added, "These are your mothers.  These are your sisters.  Theirs are the most beautiful smiles in the world.  The boy in your arms is your little brother.  Wahala, don't let the world remember you for this."

     Everyone waited with baited breath.  Wahala studied him.

     Then Oban spoke, "Wahala, this was my fault.  If you want to kill someone - kill me.  I want to end the war between us."

     Oban threw down his knife painfully, like it had suddenly risen a thousand degrees, and then he joined the village in the ravine.  After a time, Oban’s boys tossed their weapons to the ground and started scaling the ravine's edge behind Oban.

     Wahala didn't know what to do.  He shifted his gaze to the militant soldiers standing afar - the men clearly driving his madness - and then he looked at the women shifting like terror-ridden chicks in a coop on fire.  He stopped, and the machete dropped away from Mahae's neck.

     Watching surreptitiously from the side, a man with silver fillings on every tooth and who was apparently the leader of the Boko Haram pushed forward, scoffing at Wahala's choice to show mercy.

     "Who do you think you are?  You would destroy the African way of life?  Will you take on their teachings?  You would blend Nigeria into the world to be watered down and destroyed?" he asked, while aiming his machine gun at Mr. Akintunde.

     Then, a lion roared in the distance - a deep natural thunder - establishing its reign over all the land. 

     The men were startled.  Somehow a lion had leapt out myth to bellow across the plains.  A murmur arose, chased by their fear of omens.  Suspicion clouded the air.  A couple of the Boko Haram fled into their trucks, followed by a few more.  Their leader looked around - his support waning - and back at Akintunde.

     Mr. Akintude continued - picking up a small girl in his arms.  He stepped bravely forward, "I stand for Africa, the real Africa, not this violence.  We are not your enemies.  We are your brothers and sisters.  We are your mothers and fathers, grandparents and grandchildren.  I will never water down Africa!  Let the world see our science, our discoveries.  Our artwork and music is entrancing.  I say: Show them all!  Show them the art, our ancient masks and spears, our culture, our rich history, our tribal dances, our people, and they will see the beauty which Africa truly is!"

     The sun began to rise in the east along with purple and magenta clouds near the horizon.  Standing proud amongst the women and the boys who were gang members no more, he added, "I am Akintunde."