Hood Politics

The men sat. Their knees a murmur apart. Two of them whispering in low tones.

Their brows furrowed in deep concentration. One’s thin lips moving and one nodding as wisdom was imparted; the roles were reversed severally during this exchange.

Their eyes four shiny beacons in the failing twilight.

They were beneath an acacia tree. It had rained recently and its leaves were as green as they were ever going to be that year.

The branches spread evenly to provide shelter from the constant wind that threatened to carry their words across the dunes and into unwanted ears.

They were impatiently waiting for their peers.

They constituted two-fifths of the council of elders.

Whilst most did not see eye to eye, like Atlas the fate of the clan hung on their emaciated shoulders.

It had been a hard and long year.

The chief had been unwell for months now.

The witchdoctors had given him till the end of the month.

The gods were angered they said.

For such knowledgeable fellows, none of the witchdoctors knew what it was the gods were angry about?

Sacrifices had been made with what little could be foraged to atone, but nothing changed. In fact, it seemed to make things more worse.

The gods were most intent on having their way. So much so, they decided to take him earlier than anticipated.

Safely tucked away in his hut, the chief passed away amidst desperate chants by his trusted physician.

None of the witchdoctors bothered to check his broth for any life-threatening ingredients. After all, what would be the point of confirming your venom was effective? (None knew the others had been bought.)

His heir, now an orphan, an eight month old babe whose most favourite pastime was sucking his right toe.

No. 4   (To No. 2) Why are they are late?

No. 2:  Plotting? No. 1 and No 5 are thick as thieves.’ (Contemplative) You know…

No. 4:  What? (Anxious)

The tree creaked, bending under the winds weight. Desperate to capture these whispers, its branches were threatening to break.

No. 2:  They may want one of them to take over. Perhaps No. 1. I’ve heard rumours.

No. 4:  Ai, yawa! No. They couldn’t, could they? It’s tyranny.

No. 2:  (Whispers) Tyranny…

Eons past their prime, the two suddenly look their age. Each contemplating whatever it is men of their stature and power contemplated when they were faced with difficult prospects.

No. 4:  What does this mean for us? For the clan?

No. 2:  They may disband the council. Form one that best suits their needs. The clan will have to put up with it. For now.

No. 4:  What does this mean for the young chief? Surely we cannot run things until he reaches of age, can we?

They sat in silence, each brooding over the storm that was brewing.

They heard them before their old eyes could tell them apart from the shrubs that constituted the flora.

Three figures materialized. Their robes billowing in the wind, their sandaled feet unconsciously raising clouds of dust.

He was watching No. 4 who had been tense until the three showed up. He knew then that he had to move fast. It had to be tonight. He had to send the child to the oracle.

No. 2:  (Whispers to No. 4) ‘Can’t we?’ He had just bought himself some time.

The plot thickens.