Every child born of the sun and sands inherits agbára oru.
Agbára oru – the magic of the sun.
10
Ìlú-Ìm, Second Ring, Kingdom of Oru
L’?R?
L’?r?’s favourite place in the entire kingdom was under the tree in the middle of her compound. Her fondest memories were of her and her father staying out late beneath the moonlight, listening to the songs of winds and night creatures. There he had told her stories that made her laugh, cry and scream in fright.
Today, she wished none of the children had come, and they’d have the tree to themselves.Would it make any difference?She eyed the gathering – she hadn’t spoken to him since Alawani took the call.
Baba-Ìtàn wrapped up a story about how the masquerades – ritual dancers with masked faces – came to be a part of the kingdom, and were the reason no one was allowed to be out in the streets on the night of blood moons. The story warned that whoever left their homes on those twelve special nights in a year would be flogged with seven-mouthed horse whips by the faceless Egungun, who roamed the streets looking for anyone foolish enough to be outside on their night.
‘Is uncle prince Alawani going to die?’ said the boy seated opposite Baba-Ìtàn, his voice soft, and the group fell silent instantly.
Baba-Ìtàn’s eyes widened. He wasn’t expecting that question.
The boy continued, ‘My father said he thinks I am an Àlùfáà, but I don’t want to die.’
‘No one has to die,’ Baba-Ìtàn said. His voice was so loud and firm that the boy shrank back.
L’?r? scoffed under her breath. That was a lie. There’d never been more than two survivors in any given calling since the day of the First Sun. Yet, every decade the boys still gladly accepted the call.
‘The call for Àlùfáà is – it’s complicated and nothing for you to worry about,’ Baba-Ìtàn said to the boy. ‘Your father shouldn’t have told you that. Only the gods can call an Àlùfáà, and if they do, then you have nothing to worry about.’
‘Can I say no,’ the boy asked softly, ‘if I don’t want it?’
Baba-Ìtàn said nothing. He only stared at the boy’s teary brown eyes. The boy was too young; they all were too young to truly understand why their parents forbade them from entering L’?r?’s home. Why everyone in the kingdom was free to raise up arms against her and her father at the mere sight of them. But the children would soon grow up. L’?r? knew from experience that they would grow up to hold the same prejudices. Guilt squeezed at her heart, and she turned away. She knew very well the life she would have condemned Alawani to by asking him to reject the call. She was living that life of exile and rejection, and it was hard – but still better than death.
‘Were you afraid to die when they called you?’ the boy asked Baba-Ìtàn.
L’?r? returned her gaze to her father. She wanted to hear this. Baba-Ìtàn never talked about his time in the temple or as a priest of the Holy Order.
‘No,’ Baba-Ìtàn said, ‘not at first. Not until I discovered –’
His head shot up as though he’d remembered something. He bent low and scooped a handful of sand in both palmsand poured it into the firepit. The night was over. ‘That’s enough for tonight. It’s time to go home,’ Baba-Ìtàn said.
Another boy from the group spoke softly, his voice choked with tears. ‘My brother was chosen to represent this ring a few days ago. My father said we shouldn’t expect him to come home. I want him to come home. He’s my best friend.’
L’?r? felt a pang in her heart, and for the first time, Baba-Ìtàn looked up in her direction, and she walked out of the darkness. His eyes fixed on her.
‘Bàbá?’ the boy’s voice broke their gaze.
L’?r? sat on the floor next to the boy with tears pouring down his face.
Baba-Ìtàn looked around at the wide-eyed children whose laughter had turned to sadness and fear in mere moments. L’?r? saw her father’s resolve weaken, and after a few silent moments Baba-Ìtàn said to the girl next to him, ‘Bring back the fire. I think we have time for one more story.’
A few smiled but most of them still looked haunted by the questions Baba-Ìtàn clearly didn’t know how to answer. The girl next to him leaned forward and summoned her agbára. She placed her glowing palm into the flames, and they blossomed back to life, bright and roaring.
‘Who here knows the story of the first Àlùfáà?’
The children all shook their heads.
He took in a deep breath, ‘Okay, then I’ll tell you, but then you all go straight home. Yes?’
The children nodded in unison, and Baba-Ìtàn leaned back and nodded, ‘Story story.’
