Red

                                                            Red

Bongi beckoned, his panga ready. Nkosi crept forewords wearily. Bongi was renowned in the village for his swordsmanship but this was for Katlecho; it was worth a cut or two. She stood watching the duel from the sidelines her amber eyes twinkling with amusement, her braided hair lay over one slender, ebony shoulder. “Eright mfanna”, she said, “first one to draw blood, takes me to Tinashe’s ascension mbizo.”
Shifting his grip on his panga and readjusting his traditional shield, Nkosi sliced at Bongi’s chest. With almost a nonchalant flick of his panga, Bongi parried. Nkosi attacked again. This time a blow for Bongi’s shoulder which at the last second, crouching low, he turned to cut downwards at his opponents’ thigh. Bongi had seen it coming and steel rang against steel. Bongi’s riposte struck futilely against Nkosi’s shield leaving his side exposed. Nkosi saw this and struck, Bongi was fast but not fast enough. Blood cascaded out of the gash in his neck, Nkosi grinned, he had won! He turned to Katlecho but his smile faded, her amber eyes were filled with fear. He spun around half-expecting to see a wild animal but there was nothing there. He turned to Bongi and with a cry he fell to his knees beside Bongi’s body.

Red, there was red everywhere, red on the ground, red all over Bongi and worst of all red on his hands. He screamed Bongi’s name repeatedly but Bongi’s dim eyes continued to gaze up into the midday sun.  No! It couldn’t be true! It was imposable! But he knew it was true. He had killed Bongi, he had killed his brother!

With a shake of his head he leapt up and sheathing his weapon he ran as fast as his legs could take him to their hut. The hut he had once shared with Bongi and his mother. He quickly found a leather bag and hastily he threw in some skins, dried meat, cold pap and a water skin. He swung a bow and quiver onto his back along with his shield. Quickly he left the rondavel and hurried to the kraal. With out stopping to fetch a saddle he leapt up onto the back of the first Zeburala and viciously kicked its sides. The Zeburala was only just larger than a donkey and its golden bronze hide and light black stripes shone in the sun as he sped off into the savannah away from everything he’d ever known, away from his loving mother and dead brother. Forever away from Katlecho, forever away from his tribe.

An African Story
By Mordechai Serraf