IN AND OUT THE DUSTY WINDOW by Lance Dowrich

Samson Street was a dead end.
But it came alive the day of Tantie Lucy’s Thanksgiving service for Saxxy.
The street was smack in the middle of a typical working class neighbourhood in downtown Port of Spain just east of the Anglican Cathedral, an impressive edifice which reminded all of the British colonial period in Trinidad and Tobago. Tantie Lucy’s old board house, nestled between two larger dwellings at the end of Samson Street, was a magnet.
The flow of people to the small parlour shop which stood to the front of the house was more regular than water to the pipes in homes in Port of Spain. The shop was much more than a convenience store: it was a watering hole, counsellor’s sanctuary and place of refuge. People were there at any hour on any given day to get their needs. Even those who did not need anything could still find themselves in Tantie Lucy’s shop.
Tantie Lucy had drunk from the cup of happy living and the shop was her world. Young and old would feel the warmth of her greeting as she cheerily made each person feel special upon entry. Her normal high-pitched voice sang at least one octave higher whenever she answered a customer and it was akin to a Baptist leader’s traditional call and response with his congregation. Keeping stride her embrace of kith and kin, stranger and neighbour, was her natural loquaciousness and the bottles of white rum hidden in the flour bin and offered only to regulars after hours. Tantie Lucy had no licence to retail nor consume spirituous liquors on her premises and was clearly contravening the law. This brazenness added to the allure of the place and the notoriety of the woman.
On a Friday evening the place would resemble the last bus to Carenage. The parlour was always teeming with people just as the bus had standing room only. Regulars were Old Man Timothy with his walking stick, Grace who lived in the first house on Samson Street and ‘Boy’, who was actually a man who was nicknamed ‘Boy’ and given to smiling at all times, regardless of the occasion
Tantie Lucy herself sowed the seeds for the popularity of her abode by her ability to charm and disarm. Not least of her attractions were her physical attributes which invited straying eyes of menfolk to change trajectory after entering her parlour. Some would pick up brooms that they would never use while others would pull down and purchase anything hanging from chicken wire within reach. Eventually and with persistence and after haplessly buying quite a varied assortment of household products, some filtered to her living room and then, the chosen few, if her blood took them, to her bedroom.
The manifestations of three of those progressive encounters were Tantie Lucy’s children, Jackie, Earl, and her last son, Ethelbert.
Jackie’s father was a Police Constable by the name of Orsmond. Tall and erect in his resplendently white cork hat, on his initial visit he had to duck as he entered the door. ‘ Does this establishment sell fudge?’ He enquired without smiling.
‘ Lucy de officer want fudge,’ said Boy with a cheesy grin as he sat close to the door.
‘ Yuh life for meh fudge.’ was Tantie Lucy’s response. ‘ If yuh taste meh fudge yuh go want no other ,’ she continued merrily.
‘ I will be judge of the fudge,’ said Orsmond, as serious as only a man in search of fudge could be.
‘ Take meh fudge Officer, take it !’ said Tantie Lucy as she wrapped an unusually large block of milky brown fudge in a square of wax paper. ‘ But ah done warn yuh .’
With his first swallow, Orsmond lifted his eyebrows, smiled and removed his cork hat. In his mind Tantie Lucy’s fudge carried him to a sweet place where fudge grew on trees, men wore only cork hats and women broad smiles.
Orsmond’s desire for fudge became insatiable and he returned day after day. He was hooked on the fudge and the prospect of a sweeter sample from Tantie Lucy. He was a svelte man and sophisticated, given his years of police training and walking the streets as a figure of authority. One day Tantie Lucy offered to show him the process to fashion fudge. He therefore was no longer a consumer but once more a recruit. Training could not happen in the cramped quarters of the small parlour, so fudging took place in the small kitchen, then in the living room and eventually relocated to the bedroom. Everyone on Samson Street knew that on these occasions the parlour would be closed for stocktaking.
Orsmond was a slow learner but loved coconut fudge. His attempts at making fudge led to quite a lot of grating and very often a soft smash of ingredients until one day he was able to lay down a mound of hard fudge. His hard fudge was like an eclipse of the moon and Tantie Lucy hid her silver grater shortly after the third sighting, ending public speculation that she was under arrest and a person of interest to the local constabulary.
Jackie was conceived after the second grating of her coconut for Orsmond’s beloved fudge.
Every time Boy saw Orsmond walking in his uniform along Independence Square in Port of Spain he would call out to him, ‘ Officer yuh want fudge ?’
*
Then along came Earl’s father, Monty, who loved soup on a Saturday. Cow heel soup made by Tantie Lucy was renowned. She had regular customers from as far as the popular funeral home in La Brea in South Trinidad. The mortuary attendants were in the habit of stopping by for their weekly fix after collecting bodies from the Port of Spain Mortuary. But her soup became so popular that a rumour started that once consumed, it could wake the dead. The mortuary attendants in question did not want to experience resurrection by soup and so chose to come when there were no bodies to collect.
Monty did not journey from great distances as he grew up on Samson Street. He was partial to pig foot soup and even contributed his own ingredients to help the process along. Tantie Lucy was partial to a man who was prepared to contribute to his meal. This worked until Tantie Lucy found a stash of cow heel in his work bag waiting to be pressurised in another woman’s pot. Earl, who was a mere infant at the time when Tantie Lucy made her discovery of heels, perfected the art of soup when he grew older, but his father never tasted his hand as he had moved to parts unknown.
Tantie Lucy’s philosophy was clear: eat your soup from one pot.
Saxxy, Ethelbert’s father, worked on the Port. He first came to Tantie Lucy’s shop one day just when she had bottled her rich and thick milk based sea moss drink.
The drink was consumed in a gulp and Saxxy was certain that he was a transformed man. He smiled like a Cheshire cat perched on a window sill close to an unsuspecting kiskadee. He drank another and another and with each his smile grew until it touched his shoulders. This ushered in a period of regular visits. Tantie Lucy was no kiskadee and knew full well that her drink had a positive impact on the male libido. The truth be told, Tantie Lucy’s blood took to the giant Saxxy like Guinness to condensed milk.
Saxxy and Tantie Lucy and Samson Street had a breezy romance which, fueled by the ever potent drink, resulted in a bouncing baby boy who was named after Saxxy’s father Ethelbert and Tantie Lucy’s uncle from St Vincent, Gladstone.
Saxxy was a proud man. He was in a relationship with a woman he loved and now he had a son. The boy had a big head but his father’s pride was of equal proportions. One day while rubbing his infant son’s head with coconut oil in a motion that resembled the shining of a hub cap of a Hilman Hunter, Saxxy said to Tantie Lucy, ‘ Ethelbert go make us proud !’
Saxxy never lived to see that day.
He died on the port when a crate of assorted provisions fell on him. Tantie Lucy went into mourning. She closed the parlour for a short while and never made that special brew again. She had really grown fond of Saxxy and felt protected by his sheer physical presence. The onslaught of leering lecherous men who saw her for her physical beauty would now return. Though she was quick of wit which kept them at bay, she did not want to return to that life. Her relationship with Saxxy was brief but gave her a look at a life with some stability and structure. Then there were her three children. She had never planned to raise children without a husband or a father in their lives.
The finality of death sapped her happy spirit.
Samson Street grew quiet.
*
Shortly after the funeral she sat in her shop in silence and cried so much that a small pool gathered near her feet on the gloss of the varnished pine.
Tantie Lucy looked down and saw her face and she wiped her eyes to be sure. She saw a mother looking back at her. The face in the watery mirror told her to take charge. ‘ Tell de Lord thanks,’ was the message.
Tantie Lucy knew that she had to hold a thanksgiving.
Tantie Lucy attended early morning service at 6.00 o’clock on Monday at the Anglican Cathedral. She was determined to take charge and pull her life together. ‘ Start the day with de Lord and it go be all right, ’ was her upbeat reminder to herself. ‘ Ah go talk to de priest today.’
That was where she saw Canon Grant, the new Parish priest at the Cathedral, for the first time.
‘ Dey really say dat a new priest coming but dey eh say de man nice ,’ she muttered to herself as she rummaged through her bag to locate her hymn book.
After services he lingered as the small congregation filtered out of the chapel. She approached Canon Grant as he stood in the doorway of the chapel greeting everyone. Her heart fluttered and her lips self-lubricated as she said, ‘ Father, the Lord is my shepherd, ah see what ah want .’ She looked Canon Grant squarely in his eyes.
He replied with a broad smile, ‘ Ah bless you my child, as the Lord said in Psalm 21, thou hast given him his heart’s desire, and has not withheld the request of his lips. ’
‘ Clearly yuh went Codrington…. buh w ho yuh really calling chile ?’ retorted Tantie Lucy with a playful scowl on her face. ‘ I is ah big oman .’
‘ No offence meant to you .’ Canon Grant apologised profusely. ‘ Thank you for coming this morning.
‘ No, thank you ,’ replied Tantie Lucy. ‘ Ah would like yuh to bless mih shop dis week. Ah want to have a thanksgiving. ’
‘ Is Friday a good day ?’ He enquired.
‘ Jus right Canon….jus right. It go be sev-umm on Friday.’ Lucy set the time. With that she left for home happy that she had started the day in the company of the Lord.
The next morning, as a good Anglican, Tantie Lucy got on her knees and clasped her hands. She closed her eyes and prayed aloud. ‘ Lord, as St Paul say to de Philippians, forgetting the things that are past ah pressing on.’
She started to prepare for the thanksgiving in earnest.
The only events to rival a thanksgiving in that part of town as a social activity outside of Carnival were the annual cock fights at the Sea Lots Gayelle with the fierce two-plume Mediterranean cocks and the Fathers’ Day special at Eartha’s Sweet Lips Recreation Club. So word spread quickly.
Just before midday on Friday two shiny black hearses from the La Brea funeral home pulled up and parked about mid-way on Samson Street. The mortuary attendants decided to get there early as it was known that Tantie Lucy would serve soup after the thanksgiving. They each lay down to have a nap in the trays of their respective hearses as the appointed hour was some time away.
As evening drew nigh Old Man Timothy took his position by the cocoyea brooms and Ms Kathy was busy in the kitchen with Tantie Lucy. Grace had the children except Jackie who was still dressing back in the house. She had Ethelbert cuddled in a blanket against her shoulder.
A man with a brown paper bag that carried something heavy appeared and took a seat close to the door. People were standing all down the street. Two women dressed all in black appeared just before Canon Grant arrived and started crying. Someone whispered to them and they stopped crying rather abruptly and took on happier dispositions.
And Boy, he stood smiling right at the doorway to the parlour.
Canon Grant, dressed in his white gown, took his position next to the counter in the parlour and using a bull horn said loudly, ‘ We are gathered here to say thanks .’
With that there was a loud clanging of a bell, ‘ clang ka tang…clang ka tang!’ The man with the brown paper bag took out a brass bell and started ringing! A man seated halfway down the street got up, asked to be excused and left saying that he thought the last bus was coming.
Tantie Lucy looked up in the sky and saw the clouds swirling in an unusual pattern ‘ This cyah be normal. ’ She said to herself. ‘ Dis thanksgiving go be different.’
Canon Grant’s voice echoed through the bull horn up the street, ‘ First Timothy Chapter 4 says for everything that God created is good and nothing is to be rejected if it is to be received with thanksgiving. ’
The bell man sounded his bell, ‘ clang ka tang…clang ka tang!’ Boy was smiling like a sunny Thursday in February. Kate whispered to Tantie Lucy, ‘ He thirsty’ .
With the second sounding of the bell there was a murmur then a collective gasp at the top of street. The door of one of the hearses opened and a foot pushed out. A man shouted, ‘ He alive !’ The crowd was now all looking back and the man with the bell started a continuous ringing, ‘ clang ka tang….clang ka tang….clang ka tang !’
The door of the second hearse opened and a man stepped out in a white suit. One of the two women in black fainted and people started to run. The bell had awakened the two mortuary attendants.
‘ Clang ka tang….clang ka tang….clang ka tang !’ Sounded the bell.
Samson Street erupted in chaos. People scampered out of the street as one of the mortuary attendants held a woman and asked, ‘ Dey serve any soup as yet?’ She screamed and ran.
Canon Grant was unable to continue. He held the bull horn to his side and looked on the scene with amazement. Boy was smiling so widely Old Man Timothy couldn’t pass to get out the door.
Tantie Lucy was beside herself with laughter. She held Canon Grant by his elbow and asked, ‘ So Canon, yuh know how to make fudge?’

Filed Under: Fiction, Short Stories on Thursday, 23 February 2017

Six Heads and the King’s Body – A Short Story by Konye Obaji Ori

That night the moon was full so we did not need to burn fire-wood to light up the yard for our night entertainment. Little children gathered around Pa Uche to listen to his moonlight tales, “Story, story,” he shouted to the children in his old, rasping voice and the children eagerly shouted back “Story!” Their eager eyes shone like fireflies and their attention was so intense that even if the sky had been falling, they would not have been distracted. I sat close and listened; smiling at the ludicrousness of the stories and folk songs Pa Uche blew their blameless minds with. Nkiru, my younger sister busied herself picking lice from our father’s bushy hair while Nneka, my older sister was seated with our mother beside her hut pealing bush-melon. Other than the wavering notes from our father’s carved wooden flute that seemed to invite the spirits of sleep, the chirping crickets kept the still night active and we kept awake, taking pleasure in every moment. Pa Uche then began to play hisOgene gong in harmony with the gloomy piece of music my father played with his flute and we enjoyed the cadence of their tunes. It was one of those nights that made life in Okpoko delightful. Though my mother looked quite disturbed by the tone of the music, she kept on with her melon peeling. The little children swayed along gracefully as we sat, merry, enjoying every further descent of the murk that coloured the sky.

It was barely mid-night when men dressed in red cloth, and heavy traditional beads stormed into our yard with machetes in their hands. When one of the men pointed at me, I got up from where I sat and ran towards my father. My heart pounded faster than my feet could move. But before I got to my father, one of the men grabbed me, lifted me up and placed me on his shoulder and they strode off. “Father! Father!” I yelled desperately as I struggled with them drowning in the horror of the moment. My father only stood there, with his head bowed to the ground and his shoulders lifted as when a man is trying to hold back from breaking out with a loud cry. My mother was thrown into utter confusion. “Nnayi Ugo, do something! My son!” she called as she helplessly ran after the man on whose left shoulder I was wailing and wriggling on, crying. She ran back towards my father, then towards me, then towards my father until she slumped to the ground with a loud cry. I kept screaming, “Papa! Mama,” until we were in the forest and outside the heart of the village. I screamed until my voice box burned-out. I screamed until I was one with the night.

Igwe Odiga had died three full-moons ago and in our part of the world, when a king had a reign as great as he had, six human heads were buried along with him in his honour. It was a grim custom of ours but it was proudly carried out. The heads usually buried along with a chief’s body were often the heads of people from other villages who were unfortunate enough to be caught straying at an ungodly hour or of villagers who were found in the forest all by themselves. When children and youths were warned to stay within the village, especially late at night, it meant a great chief had died in one of the villages. Two full-moons ago, the elders of Okpoko had held meetings with the different masquerade societies and with the medicine men of the village over the honouring of Igwe Odiga: as an Ama-nwu member, my father attended. The evening of the day when they held the final meeting, my father returned home depressed. He wouldn’t say a word to anybody. When my mother served him his favourite pounded yam and Oha soup for supper, he refused to eat. The next day we learnt that he had been chosen as one of the six men of the Ama-nwu fraternity to produce the heads for the ritual rites of our Igwe. He sat in his Obi that evening with a member of the Ama-nwu fraternity. I knelt by them to serve them kola nuts and pour palm wine into their tumblers when they were empty.

“I do not want to be part of such a barbaric tradition. I do not want to have anybody’s blood in my hands.” My father raged.

“Nnayi Ugo, you have been chosen! You cannot challenge our long standing tradition. You should see this as a thing of honour; you are sacrificing a human to honour an exceptional chief. You will become an Akata-ka a man who has shown another great man, an uncommon honour. You will be honoured, Nnayi Ugo. Your household shall be cared for by the royal house. And when you die, you shall be accepted into the bosom of our reverend ancestors. When men drink palm wine, they will pour some to the ground and call your name in reverence.”

“I esteemed our late Igwe so very much,” my father replied. “Then show Okpoko how much you regarded him.”

“By killing another human being? No, I cannot take the life of another for nothing,” my father insisted.

“For nothing? You insult our customs, our chiefs and our elders when you say it is for nothing. This is for the honour of a gem. This is a ritual performed for the pride of our land and our people. You are doing it in respect of our fore-fathers and our tradition!”

“I am not a murderer!” My father responded crossly.

“There is nothing to debate here, Nnayi. You know the consequences of turning down the call of Ama-nwu. Your head could be the one to go down with the Igwe’s body and your wife and children will remain at the mercy of the gods. You don’t want that, Nnayi Ugo,” the man warned as he took one big bite of the kola nut in his hand. My father bowed his head and while he supported his face with his palms, he tapped his feet restlessly.

The six heads were buried into the ground along with Igwe Odiga’s body two market-weeks after. Under those bright skies that marked the declining days of the rainy season, masqueraders, traditional song birds, traditional dancers and titled men paraded in the afternoon heat with a zest, showing artistry and skills in their traditional displays, and sweating and smelling like stale cassava with their ebony skins shining under the yolk-yellow sun.  It was a befitting burial ceremony of an Igwe. The star attraction was the cultural dance of the six men of the Ama-nwu fraternity who enriched the king’s grave with human heads. They scraped their machetes on the ground and machete-fought themselves in a dance as the Ama-nwu song bird blew the wooden flute with his heart and the drummers poured out their souls on the drums. It was a breathtaking performance. All the Ama-nwu men were agile and full of spirit as they displayed themselves, except, noticeably, my father.

Igwes of villages far and near came to grace the occasion, but it was rather shocking that Igwe Okute of Okigwe village did not attend the burial ceremony. After the whole burial festivity and after Ibu Odiga was crowned the new Igwe of Okpoko, Igwe Okute sent words to our village. “I am here because one of my Igwe’s sons was killed by your men during the burial ritual of your late Igwe,” the envoy from Okigwe announced. “If it were his first son that was slain, Okpoko would have been bleeding by now. But it was his second son that your men slay. Nonetheless, the scent of war smells and Okigwe is as ready as always to fill the land with blood and tears.” By this point, men and women, young and old present at the village square were shivering to their very bones. Okigwe was a very large and powerful village with an army of diabolical men as well as fearless fighters. Their medicine men were known to have unrivalled mastery of the black arts and their great army was led by Amadi ‘the lion’ who many thought had no soul or conscience. He was famed for his spite and ruthlessness when he dealt with culprits of taboos, victims of war or those who strayed into Okigwe uninvited. Every village lived in fear of them, especially with Igwe Okute as their chief and Okanga, ‘the vulture,’ as their chief priest. No village ever wanted to challenge them in a land dispute or boundary conflict whether or not the village was in the right.

“My Igwe wants the son of the man by whose hands his son was slain; other-wise, Amadi ‘the lion’ will lead our men here before the moon is full. He wants the man who killed his son to share the same fate. If that man has no son then six human heads from Okpoko will have to be sacrificed and one of those heads must be one of your sons, Igwe Ibu Odiga,” the envoy continued. There was a cold-silence in the village square and the look on Igwe Ibu Odiga’s face was one of an intimidated man. “I will return with Amadi ‘the lion’ in seven days, so it’s either the son of the guilty man, six human heads or the blood of your sons and daughters and the wreckage of your land. Somebody must pay! You have two market weeks,” he added as he tturned and walked away from the gathering.

The medicine men of our village looked deep by means of their black-powers and they found out the man who had killed Igwe Okute’s son. The elders reasoned that it was more sensible to offer that man’s son to Okigwe than to sacrifice seven human heads, which would include the head of our own Igwe’s son. And it was also better to offer the man’s son to Okigwe than opting to go to war with them. Before the day of the full moon, the chief and the people of Okpoko made their stands clear on the matter. Nobody wanted war or wanted innocent heads sacrificed for the blunder of one man. But I knew my father had only obeyed the demands of our traditions; to honor his land. And those cruel hands of tradition also held him bound the night I was taken captive.

Filed Under: Fiction, Short Stories on Wednesday, 16 September 2015

The Meeting – A Short Story by Okey Egboluche

Bright Okocha watched as his student, Anita, buttoned her blouse and adjusted the straps of her skirts. He looked at the mirror in the hotel room to ensure he was well dressed. Then he picked the brown envelopes that contained the wad of notes that Anita had given him. He suppressed a smile after counting the notes.

“Don’t worry, Anita. I like smart girls like you. Do not blink an eye about my course. Just endeavour to be there during the examinations.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Anita’s sonorous voice suddenly aroused Bright. If only she had a pretty face and figure, I could have dedicated a little more time to her, Bright thought. He had told Anita to pay for the room ahead their meeting which would have lasted till dawn. Anita happened not to be his kind of girl. He was done with her after a few hours.

He was relieved when he received a call from Dr. Nwanze, his senior colleague and mentor who served on the Public Relations committee with him. They were to have an emergency meeting later in the evening with the new Military Administrator of the state who wanted a forum with the stake holders in the area. It was a good reason to say good bye to Anita; after all, the deed had been done.

As Bright drove towards Wetheral road intersection, on his way to have some beers at Bambam Inn, he could not get his mind off Rita, the light skinned beaut in the same class with Anita. He wondered what manner of girl she was. He had made several advances to her and even threatened her of a likely failure in his course if she refused to give him her forbidden fruit. She had an air of confidence around her and remained polite despite all his harsh words to her.

Just then his phone rang. “Okay, is that Ushie…you guys should meet me at Bambam. I will be there in a jiffy.” Bright smiled. He was obviously enjoying his job as a graduate assistant in the University. Ushie, his student and middle man, was to bring him more money from students who wanted to pass the examinations with good grades.

Bright loved the well cooked and spiced catfish that the boys bought for him. Popularly calledPoint and Kill, whoever wanted the fish will choose a live fish in the pond, pay for it after which it will be killed and prepared.

“You are my beloved sons, with whom I am well pleased.”

They all laughed at Bright’s comment. He made a sign to Ushie who brought his head closer and he said, “I badly need that Rita. I need you to find a way and brainwash her for me.” Ushie nodded.

Thirty minutes later, after a couple of beers, Bright was in the midst of Dr. Nwanze, the University Vice Chancellor and other personalities as they stood to welcome the new Military Administrator.

As leaders of the other teams had done, the Vice Chancellor of Imo State University started introducing his represented staff to the convener of the meeting. When the duo got to Bright, he beamed wearing his best smile.

“This is Mr. Bright Okocha, from the Department of Management, Faculty of Business studies”

The administrator’s eye narrowed. Gripping Bright’s hands firmly, he shook him. And looking directly into his eye, he said, “Oh, I see. You are Mr. Bright, the randy lecturer that has been making life hell for my daughter Rita.”

Bright grew limp as there was dead silence in the room. The administrator turned to the Vice Chancellor. He turned his gaze to the Professor, with a stern look, he said, “I do not need any further introductions from your team.” There were murmurs in the room afterwards.

“Your Excellency, kindly allow me to put my house in order, right here.” The stone faced soldier gently nodded thrice and whispered, “Suit yourself.”

“Get out of here Mr. Bright Okocha!” The Vice Chancellor coldly said.

“Do not hesitate to hand him over to me after you take the right actions observing the due process in the University Senate.” The administrator turned to one of his aides and added, “Place surveillance on him. He is a nuisance.”

About the Author:
Okey Egboluche hopes to change lives through his writing. He studied Freelance and Feature writing at the London School of Journalism. He is also a practicing Optometrist.

Filed Under: Fiction, Short Stories on

Pride Goeth Before a Fall..An Indian Folklore

We have all heard or read fairy tales about fair-skinned and blue-eyed royalty. Folklorist Joseph Jacobs' collection, Indian Fairy Tales has stories that have appeared in the West in some form or other, but their origin is traced back to the Indian peninsula. The story from the collection, Pride goeth before a fall, is a witty story with the moral mirrored in the title itself. Read on.
As told by Joseph Jacob.

In a certain village there lived ten cloth merchants, who always went about together. Once upon a time they had travelled far afield, and were returning home with a great deal of money which they had obtained by selling their wares. Now there happened to be a dense forest near their village, and this they reached early one morning. In it there lived three notorious robbers, of whose existence the traders had never heard, and while they were still in the middle of it the robbers stood before them, with swords and cudgels in their hands, and ordered them to lay down all they had. The traders had no weapons with them, and so, though they were many more in number, they had to submit themselves to the robbers, who took away everything from them, even the very clothes they wore, and gave to each only a small loin-cloth a span in breadth and a cubit in length.

The idea that they had conquered ten men and plundered all their property, now took possession of the robbers’ minds. They seated themselves like three monarchs before the men they had plundered, and ordered them to dance to them before returning home. The merchants now mourned their fate. They had lost all they had, except their loin- cloth, and still the robbers were not satisfied, but ordered them to dance.

There was, among the ten merchants, one who was very clever. He pondered over the calamity that had come upon him and his friends, the dance they would have to perform, and the magnificent manner in which the three robbers had seated themselves on the grass. At the same time he observed that these last had placed their weapons on the ground, in the assurance of having thoroughly cowed the traders, who were now commencing to dance. So he took the lead in the dance, and, as a song is always sung by the leader on such occasions, to which the rest keep time with hands and feet, he thus began to sing:

"We are enty men, 
They are erith men: 
If each erith man, Surround eno men 
Eno man remains. 
Tâ, tai, tôm, tadingana."

The robbers were all uneducated, and thought that the leader was merely singing a song as usual. So it was in one sense; for the leader commenced from a distance, and had sung the song over twice before he and his companions commenced to approach the robbers. They had understood his meaning, because they had been trained in trade.

When two traders discuss the price of an article in the presence of a purchaser, they use a riddling sort of language.

“What is the price of this cloth?” one trader will ask another.

“Enty rupees,” another will reply, meaning “ten rupees.”

Thus, there is no possibility of the purchaser knowing what is meant unless he be acquainted with trade language. By the rules of this secret language erith means “three,” enty means “ten,” and eno means “one.” So the leader by his song meant to hint to his fellow-traders that they were ten men, the robbers only three, that if three pounced upon each of the robbers, nine of them could hold them down, while the remaining one bound the robbers’ hands and feet.

The three thieves, glorying in their victory, and little understanding the meaning of the song and the intentions of the dancers, were proudly seated chewing betel and tobacco. Meanwhile the song was sung a third time. Tâ tai tôm had left the lips of the singer; and, before tadinganawas out of them, the traders separated into parties of three, and each party pounced upon a thief. The remaining one–the leader himself–tore up into long narrow strips a large piece of cloth, six cubits long, and tied the hands and feet of the robbers. These were entirely humbled now, and rolled on the ground like three bags of rice!

The ten traders now took back all their property, and armed themselves with the swords and cudgels of their enemies; and when they reached their village, they often amused their friends and relatives by relating their adventure.

Filed Under: Fiction, Infos, Inspirational Stories, Short Stories on Sunday, 13 September 2015