AHN – Chapter 2 Africans Leave Africa (Part 2)

“Hey, Demba, have you heard? The talk about ‘manhunters’.”

Kanga, sitting to Demba’s right and flaying the leopard’s pelt with a knife, called out to him as he did the same to their left.

Demba briefly looked up. “The ‘white-clad ones’? The ones old Shibuchi mentioned?”

“Yeah,” Kanga said, licking his arm wound. The bleeding had already stopped.

“I heard about the Toro tribe disappearing overnight not long ago. Now, it’s the Bangoro tribe who have fallen prey to the ‘hunt’.”

“They say the sole survivor told old Shibuchi before dying, right? I heard that too,” Demba nodded.

“They say the ‘manhunters’ come from the western sea. They’ve wiped out coastal tribes and might be moving east,” Kanga said with a grimace, carefully slicing open the leopard’s belly without damaging the pelt.

The story of ‘manhunters’, wearing unfamiliar white clothes and wielding powerful weapons, had been passed from tribe to tribe through travelers.

But Africa is vast.

For the scattered minorities living in the expansive wilderness, the rumors of ‘manhunters’ seemed like someone else’s problem. They never imagined it would happen to them. Their priority was surviving each day; that was the most important issue for the locals. Only a few, like Demba and Kanga, paid any heed to such stories.

Africa is often said to be poor, but perhaps that’s not quite right. Africa is “harsh.”

Surviving, enduring – that was the only challenge that mattered.

That was the reality for people living in medieval Africa.

Demba and Kanga, carrying the leopard’s pelt and spears, stopped in their tracks. Beyond the tall grass, they saw black smoke trailing up into the blue sky. Kanga, carrying a deer on his shoulder, also halted. Demba shot him a sharp look.

“It’s from the direction of the village.”

Kanga nodded, and they started running.

As they approached, they saw multiple grass-thatched roofs. Black smoke rose from two places, reaching the sky. Two loud bangs followed.

At the edge of the village, just before the clearing, they crouched in the tall grass and put down their prey, cautiously peeking toward the village.

Dozens of people had gathered in the clearing—men, women, and children, all looking around nervously. Around them, men in white clothes on horseback kept the group from scattering, brandishing unfamiliar long sticks and shouting threats. There were about seven or eight of them.

“‘White-clad ones,’” Demba muttered low. Kanga grunted, “They’ve finally come this far.”

On the other side of the gathered people lay a dozen or so bodies, all still. They were all elders. Perhaps considered burdens, they had been killed. Demba clenched his mouth shut.

Yurui! Demba’s eyes quickly scanned the gathered people for a familiar face. He searched for the small face of a girl he knew but couldn’t spot her.

His younger sister, two years his junior.

She was always near him, either close or just out of reach.

You remind me of my brother, who died when I was little.

She had said that once, a long time ago.

I hope she escaped.

That thought crossed his mind.

“There are many of them—can we handle this?”

Kanga leaned closer. Demba’s eyes narrowed. “It’s going to be tough. We have no way to counter those weapons. We should—”

A rustle in the grass behind them made both of them turn quickly. A man in a yellowed white outfit was there, mounted on a horse. He was also black but unfamiliar. He aimed a stick with a hole at its end toward them.

“Hey, I found a couple more live ones!”

The man grinned, showing white teeth.

Just as Kanga was about to spring, there was a bang, and a small flame and smoke burst from the stick’s tip. The ground near Kanga’s feet erupted, making him jump back. Demba froze.

“They’re for sale, so I don’t want to damage them too much. But if you try anything funny, you’ll be vulture food. Drop the spear.”

He smiled wickedly. Kanga gritted his teeth. Demba, exhaling slowly, let go of his spear and glared at the man.

Driven forward, the two were pushed into the crowd.

Demba slowly looked around, but he didn’t see the girl.

A few of the white-clad men were searching the huts, ensuring no one was hiding.

Demba glanced at an old man lying beside them.

The old man, adorned with bird feathers, lay dead with a surprised expression, eyes wide open. A small hole on his temple had bled, but the blood had dried. Flies buzzed in and out of his half-open mouth, his clawed hand frozen in a grasp.

It was Unigma.

Demba walked over slowly.

“Hey, don’t move!”

One of the ‘white-clad ones’ shouted, but Demba only glanced at him before covering Unigma’s body with the leopard pelt.

Demba’s face showed no emotion.

It wasn’t that he felt no sorrow. But in Africa, human death was no different from that of insects or animals. They killed animals as prey, but tomorrow, they might be the ones dead.

That was the fate of those who lived in Africa.

Breathing, eating, defecating – and dying were all on the same level in their daily life.

Today, Demba was alive. Unigma was dead. That was all there was to it.

Therefore, many tribes revered and thanked their ancestors.

It was gratitude for surviving another day.

A man on horseback struck Demba’s shoulder with his stick.

“Hey! Didn’t you hear me say to get back!”

Demba looked at the man, pain twisting his face.

“What’s with that look!”

This time, the man struck Demba’s face, knocking him to the ground. His face scraped the dirt.

The taste of sand mixed with blood.

Demba felt nothing.

He didn’t even think about what would happen to him.

He was still alive.

That was the only truth for those living in Africa.

* * *

The repeated slave hunts eventually led to the disappearance of the already small Mahi tribe from Africa. No one knows how many tribes were wiped out by the slave hunts during this era.

They all vanished into the darkness of history.

* * *

This was the beginning of Demba and Kanga’s long, long journey.

They never imagined their journey would lead them to an island nation at the eastern end of the world.