The Landlord by Ken Merrell - HTML preview

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ONE

NIGERIA 1945
Y

OUNG KIN RO SAWA and his father Gi Ra Sawa hunkered on a hillside overlooking the green fields of farms and grazing land. Huge slopes rose behind them. Scattered iroko trees, their upraised limbs angling into the sky were silhouetted against the horizon, reluctantly giving way to the lazy lowland rivers. Further to the west, fading light struggled from a sun slowly being swallowed by the ocean beyond.

“My son,” the old man spoke in his native tongue of Khana, his black skin calloused and creased from a lifetime of exposure to the harsh African sun. “We have lived on this land ten generations. My father, a great chieftain, served before me. I now serve in his stead, old and weary from the loss of those I love. We must find a better way or perish.”

The small boy of eight gazed lovingly into the old man’s face, wishing he could read the stories that lay hidden deep beneath the lined wrinkles of his aged father. The 90-year-old had outlived all other men in the tribe. Kin Ro Sawa was his prized possession, his only living son. The stoop-shouldered Gi Ra gazed out over the land, his arm resting motionless across the boy’s shoulders. “I have seen many wars and much bloodshed,” he sighed. “The time is at hand for us to make peace with our neighbors and unite to defend our homes and land.”

Kin Ro had witnessed how the recent war between his tribe and the neighboring Tie had taken many lives on both sides. His two older brothers, each born of a different mother, had been lost in the series of scattered border skirmishes. Though Gi Ra had sired many sons, only a few had died of natural causes: all the rest had succumbed to war. Of his seven wives, two yet lived. The youngest of them was Kin Ro’s mother. Still, the old man’s posterity was vast, many sons and daughters having lived full lives, given him grandchildren, and passed to the beyond.

“There are those who oppose my feelings of unity with our enemies,” he continued. “But if we remain divided, again we will be conquered. I must teach you all that you can understand. I have seen the Europeans take claim to our land. It was many, many years ago. They brought their guns and cannons.”

Gi Ra ceased speaking as he reflected on the conflict that took the lives of not a few of his friends, brothers and eldest sons nearly seven decades earlier. “The Europeans love money and power more than happiness. They will destroy us if we allow them to take that which does not belong to them. They fight between themselves. They oppress us in our desire to be heard. We must rise up and unite our people in peace for a better land. The Holy Quran says, ‘All those who fight when oppressed incur no guilt, but Allah shall punish the oppressor.’”

ELEVEN MONTHS LATER

KIN RO crouched outside the elders’ counsel chamber, his only covering a loosely-wrapped loincloth draped about his waist. He peered through a narrow opening in the bamboo walls, straining to hear the heated voices of the men who ruled their tribe. Kin Ro could tell by the expression on his father’s face that he felt that he was not being well-represented. The meeting went long into the night. Each day his father grew more feeble. The journey home would not be easy.

Finally the head elder intoned, “The counsel has heard all voices. We must now vote...All who wish to adopt the peace treaty, show.” All were counted. “All against, show.” Again, all were counted. “The treaty will stand.”

Kin Ro studiously watched his father’s reaction. It seemed as if a lifelong battle was drawing to a close; his face slackened and his body slumped in the shadows cast by the dim torch light. The young boy waited for the men to disperse. A mixture of anger and excitement filled the air. Some cursed as they emptied into the darkness of the night.

“Father, come, I have your mount,” Kin Ro urged, as the old man shuffled outside. “I have set up camp. We will spend the night before our long journey home.”

Gi Ra was escorted to a mule tied at a nearby tree. As the two of them trudged down the dusty path leading from the village, the father made his request: “You must press forward in my quest for peace and unity. When you reach age, you must return to take my seat in the counsel and win freedom for our people.”

Then his countenance abruptly changed. “How was your first day in the British school?”
“I would rather be at your side, learning the way of our people.”
“Times have changed. You now must learn all you can to become a great leader and deliver our people from their captivity.”
Kin Ro helped the frail old man to the makeshift bed, and carefully drew the linen over his shoulders. “I will learn,” he whispered.

NIGERIA 1964

The local Bori government, consisting of Khana, Tai, Eleme, and Gokna, met in the Otegal council chambers. “We wish to recognize our newest representative. Some of you will remember his father, Gi Ra Sawa. Let me present the youngest delegate, Kin Ro Sawa.” The 110-member counsel stood and offered their applause as Kin Ro waited to speak.

“My fellow elders, it is because of a promise I made to my father many years ago that I stand before you this day. It was the same night you voted to unite in peace to create this governing body that I, just a boy, looked on in amazement through the slats of the hut. It was the last night my father spoke to me before he was murdered as we slept.”

Kin Ro’s eyes softened and his head bent to the earth. Then he straightened to resume his address. “I have sounded my voice in strong accord for this great cause. Our country has won independence from the British. We must continue to educate our children in schools and colleges. We must insist they leave the farms to learn. Only by learning can we become free. We still have much to do. We are a small minority in this country, but our voice must be heard.”

The crowd broke into wild clapping.
When the noise had died down, Kin Ro, his face drawn and earnest, went on. “Now we have another monster in our midst. Our land is being sucked dry by those who wish to take its rich black blood from the earth. Our brothers are being trampled by the machinery that mows across our land in search of oil. Our forests are being savaged and the wildlife disappears. We must stand together to deliver ourselves from this tyranny. The Ogani people must fight against those that take the oil; they become rich while we live in poverty. And we are ever-burdened by our leaders’ fight for power. They fight among themselves to see who would rule over us. Instead we must take a first step along the road of democracy. We must create a new society, one governed by the people. For at present we stand at the edge of disaster.”

Several miles to the west, a caravan of machinery, escorted by a small patrol of government soldiers, plowed across a field of yams. A bent old farmer scurried from his shack, waving his arms in protest. “No, no it is not ready to harvest! You said you would wait until we gathered the crop. I will not have enough food for my family.”

The column of machines rolled on; almost no one gave any notice to the distraught old man.
Finally a soldier stepped forward. “Move aside, old man. Here are the papers and your fee.”
The old man stared down at the paper he was handed. “This is nothing. It is not the value of my crop. Please, please you must wait.” He hobbled to the front of the foremost bulldozer and stood with his hands in the air. “Please, two more weeks. I will harvest early.” The huge machine groaned to a stop as the operator looked to the soldier for instructions.
Again, “Step aside, old man,” came the stern warning, “or we’ll bury you where you stand.”
“It will be better than to starve!”
The soldier’s hand shot into the air, his voice rang out, a puff of smoke rose up, and the bullet found its mark. “Have it your way, then!” Seemingly in a slow motion, the farmer’s body crumpled to the ground.
The operator dropped his blade and rumbled forward, a smear of soil and yams in its wake. Within seconds the machine had rolled up and over the old man’s body, burying it beneath the dark, rich earth he had so carefully tended.
“Push him far to the side,” ordered the soldier. “Make sure it’s buried so we won’t smell it while we work.”