Hummingbird Man

“That shouldn’t be there!” said the older woman in the local Hausa language.

The younger woman carrying the sick child looked up, and gasped. “How long now, Chiamaka?”

“The heavy rains have destroyed or altered my memorized landmarks, the thorn trees, most of the trees have been washed away with the flooding. I can only use the far away mountains as landmarks; but their shapes and shadows only appear as my guides in the morning and evening.” Chiamaka tried to explain.

“I’m sorry Dufen.” She sighed, and her body collapsed from within, it withdrew inwards with the words, the explanation was not only for Dufen, but it was also admitting to herself - defeat, her inner spirit mixed with the air from her lungs was evaporating in the furnace heat of the sun.  Her pathetic appearance, flies crawling over her sweating face, her dark face only visible in the darkness of her headdress, as the burning sun threw its bright flashing arrows to torture the two women, and the sick child, caked in dust, insects continuously hovering, and scouring the listless body for moisture, or shelter in their ragged clothing from the burning sun.

The sunbaked earth beneath them was littered with potholes created by the recent heavy rainfall. The moisture now sucked away by the burning sun, had created the parched surface, like the skin of an acned teenager. It made a difficult journey in the oven heat of the day, more arduous, as their sandaled feet showed the result, it bled from cuts and scrapes. The colour of their feet matched the scorched cracked and potted earth, only the red stains of blood distinguished human flesh from the arid desert floor.

Both women sat down on the parched earth. They were completely lost.

Dufen knew her child was dying.

Dufen spoke; spoke from inside the darkness of her headdress, the words of hopelessness.

“Chiamaka, we should have never started this journey, it was doomed from the start.” Dufen’s words fell heavily on the defeated spirit of her companion.

“We must try to save your child!” Chiamaka said without emotion.

“But it is useless, he has the sickness, this journey will be the death of us all now.” Dufen said.

“I told you; I had the vision Dufen. It was strong. I have the eye, you know that Dufen. This boy will be saved by the Hummingbird Man! I see it!” For the first time there was a flicker of emotion in Chiamaka’s voice.

Dufen thought about her village. Huts made of woven branches of the sturdy thorn trees, their branches woven like a trellis fence, circular, the thorn bush like trees, that grew strong with the annual lifetime event – rainfall. Their strong flexible limbs were crafted into wooden skeleton structures. From a distance it looked like a skull cap. Then the wooden branch skeleton was woven and dressed in layers of straw. The structure had to be strong, the priority was shelter from the burning sun, but it needed to be well ventilated, and filter any wind, any movement of air, that could reduce the harsh daily temperatures. Small picket fences were erected to keep away scavengers, and protect the meagre livestock, chickens, and goats.

“I miss my home, I miss my Tahouma village.” Dufen started to wail. She looked up to the burning sun, the light instantly closed her eyes, the dry eyelids without moisture scratched her pupils, she couldn’t summon tears. Tears are made from moisture.

“This was a stupid idea, Chiamaka; the Hummingbird Man is a vision of the devil. We have entered his world, between hammer of his burning sun, and the anvil of his desert land.” Dufen wailed.

The lifeless body of the boy shuddered, not with his own movements, it was the movements from Dufen shaking arms and hands underneath the limp body, as she was consumed with fear of their circumstances.

“Where is this Hummingbird Man? Your visions come from madness; you are cursed Chiamaka. I am cursed, my only son dying of the sickness, and you were the temptress of my soul, you gave me hope with your Hummingbird Man.” Dufen spat out the words like venom, her throat, and mouth were dry, it hurt to speak, as she opened her mouth the burning heat entered her mouth, and as she swallowed the heat; whatever coolness in her body was invaded by the hot air, deeper, and deeper it entered her lungs. Speaking, breathing, wailing, trying to make tears, all these emotions of despair were doubly painful.  Better to sit there and die, there at least was peace, from this endless torture of the furnace of the desert.

From above Dufen and Chiamaka looked like refuse in the pristine desert landscape. The potholes disappeared from above as the flat amber sands, sometimes with a reddish tinge, without texture, only shades of the base amber colour, sand drifts sculpted by the winds. The dirty rags of clothing could be seen for miles, even in the simmering heat, and the hot vortexes of hot air rose with the strength of invisible arms to lift heavy winged predators, with their eyes seeking prey, like the two heaps of rags below on the sandy amber desert floor.

“Can you hear it?” Chiamaka broke the silence.

“What?” said Dufen.

“The sound of wings.” Chiamaka whispered, still her head was bowed to the desert floor.

“It’s the vultures hovering, waiting for our meat.” Sobbed Dufen.

“What a caring mother I have become. Giving up my son, a meal for the vultures.”

“Listen!” Chiamaka hissed.

Slowly the sound far away in the distance, beyond the tall sentinels of the mountain range, there was a faint sound, a buzzing sound. It became louder.

Both the women knew it was the sound of hope. But it was a flicker of hope, and in the vastness of the desert, hope like life itself; in this arid and deadly environment was more often extinguished, and burned in seconds to vapour and dust.

They both looked up, straining their searching eyes into the bright whiteness, with flashes of yellowy gold that scorched the area behind the pupils, pain entered the brain, and autonomically closed the eyelids in protection from the oppressive scolding brightness.

“Where is it?” Chiamaka had her arm bent to create shade for her searching eyes.

Dufen created the same pose, searching the skies for the sound. The mechanical droning sounds. It became louder. Sometimes the oppressive heat, the surging upward drafts of rising hot air, snatched the droning sound away, but like a background beat of song it reappeared, a constant sometimes muffled beat.

“He’s coming.” Whispered Dufen. “It’s the Hummingbird man” Dufen said incredulously.