…the other ends a dot
the pain a river, unique
uniting us all
in our deepest hidden hope
for each other’s final fall…

The night betrayed the tension that hung on the various members like ropes. The crickets sang shrill songs as toads croaked codes no one could comprehend. One by one, the men and women took their seats in the large hall by the riverside; their traditional meeting place.

Bondigo presided over the meeting. His face was set, grim–it always was. He allowed them to keep talking. Usually a voting session could be put off if the Supremo—Bondigo—asked that the members let things be. There was a silent clause to it: if anyone raised an objection, the vote would go on. Then, it would come to the lifting of flags: black or white; for or against. Bondigo’s single hope was to ensure it didn’t come to that. If they spoke long, they would lose track or he would distract them…

“The blood still boils. It seems that the log has finally stayed in the water so long that it has become a crocodile.”

“It has not reached that…”

“Did you see the papers? Billions of cash to the East because of the small flood… None to us.”

“The billions he spent on independence nko?”

“The plan was always to get one of us in there,” Bondigo said in his booming voice. “We should be honoured to have one of our own there.”

“Of what use is living by the river if the waters are poisoned?”

“He was just a scheming arsehole. He never had our interest.”

“Enough! No more! There shall be no move!” Bondigo’s eyes bulged red in the intimidating way he had perfected to make sure no one raised any opposition. It was his way of stamping ‘Final!’ It was the traditional way of ending every dispute. No one ever raised an opposition. There was always silence…

“Opposed.”

Bondigo couldn’t believe it: “Wha… what?” He looked to his farthest left at the speaker, the President’s paternal uncle… The man wasn’t done yet:

“When water stays in the mouth too long, it becomes spittle. Perhaps he has stayed too long. The President is our son, but we need to move on.”

“But he is our son…”

“He is our son but stopped being one of us when he became bigger than the cabal and all of us.”

A uniform nodding of heads around showed approval. Only the Supremo could raise the motion for the vote. All the eyes around challenged their leader. He sighed:

“Black flags for making the move to attack; white flags for ignoring the moves—and making peace with the President, who is one of us.”

Of all the flags brought forward, only one was white.

Three days later, the country’s flag flew at half-mast.

(From The Bottom of Another Tale by Su’eddie Vershima Agema, Makurdi: SEVHAGE, 2014)