Mundu awoke to the smell of roasted flesh and the sound of cocks crowing. It had been a long tine since Mundu had heard or smelt either and for a moment Mundu felt the sensations comforting. As the crowing continued to claw at Mundu’s ears however and the smell crawled its way up his nostrils and up into his nasal cavity, they insistently knocked on the backs of his eyes, forcing them to open.
Mundu was lying on his back, a round thatched ceiling staring down at him. Issuing a small groan he used his hands to push himself up into a sitting position. Using one hand to support his weight, Mundu put the other to his head. It ached as if a giant hand had clutched it in its fists and repeatedly hammered it into the ground.
What had happened? The last thing he remembered was…
Mundu threw his eyes around the small hut. Not that it did much good, it was dark and all he could make out were shadows and shapes. There did come a grey light from under the cloth that covered the entrance of the hut however and so slowly getting to his feet Mundu shakily moved towards it. Once there, Mundu drew back the cloth door and discovered the origins of both the smell and the sound. Outside the hut in the clearing sat the Umolosi. At his feet, quietly crackling and blowing puffs of smoke into the air nestled a fire and pinced tightly between the index and thumb of one hand was a stick on which was spoked a roasting thigh of a chicken. His back was to the hut but as Mundu lifted the cloth The Umolosi turned…and smiled.
“You are awake.”
Mundu said nothing, did nothing; his legs remaining firmly in place.
“Come, come, come. You must be hungry. Come and eat. It is good.”
Still, Mundu said and did nothing.
“You are angry. I understand. But anger should not be an excuse for hunger. Come.”
Mundu’s stomach heard the man when he said this and rumbled in reply. He was hungry. And chicken had been a scarcity for longer than he cared to remember. How The Umolosi had managed to acquire as many as he had (the were probably more than a dozen of them clucking around the clearing) made Mundu wonder. He took a step out side the hut and the sun hit him full on. It was a midday sun, how long had he slept?
The Umolosi stood and gestured at the stool,
“Sit.”
Still reluctant but feeling his walls of resolve crumble under the old man’s genial persistence, Mundu moved towards the man and the stool.
“Sit.” the man said again and this time, Mundu sat.
The Umolosi held out the stick on which the chicken thigh was impaled on.
“Eat.”
For a moment Mundu eyed the dead bird suspiciously but then upon further insistence from the sorcerer (who at that very moment Mundu found hard believing there was anything magical about him), Mundu took it.
One bite, two bites, three bites and the leg was done. All flesh stripped from bone and the bone cracked with the marrow sucked out.
“More?”
Mundu shook his head.
“Water.”
The Umolosi bent for a calabash near one of the legs of the stool and handed it to Mundu.
“Drink.” The old man said. “And then, once you are done, You come with me-- there are things we need to discuss.”
