The Sprouted Spear
Flash Fiction
The initiates gathered in a wide circle on Kibichiku Ridge. Mûkûri stood a head above everyone else and the two peacock feathers tied to his headgear made him seem even taller. They were all painted in white-chalk markings. Pregnant silence rent the air such that the rush of the river in the valley below was crisply audible.
“Whoever draws this spear from the ground will have the honour of first choice,” Mûkûri ‘s guttural voice suddenly cut through the heavy morning air. He brandished a long spear whose ironhead gleamed in the sunlight.
“The farms of your ancestors await”.
Without another word he penetrated into the centre of the circle. He twirled the spear above his head, the sinews in his forearms dancing in tune, then struck it to the ground with all his might. The slender, wooden shaft shook back and forth violently as the ironhead sank into the ground.
Mûkûri took a step back, hand on his hip with satisfaction. With a sinister grin on his face, he outstretched an arm to invite the initiates to try their hand at wriggling the spear out of its earthen cage.
And try they did. Some of the poor boys’ arms were as slender as the shaft itself. One after the other they tugged at the spear but it wouldn’t budge. Some pulled from highest point of the shaft, some favoured pulling from the middle. Others, fancying themselves intelligent crouched down and pulled near the neck where the head met the shaft. It was all to no avail. They even teamed up; each holding different points to try and wriggle it out. But the spear stubbornly remained transfixed to the ground.
Mûkûri initially watched pensively but his concentration slowly turned to boredom. The monotony was only broken when one energetic initiate pushed the shaft to one extreme end, perhaps hoping the spear would slip out the side, or at the very least, break. Unable to hold it any longer, the shaft whipped back viciously, almost as if in defiance, striking the initiate square on his forehead. He shrieked as the brutal force sent him staggering backwards, eventually landing on his buttocks. Mûkûri’s deep laugh reverberated across the ridge as the boy writhed in pain while rubbing his forehead vigorously.
When they had all given up and were lying on the ground miserably in exhaustion, Mûkûri stepped forward. He scowled as he looked around at them. “What a pathetic litter,” he remarked. Mûkûri held the shaft with his left hand and wriggled it back and forth. He effortlessly drew the spear and the familiar gleam of the ironhead shone on the initiates once more.
“These boys are not ready,” Mûkûri said with finality, each word dripping with disappointment. They could only watch as he slung the spear over his shoulder and began his descent down the valley.
