The Red Monk of Roha by Anthony N Kwamu

Author:Anthony N Kwamu [kwamu]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Anthony Nana Kwamu Jr
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

It was nighttime. The inn that was located not far from the small lake was popular with cutthroats, soldiers, disgraced priests, ex-merchants, ex-officials, ex-soldiers, and lots of other ex-somethings. Tej, the wine made from the sweetest highland honey, flowed cheaply and in abundance. Several loose women also mingled freely, working hard to earn their share of all the silver being passed around by the many shady characters having themselves a grand time in the rowdy establishment. Half of the men were dead drunk, with the other half determined to catch up. What they were not spending on tej or women, they were gambling away over games of mancala. A lone azmari provided some laughter and some poetry and music, using his krar—a six-stringed lyre—to great effect, captivating those who were sober enough to pay any attention to him. Like all azmaris, he was an expert in wax and gold poetry, where the “wax” was the obvious meaning of what he was saying, and the “gold” was the hidden meaning and always delivered with a touch of humor.

At a corner, oblivious to all the rambunctiousness all around him, was one man who seemed to have his wits about him. He had not had a single sip of tej this night. He was engaged in a serious game of mancala with some other characters who also seemed to mean business, but may have had perhaps one too many cups of tej. He was a tall and lanky man with a big sword strapped to his waist. It was the same man who had forced Fetiya to hand him a pouch of silver. He was in good spirits. After all, he had already won several games against his opponents, not quite making many friends among them. He rubbed the mancala beads made out of finely polished cow bones before placing each into the pits on the intricately carved board. Before long, all his beads were in the mancala pits—once again. He had just registered another win, proving himself to be a better strategist than his opponents. He was on a winning streak. The one small bag of silver he had brought to the gambling table had multiplied to four bags. He was pleased. Three of his opponents were not.

“You cheated,” one of them accused him.

“Yes,” the other two agreed. “No one wins that many times.”

“I won fairly,” the tall man insisted calmly.

At this point, sensing trouble brewing, everyone around the four quickly moved away to a safer distance as silence settled across the room. Everyone else had stopped whatever they had been doing to see what was about to happen. Even the azmari was frozen in place, his gazed fixed on the four men.

“No one has that much luck in one night,” one of the opponents accused the man. “Seven wins in a row? How can you explain that? No man can win at the rate even if he could cure blindness while walking on water.”

“You have all been drinking,” the tall man said.

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