The aroma of stew wafted through the air as little Chundung finished rinsing the last dishes from the sumptuous meal of gwete they had just eaten.

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon and Ngo said she could go and play with Garos once she had finished the dishes, little Chundung was about three and a half years old and in class 2 at the Local Government authority primary school.

Last week the teacher told them that on the 14 of March it was going to a very special day for all the Ngos in the village, but warned them not to tell their Ngos!

Little Chungdung balanced the sponge case to one side as Ngo had taught and rinsed her hands; she poured water on her feet and took a peep into the kitchen. The stew was throwing salacious tempting vapors of sweetness and for a moment little Chundung was thinking of just one fried meat in the pot- but she quickly remembered it would be too hot anyway and if she spilled the stew there would be no Sunday rice and a lot of beating too go with it.

She ran out and almost bumped into Ngo who was hurrying back to the kitchen.

“Ngo, I am going to play with ‘Garos and Simi!” little Chundung yelled in English.

“Make sure you are back by six o’clock…”

Ngo Chundung shouted back in Berom. Ngo Chundung and Dara were very proud of little Chundung who was always fond of saying she wanted to be like Turai- little Chundung said her teachers were always talking about Turai.

Little Chundung came home at six o’clock just as she promised in time to take her bath – not more than make a splash and hurriedly changed her clothes to join Dara in the courtyard for the evening meal.

Little Chundung went to sleep early as usual despite the excitement of the coming day and week ahead and also because Sunday morning she would have to wake up much earlier than days.

Even though little Chundung was a heavy sleeper, as all children, she was startled by a loud bang, then loud bangs, then more loud bangs. A rough hand shook her violently- it was Ngo.

“Chundung! Get up! Get up!”

This time it was not just loud bangs little Chundung could hear. She could hear screams, loud screams, and terrible loud screams. She thought she heard the voice of Garos screaming.

“Run! Run!” Ngo yelled at her yanking her up from the mattress and literally dragging her out.

“Ngo …” little Chundung began “where is Dara?” “Adagwi! Chundung run!” It was then little Chundung noticed the fire burning Dara’s room. Little Chundung’s heart pounded with utter terror. She ran toward the opening that led to the back of the compound with Ngo’s footsteps drumming the earth behind her. Little Chundung was not sure what happened next but she knew she heard a sound not unlike that which she heard when she used to follow Dara to chop firewood in the bush.

She heard the sound three times and then she did not hear Ngo’s voice or running feet behind her anymore.

“Nagge! Nagge!” A man’s voice shouted and another man answered- she had heard those words many times before when she and Ngo went to buy fresh milk and cow butter from their neighbors- the cow people.

Suddenly her two legs seemed to disappear from beneath her. An excruciating pain roared up her brain. She fell down heavily on her stomach and convulsed violently reaching her right hand down to feel her legs. All she felt was a bloody stump and warm gushing fluid.

Little Chundung screamed and screamed.

In the silhouette of the fire and screaming in mortal pain and fear she saw a man walking toward and standing over her.

It was the not pain that killed little Chundung. Nor was it the bleeding. A corrosive fluid suddenly burned her eyes and seared her mouth down into her lungs. What was followed the most intense pain little Chundung would ever, thankfully, never experience, ever again.

That was how she was found the next morning, Sunday morning, her two severed little legs amputated below the knees lying like toy things behind her, her almost charred body lying extended in agony , her little hands balled into fists, her head locked in a grotesque position looking into the heavens with burnt out eyes.

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About the author: Stephen Lonewolf Makama is a longtime contributor to Useless Knowledge.

Email: willywonkaonme@gmail.com

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