RUMLA: The Circle

By Lisa G

                                                    Lose YOURSELF in the MYSTERY.

&nbs

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lillipad Press
• Release date: Oct 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994570413

Book preview

Rumla-Cover-large-Web.jpg

First edition published in Australia, October 1st 2016

Revised edition published April 10th, 2017

by Lillipad Press Publishing House

ABN 43 728 816 677

www.lillipadpress.com.au

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

This work is copyright.

The moral right of Lisa.G. to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, circulated or transmitted, by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information or storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission from the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The publisher has no responsibility for the information provided by websites whose addresses you obtain from the rear of this book. The inclusion of author website or other website address in this book does not constitute endorsement by or association of such sites or the content products, advertising or other materials presented on such terms.

NATIONAL LIBRARY of AUSTRALIA

Cataloguing – in – Publication data:

Dewey Number: A823.4

Scott, Lisa G. 1969

Rumla, The Circle

ISBN: 978-0-9945704-0-6

Edited by: M.F.S. & Sub Edited: J. Shields

Graphic design and illustration by 27iD Michele Grey

Internal design & Graphics by 27iD

Cover depicts altered digital representation of historical artefact, The Ashanti Chestplate.

www.lisagbooks.com

At every end there is a beginning.

At every beginning there is an end.

Always, we are in the middle of everything;

Including the shadows we cast.

For my three cheeky boys.

You’ve made my life an adventure.

Your mischievousness makes me insanely happy.

Your love inspires me.

A million thank you’s for your patience.

It has been a long time coming.

Finally, it is finished.

A note to myself:

I never thought I could do it.

But, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try.

To live inside a story of my own making has given me immeasurable happiness.

A childhood dream finally realised.

What more could a girl want.

A NOTE to the READER

CHAPTER HEADINGS

Rumla’s chapters are headed by a visual African Andrika Symbol, the corresponding African name and an English translation. The symbols represent the teachings, ethics and aphorisms of African life for the Ashanti people. Having a rich proverbial meaning they are wisdoms that continue to shape Africa today. For RUMLA, the Andrika symbols set the tone and capture the idea of each chapter, giving an insight into the underlying characteristic or moral.

Whilst a fictional novel, Rumla incorporates actual verifiable historical facts, legendary myths and cultural tales of Africa.

The Tale of Bida is one of the many legends underpinning the daily lives of the Ashanti Twi people before, during and beyond the gold trade Trans Sahara days. With references to genuine rulers of the past such as Osei Tutu, armies such as the Denkyira, the tribe of the Ako Ben and genuine artefacts such as the Golden Stool of the Odwira Festival, there is no denying modern day Africa and RUMLA have been influenced by a very rich cultural history.

While many facts have been incorporated within Rumla, I have taken creative liberty by moulding, bending and twisting some details to compliment the plot. But there is no mistake, the very real fact is that without the beauty and mystery of Africa and its civilisations past, RUMLA, The Circle would not have the depth of mystery it evokes.

Lisa .G.

CHARACTER INTRODUCTION

Oldman Anneki

Mzrs. Yassini Yar’Adua

Mrs. Adede Pkiro – Olubunmi (Mrs. P)

Maliala Diaspora-Elliseson (Malia)

Jardin Elliseson

Objie

Ngoni and Isoke

Bheina and Bhoern Llewzojgebou — the twins

Thabo

Ikenna

Sefu

Jhite Luungilbe

Naeem Haermuan

Ekya Gytya

Nehsa Luungilbe

Retsua Haermuan

Mbali B‘koom’be

Contents - Mini Chapters

PART ONE: RUMLA - Time Changes Everything

The Beginning of the End

Learn from the Past

Maliala

The Cookhouse

Jardin

My Name

The Path

PART TWO: RUMLA - Return to the Start of the End

No one should bite the other

The Council

The Council Circle

Attic Dust and Dreams

Dawn

The Library

The Sanctum

Hope

Time Keeper Part One

Time Keeper Part Two

Time Keeper Part Three

Wisdom Knot

Prepare

A tangle of information

PART THREE: RUMLA - The Return

The Meeting

Remember

Coming Full Circle

Power Of Love

A Test

Dreams

The Resolution

The Attic Pole

A New Beginning.

The See-er Of Secrets

The Cabin

Fri-Enemies

PART FOUR: RUMLA - Moving On

Changing Faces

Five Tufts of Hair

Power is as Fragile

Family

Courage and Valour

A Maze

The Storm

Memory is a Powerful Tool

Karma

Anew, An End

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AUTHORS NOTE

NOTE

BIBLIOGRAPHY

GLOSSARY

AFRICAN GLOSSARY OF LANGUAGE

Want to find out more?

The Dream

The knob rotated on its own accord. As the door opened fully a beautiful spray of white light spilled out. Fading away, it revealed a bewitching pendant dangling on a chain which hung from the wrist of a man. The man was trapped in a dark maze of dirt walls covered with mysterious markings. Frantic he tried to read them but soon became completely crazy, losing his way and then his mind before disappearing into thin air, leaving behind his shoes in the space where he once stood.

Directly above, a girl with long flowing dark hair stood forefront of the east window of a room. Four black stones hovered in mid-air before her. The floor, which swirled wildly and inches beneath her feet appearing to coil into its centre, dropped away into an abyss so deep it seemed bottomless. To the right and at the edge of the pit, a wispy bearded man towered over the girl ordering her to cast the stones to the place marked by the Golden Compass. She would not command them. They hung in the air at her wish.

The wispy bearded man grew angry. Raising his arms and reaching them high, he turned his outstretched palms to greet the sky. Suddenly his eyes fell away deep into his head. His body shuddered and as if summoning great power his arms dropped heavily, plunging to his side, rigid and tight against his body, his pupils rolling forward to sink beneath his lower lids. Then as if nothing had happened he stood as he had started, looking at the girl, only this time, in a most unnatural way…

The Circle

Life had always been my kind of ordinary. Anything that was not the same, day in day out was extraordinary. And this was no ordinary day.

I will begin at the start of the end. It may make more sense that way. Though I wonder if there is just one moment that determines the start of the end and whether then, what you think is the end is actually the end or, is it one big circle and nothing truly ever ends. Things aren’t always clear. Things aren’t always as they seem… so it seems.

MMeRe DaNE

Time changes everything

The Beginning of the End

It was a Friday afternoon and even though the sun was hiding behind a huge black heavy looking cloud, Oldman Anneki was in an unusually good mood as he made his usual way passed the Wawa in Zelizburok Park. Weathered and normally slow, it was not a stretch to think he was as old as Rumla; for he absolutely looked it in every way possible.

Being then a resident of a small town, it’s of no surprise everyone knew him and his movements almost too well. I guess you get that; living rooted to one place, it’s tough to keep secrets. Ringing stranger than most and oozing a left of centre kind of vibe, he would always leave your mind in a tangle trying to work him out. Somehow, he seemed to burn himself into the deepest part of your memory. Then out of nowhere, you’d find yourself thinking about him having no idea why. Pop! Totally weird, there he was, uninvited.

Some describe him as charismatic. Way more than some are of the opinion looney is more like it, and so much so, he was someone to avoid altogether. Regardless, he is one of those people Rumlalians always talk about whispering stories, gossiping for good or for bad, like it or not, dead or alive.

Me, well, I like him. Always have. Always will. He is way far from boring and that’s something in Rumla. Wearing of an odd assortment of second-hand clothes, mismatched shoes and trade mark crumpled hat meant he was not easily missed; much I must say, like his moods. You could always tell when he was not in a particularity good one. On these days his crumpled hat was replaced with a tribal prayer cap that every other day, hung from his right-hand jacket pocket. It didn’t hang out of his pocket more often than I remember him wearing it on his head however. Thinking of it like that, I suppose he was mostly rather grumpy. Still, he is someone to be respected: person-ably interesting, awesomely peculiar and most importantly, uniquely entertaining. Star... of the weekly event not to miss.

The gum obsession gave Anneki the devilish satisfaction of annoying Yar’Adua; another of Rumla’s unique individuals. Regardless of the lack of success, he remained unthinkably fanatical week after week. Possessing an uncanny skill of predicting when he was up to no good, Mzrs. Yar’Adua was always ready, waiting to chase him from her porch with an old straw broom that otherwise lived outside her front door. The broom was obviously better equipped at coating her hair with its loose white bristles than scaring him off task. Why Anneki didn’t toss it out of reach before gumming her keyhole was plain stupid. Possibly, he was so old it never occurred to him. Less interesting their meet would have been if he had. For some reasons, I’m grateful he didn’t. For others, I’m not so.

As it turns out, his timing failure wasn’t because Mzrs. Yar’Adua was clever and Anneki not. Rumla’s hot and unworkable afternoons take too long to pass into the relief of night, and as Mzrs. Yar’Adua regularly worked her gardens early — retiring from midday or shortly after, the afternoon was then both perfect for Oldman Anneki and predictable for Mzrs. Yar’Adua. Either way, it always made me smile. Sometimes I would have to clamp hands over mouth to stop from laughing out loud. Sometimes so outrageous was he, a blurt would escape squeezing between my fingers to make a stuttering fart noise that sounded like a cat choking on a fur ball. Not handy if spying close by; which is pretty much the case and to be perfectly truthful, my life actually. Honestly, there is very few entertainment options in the goldfish bowl town called Rumla.

So Anneki’s re-chewing of discarded gum, taken from the underside of the park bench, kicked off Friday afternoons. The gum, he enjoyed it a lot. I know. I have seen first-hand the glint of excitement in his eyes and the girlish skip in his step. After the fourth piece it always got nasty. Drool dribbled down his chin, slow and bubbly, frothing like shaken soda. Then contorting in strange and impossible ways, he’d perform a weird kind of jig. To be believed, it needs to be seen. But even then, it’s still difficult getting your head round how he could warp about like a thick rubber band, jerking, bending and twisting, almost turning himself inside out.

Unfortunately for the Oldman the complication of Obie guaranteed a much more rewarding day for Mzrs. Yar’Adua. After a strong, long past disagreement resulting in a kick and the hostility of an angry bite, the two never since got along. But as the scruffy haired mutt had developed an exceptional ability for tracking smells, more specifically locating Oldman Anneki, understandably Mzrs. Yar’Adua was especially delighted to see Obie on mission down the unremarkable slope of Big Hill. On each occasion there was no mistake who the tangle of hair was headed for. The promise of Obie brought a victorious smile to her face and it was the only reason she stopped beating on poor old Anneki. For the Oldman though, Obie’s approach made him positivity indecisive about his next move; the look on his face, totally priceless.

The excitement of Friday afternoons, dusted off the lazy Llewzojgebou twins. Being that it was the event of every week it did make a mention in the local newspaper. Although after weeks, months and now years later, it didn’t feature as much and with the exception of a few die hard followers who still spied from behind curtains, it now only and briefly held the interest of new generations. In any case, as was I, the twins were addicted. Settling themselves each week comfortably, pillows in hand, atop of their homes jagged stone front fence they organised themselves while jibbering and jabbering, making a spectacle of themselves.

Their mother meanwhile, chattered animatedly on the phone while flitting in and out of the front door. It was habit more than necessary that she kept doing so; for the twins were set until, clumsily escaping, dragging or not Obie by his pant leg and ending the day’s drama in one way or another, Anneki disturbed the rusted out gate.

It was fully known the slightest movement released such a punishing ear piercing screech, that no one for miles could escape the blood curdling sound. Being that it was solid proof Oldman Anneki had been sent packing, it was also Mrs. Llewzojgebou’s cue to finish up gossiping. As soon as there was a hint of the familiar, she would whip out in a fluster like she hadn’t expected the calamity to forensically evacuate the scene. At a supersonic speed she’d whisk twins and cushions in one quick swipe to disappear quicker than she had appeared. Slamming the door behind, she left an eerie silence as though nothing had happened, like no one had been there but strangely, she had avoided a major disaster. It was another thing that kept things interesting. Funnily, she continued this ridiculous routine knowing the twins were never in danger; that nothing happened ever to cause such worry. Absolutely nothing! Not a damn thing. This… was why for weeks and years Yar’Adua and Oldman Anneki remained interesting. It is truly weird how weird brings more weirdness! Multiplex levels of weirdity. You’ll discover that for yourself soon.

Anyway, the drama finally ended with Mzrs. Yar’Adua’s nutty words, Be gone, you’re done, no more maggots, no more gum. Never did she say anything different. It was definitely something to be improved. How the maggots came into it I have no idea. I once wondered if tiny fly larvae breed in the park bench gum. It struck me rather stupid, why a fly would lay eggs in it.

Mzrs. Yar’Adua, well, it’s good to know she is not someone easily understood. She is her own different; unique and strange, quiet, old but not and pretty in an odd sort of way. But mostly, of all things there is to be, she is complicated.

For example; she habitually waters plants housed in three lopsided window boxes located at the front of her house. I had to convince myself there was good reason, as it seemed pointless the amount of care taken. The prickly plants shrivelled and dry appeared well dead. Barely tinged green, other areas of her garden were hardly better. It made no sense spending mornings pottering with an assortment of garden tools, watering and tending to the plant boxes more certain to be dead than alive. But she did. And this is only the tip of her ‘individuality’. She has as much to offer as Oldman Anneki.

Thinking she could use some help of the garden variety I suggested dad should step in. Never having been sure of the woman, he wasn’t keen. And in any case Ma stressed she was best left alone.

Now that… is something I should have listened to. Because I didn’t, though I didn’t know it then, everything changed. And it changed more than I could have ever imagined. More, than anyone could.

SaNkOFA

Learn from the past

A little background first. There are things to know so strap yourself in. You are likely to question however, whether some of these things are worth knowing. Don’t feel bad. Everyone so far does… question that is. My advice; don’t be everyone and you will have the advantage of coming to understand that every bit of information at some point, becomes more than just blah blah, stuff to forget. Soak up what you see, drink in what you hear because your life, believe me, may depend on what you let pass by. Choice is yours what you use or don’t. All I can say is… remember who gave you the heads up.

With that out of the way, you should know that I hate my name. It turns out though, that my name is super important. Why? We will come to that later. For now know that I wished for a time it was not only possible to pick my own name but to have been able to choose whether I was born a boy or a girl. That led to wishing there was also some say in when… like whether the month you are born in allows for an outside birthday party after turning six; because let’s face it, the chances of a load of big kids running crazy in the Cookhouse is as likely as forgetting the sacred days of Adae announced by the predawn beating drum, and that is kind of impossible, and if you did, well, not cool at all. Just so you get it; Adae is traditional, cultural and annual, and a huge deal if living in Africa. Being that it’s the African ceremony of the year, to forget it would be like Christians forgetting Christmas and a Muslim forgetting Ramadan. And really, neither of those is likely.

Why do I mention it? Well for one more than a few reasons... See, four years after arriving in Rumla it became clear that it not only rains in April but that Rumla, reason one; has in total, sixteen days of rain in a year. Remember this! Importantly to me, those sixteen days are in a row and either side of my birthday, which falls on the not so auspicious date of the thirteenth. Less of a reason, but reason two anyway is no party, unhappy about that. Third; The African rains are fierce, torrential and soak the ground for more than a month after the waters have seeped away; and that in itself takes weeks. The probability of it raining every year on the same days for seven years in a row is totally improbable so you would think. But it does and its how it’s always been. The last most important point is the timing of the rain; it encapsulates perfectly the ridiculous impossibilities of my life; that impossibility and I are identical twins. Let me explain.

The odds of being born are in itself is plagued with something like an unidentifiable amount of infinite impossibilities. Consider it yourself… for yourself, it’s mind boggling. Add being born a girl, not a boy and that is another set of odds defied. What’s more is to be born a girl in a family with a serious historical past that leads to damn serious future for only, wait for it… not just anyone, but one female within all generations of a particular family. The likelihood of that being that particular female and having the responsibility of sorting out the complications of a serious situation that depends on a set of events falling into place at the right time, or at the wrong time depending on your opinion and I tend to go with the latter, is just crazy impossible. Know too that these events and the timing are not random. Oh no... these specific events occur as per a predetermined time line in a prophesied sequence. Swallow that! Bet you the lump is big! Well it’s more than big let me tell you! It’s unfathomable and a one in an infinitesimal, generational unlikely probability of being that person.

Agree or not, it does turn out that things you never expect to happen actually can; even the most unimaginable. And know for the most part, there is little say or control over any of it. Wishing too, things were different is as pointless as wishing someone had given you the heads up. Mostly, you wouldn’t believe them if they did, on anything. Why? Simply because you don’t unless it happens to you.

If someone had told me, who I was made the most impossible of impossibilities possible, and told me too what was to come, it wouldn’t have done any good. I wouldn’t have believed it, no matter who told me — not even my somebodies.

I wish there was a way, to skip a few mistakes.

DWaNNi NMeN

Strength is in one’s humility not their humanity

Maliala

Besides she is someone many respect and admire, Ma practically lives at the Cookhouse. When she’s not busy there she is busy with other things. What exactly I can’t say but she always has time for me; available in a heartbeat and often in less than that. I am spoilt that way. It’s kind of spooky too, how well she knows me. It’s another of her talents besides the Cookhouse.

Living in Africa there are things to be missed born and bred English. Morley’s was half a life time ago and though you quickly forget the smell much sooner than the taste, the lingering memory is enough to drive you insane. I do love the fried spicy potato dumplings from Zarnis. On a good westerly day the breeze carries the smell to my bedroom in tormenterous way. Other than Ngoni’s dumplings, the Cookhouse menu of grass clippings, garden pruning’s and seasoned fiery meats is something to get used to. The Benne cakes are delish, supposively said to bring good luck. Don’t believe it for a second though; I down dozens from March but the rains still hit nine days out before my birthday.

Ma’s cooking is in such demand she is overrun with orders most nights. That means eating while fighting for oxygen in the herbaceous air at the Cookhouse. In the beginning it was too much so I tried to find a way out, as you do when you don’t know better. Without doubt the mistake was focusing on the end game without thinking through a viable plan. A few seconds is all it takes to ruin a good reputation that takes forever to repair. The minute my sneeze followed through, things were looking sheepish. Peppering my dinner plate and decorating Ma’s with half chewed food, crossed a line. Awkward witnessing regurgitated food, coating famously tasty cooking in the company of diners is an understatement. Watching lumpy globules of food swimming the surface of freshly squeezed juice wasn’t much better. And all I had managed was moving closer to the herbs and the overwhelming cooking odours, under the eye of a smug annoying grin tormenting me every meal, reminding me very clearly of my failure. That too, got too much and the satisfaction was deep as I watched the tormentor tumble in a greedy speed to reach the floor. But it was to be only for a second; it is amazing how quickly feelings of happiness can drain away.

I hadn’t thought about it breaking. Not just a crack or chip. Not just a minor abrasion. It shattered into irreparable pieces too many to count. Strewn across the kitchen floor, the broken elephant’s intact condescending eyes still however, managed to stare back at me, continuing to scold. Absorbed in hating it so much, I hadn’t considered Ma, who had stood broken hearted, lost in the memories it brought her — a childhood present from her parents.

Like father, she said not a word. I think now, they were stuck in their throats; until the following morning that is, when I discovered I was to work there as well as eat. Three years down the track it’s one of those ‘never’ moments; never forgotten, never truly forgiven. Working here, I’ve grown accustomed to the smell. It’s not that good but just not that bad. The Cookhouse introduced me to the attic. Being one of two favourite places, the attic made the Cookhouse important and so the Cookhouse kitchen has its place; funny how things work out.

The herbal tonics are the worst. Ma is, as it so happens, the tonic queen and her concoctions are highly sought after for Odwera. Luckily, batches are mixed and bottled during a sickening one month period of the year in preparation for the ceremony where tonics are sprinkled over the earth as a peace offering to the Gods for past sins. As it approaches, Ma makes sure I’m reminded of my sins, ‘More than herbaceous air Ji. One day, you will wish you had paid attention to the things I tell you."

Of course she was right. She always is. But that didn’t stop me from smearing a not so nice tincture over the back step of B’koom’be’s store. After the way she had treated me, I figured it was less than she deserved but the furthest I was prepared to take myself to the limits of trouble. Watching B’koom’be stomping and cursing loudly pacing the main street was perfect, until the wind came to carry the smell beyond the edge of town. Everyone suffered.

Gogo once told me some people only learn the hard way to change their ways. At the time it was reason enough to follow through with what was to be, another bad idea to quickly unravel. Ma, as smart as she is, put two and two together soon after noticing the offending ingredients had been returned to different positions.

Truly, I don’t know why you bother, she had said before a long pause. Going on past experience and confident she hadn’t yet finished, the more silence I enjoyed I knew it was leading to a something I wouldn’t. With the events of the elephant ever fresh, the potential of a full-bodied outburst was inevitable.

And so, I prepared for the switch. It’s as important to listen as it is to not break eye contact. Without complete attention there’s the likely possibility of missing a question when she flips back into English from Ashanti Twi — her native tongue. If you’re not listening, well, let’s just say that you want to listen! And with it all blabbing out like some possessed spirit, it’s as difficult to pick the English as it is hard not to laugh. Besides that being very dangerous, I just couldn’t. I need her. She is the wisest person I know and, my somebody. Did I mention this usually happens when I’m in trouble?

When will you learn that you’re just not cut out for getting away with sneaky, underhanded behaviour? Surely, you know that by now. Oil Ji, really? she had said with more exasperation than annoyance or anger.

Tricky at this point to know whether what’s being said is a question. Thinking it safer it was not, felt like a better option than explaining myself.

You’re smart Ji, she went on, You can find some other way! Flipping her hands into the air she finally became consumed with anger.

"Really not, good enough. I just don’t understand you. Nea ope se nkrofoo ye ma wo no, ye saa ara ma won. Stupid. Onya-kopon aniwa hu asumu asem biara. I don’t get it! Sankofa. Onyakopon aniwa hu asumu asem biara Ji, you know Ji. Sankofa! Otsintsinto! Seriously Ji your thinking. Sankofa Sankofa? Onyakopon aniwa hu asumu asem biara.Sankofa Sankofa! which translated means something about being nice to others, the gods see everything, it’s never too late to learn from the past, learn from your mistakes and don’t make them again because it’s no longer a mistake, its stupidity… it’s stupidity.

At least, I think it does. I deserve it. I knew it then and I know it now.

Some people do only learn the hard way. I’m pretty sure now that Gogo was warning me about me and not B’koombe. I’m just not good at being bad. It’s super annoying how other people know you before you do yourself. When they can see your mistakes before they happen, I think there should be a rule they can’t.

My Name? You will know soon.

First, a walk through the Cookhouse. Then, after a few introductions, tossing you in the deep end will help you understand who I really am and, that not all is as it seems.

AKo KO NaN

A mother always protects her own

The Cookhouse

The Cookhouse is in the centre of town. It is small and old. It reminds me of England — being that it’s kind of English country looking with its large block, brick walls of sun baked clay, lower rooms surrounded by wide verandahs roofed with a shabby shingles of sewn leaves, reeds and mud. The attic’s weather board shutters have been recently painted and the windows replaced after the last wind storm. It got a bit wild. The Cookhouse is also home to my second favourite place — The attic.

Sitting centre of the town the Cookhouse is flanked by other shops; Ngoni’s shop is west of the Cookhouse and B’koom’be’s Lollipot is on the east. Directly behind on the far north west, sits the Council Circle building and behind that is a small hut housing printer equipment for the local paper. At the rear of the Cookhouse a doctors clinic hides in the shadow of the Cookhouse’s shed and from there, the butchers can be seen nestled in among some other small trinket shops that complete the shopping area a street further back. Isoke, who is both the town’s barber and Ngoni’s husband, is situated on the north east and the same block as the Cookhouse, along with the Bank Deposit and the hardware store which is run by Ekya Gytya.

Directly across the road from the hardware store is the library. Constructed of stone and being as long as five shops and twice as deep, it makes an indelible impression. It’s the biggest building in Rumla and is surrounded by the town gardens. The gardens stone walkway wanders throughout the whole garden, from the east, behind and around to the west of the library, then passing the clinic to the rear of the Cookhouse it takes a curved arc to continue to the front of the Cookhouse, finally spilling over the street to the edge of the Park. Zelizburok Park sits a little way from the bottom of the, not really a hill, Big Hill and is separated only by a few of Rumla’s oldest houses. The pathway eventually breaks up into misshaped stepping stones that end at the start of the Stoney River footbridge where fingers of light from the glistening Stoney River beneath, stretch through the weathered and gaping wooden planks. A large lush grassy patch kisses the other end of the bridge. It is where you will find the park benches and a cool spot to sit in the shadows of tall trees that dot across the grounds and hug the back of the park.

The best thing about the Cookhouse is the attic and the four protruding gable windows on each side of the roof. The attic windows face direct north, south, east and west and look out over the top of the surrounding buildings, making you feel like you’re the only one in Rumla. Also, there is the bonus that you can, on tippy toes and an angle slightly to the left, see anyone who uses the garden walkway. It is a great lookout and there is much to see from the attic. It is my second favourite place to be.

By way of the wind vane that sits proudly on the roof apex, the Cookhouse is the tallest building in Rumla. Apparently is resembles a hen’s leg. Personally I can’t say I see that.

Imagine the three toes on the end of a chicken leg, Ma would say, turn it on its side. See?

Ma being Ma, put the wind vane up on the roof herself. Dad pleaded for her to come down, leaving it for him to do. That didn’t go down too well with Ma, a stubborn and insistently independent individual. Anyhow, she had said, It’s an ancient African symbol of protection. I don’t see how anything bad could happen. Always having something tribal like her cooking and babbling to come back with, dad let it go. Being African and all she inherited much from Gogo. Sometimes it drives us crazy.

Sometimes I get to sleep in the attic. It is most usually when Council meetings, which are held on the eve of the new month, run late or when a dinner booking runs over time and that happens at least three times a week. Sleeping in the attic is as close to perfect as it gets. Lying in my bed I get to see the sun set at night, the coloured patterns on the walls of the attic and the glittering of the dust at dawn. It has a real feel of its own. The room seems to come alive with the rise and fall of the sun. Every time I lay there to sleep, I wish I could sleep here every other night. Every time I wake up, I have had just finished the most amazing dreams and though I can never remember my entire dream, I know I’ve dreamt.

In the centre of the attic running from the apex of the roof to the attic floor, is a wooden pole carved with intricate African inscriptions and images. On the outside middle of the pole between the attics floor and ceiling, is a set of three black iron rings linked by wide wooden sleeves. The sleeves are inlaid with snakes decorated with evil slits for eyes, flat heads and forked tongues. Along the length of the pole are smaller carvings of people, tribal gatherings, landscapes of cities and odd looking symbols I think are writings. All are cleverly placed about a bigger and more sophisticated carving of a snake twisting around a boy and a girl who are together, entwined and positioned above and below the snake inlay wooden sleeves; their heads beginning above the sleeves, their legs and feet, twist and coiling to finish underneath the sleeves. All the carvings are layered in different depths of the wood so that the smaller carvings seem to sit back from the elaborate figures of the boy and girl — which seem then, to extend a little beyond the rest.

On the cusp of the new moon and in the darkness of the night, the snakes shimmer and glow; I guess, from some kind of metal or something layered into the wood. This is the best night to sleep in the attic. I am pretty sure no one else knows the attic pole glows like it does. I haven’t told anyone and I’m apparently the only one to have slept in the attic since the Cookhouse was built. The kitchen is the next important stop. It is the heart and soul of the Cookhouse. After taking the stairwell to the left of the landing on exiting the attic, the stairs finish at the mouth of a short wide hallway that would almost directly lead into the kitchen if it were not for the drying rack of herbs that creates a little nook and s-bend narrowing the entry from this direction. From here however, the large traditional Swing Blackpot filled with meat, vegetables, herbs and spices can still easily be seen. Constantly simmering, the pot sits on three dense and narrow stones arranged in a flat triangle. Underneath a fire slowly burns away three pieces of Mopane that meet in a point under the pot. The fire is slightly lower than bench height and positioned on top of a bricked oven built by my ancestors long ago. There is also a more modern looking half oven that can be used. When the door is slid across closing the oven compartment, I know that the Benne Cakes are being cooked. It is the only way to tell as you can’t smell them on account of the Blackpots’ simmering aroma.

The kitchen is quite small but compact. Everything has a place; the jarred herbs sit in a rack on the south wall — purposely so as to use the warmth of the sun to keep them from moisture and spoilage. The spices are on the east wall where the morning sun keeps the temperature just right, but cools in the afternoon so as not to cook the spices and distort the flavour. The fridge is on the north side, near the wide hallway mouth of the left stairwell landing, where the clay brick walls stay coolest all year round. The oven is on the other side of the kitchen — opposite the stairwell and in plain view of the eating area, which is off to the west of the main entrance and where most of the dining customers are seated. Those who enter the Cookhouse from the south steps can also clearly see the oven at an acute angle from the entry doorway. Ma always says, If a cook is worried about their kitchen being seen, don’t eat their food.

In the centre of the kitchen is a large wooden block bench. Underneath, the shelves are littered with pots, trays, cooking utensils and drying towels. On the top of the bench sits the Cookhouse Bible; or Ma’s heart as dad calls it. It is full of original recipes, botanical information on the uses and properties of herbs, handwritten notes and old Cookhouse menu secrets. In the corner near the back door and an easy throw away, Ma has perfected the bin shot. I haven’t yet... I am always having to clean the wall.

The main room, which is the biggest, is used for dining. Its whole space, which opens up much wider and about six times larger than the kitchen, is filled with sunshine that streams in through all the windows, glinting off the glasses that hang from the glass rack bolted to the ceiling. At the top of the glass rack, a small bottled vineyard collects dust, unlike the clean empty millet beer bottles stacked underneath, ready for refilling. Below the rack and millet bottles, a heavy wooden four sided chest sits decorated by a wicker basket of sour bread and dipping oil. The chest is an ancient family heirloom filled with cutlery. And, it has some of the same carvings as the attic pole.

The Cookhouse dining room is scattered with small square wooden tables. Draping colourful cloth woven from thread and spun from hand picked cotton grown in Rumla’s outer fields, fall from under the bowls of Kashata sitting middle of each table. Seated with a variety of odd rustic chairs, the tables spill out through a double doorway onto the wide verandah encircling the dogged shape of the Cookhouse. Much care has been taken to arrange the verandah. Positioned at arm’s length from the banister, so as for the ivy not to annoy, and far enough from the walls so as to permit customers to wander — allowing them to admire the African pictograms detailed above the wooden doorways and the ancient African script carved into the sun baked clay blocks — the seating is spacious enough to feel cosy but not claustrophobic. Finally, various hanging baskets dangle from the framework of the slanted roof where some of the general herbs and spices Ma uses in her cooking are grown. They look like ordinary flower pots; unlike Mzrs. Yar’Adua’s, they are always alive. Dad makes sure of that. He is seen multiple times a day checking them.

Following the verandah’s around to the front entrance, inside and to