He stayed with the medicine man for eight weeks, until his bones knitted. The village chief summoned him after that, and he came into the royal hall flanked by two rod-bearers. I was a member of court at the time, and Budo was asked to explain himself.
“Please forgive me for not greeting you in the proper manner, kabiyesi. My joints are still stiff from my accident.”
“Keep your apologies to yourself,” I said. “Just tell us where you are from.”
“Of course.” Budo kept his eyes on the chief. “Kabiyesi, I do not remember much since waking up. My injuries have robbed me of much of my past. But I do remember the path to many technologies and special engines. If you will permit me I can direct them towards the betterment of your village while I try to work out precisely what happened to me.”
The chief whispered to his praise-singer. The speaker, the abobajiroro, said, “Can you fly?”
“No, kabiyesi.”
The chief whispered again. The speaker said, “Your Lord and Earthly representative of the orisha asks what you mean by ‘betterment’.”
“I mean the discouragement of the whites and their assistants, the ones who raid your village.”
The chief whispered. The speaker said, “Budo will be allowed to establish these technologies. He will be assisted by the most gracious Lord’s own daughter, Omolola.”
This alarmed me. I had hoped to be placed in charge of monitoring the stranger to increase my standing, but the main problem was that Omolola was unpredictable and difficult to trust. When she was sixteen her father sent her to the court of the Alaafin of Oyo as an ambassador to negotiate the amount of tribute expected. The defiant slaver Francisco Marinementus was at court, present for her plea, and became infatuated. He wished to add her to his harem which was rumoured to be at least one hundred strong. She threatened to geld him in perfect Portuguese and dissuaded the old man, much to the amusement of the Alaafin and his advisers. Omolola was married to a nobleman and had six children, however her husband was weak and ineffectual. Her prodigious sexual appetite was well reported, as was her spouse’s inability to satisfy, and yet all her children bore a striking resemblance to him. This was a puzzlement to me until I overheard her speaking to one of her husband’s wives.
“I only take lovers when I am bleeding or pregnant,” Omolola said. “If the train is full there can be no new passengers.”
She took to her new duties with great dedication, never leaving the stranger’s side, and I spied on them. Budo performed arcane experiments with rubber and iron and malachite and other minerals while Omolola watched. He had close to a hundred bags of coal. For reasons I could not understand Omolola instructed the young men to gouge out holes in the trees, including the Iroko tree in the square.
They argued. Their voices were loud but I did not understand what it was about.
“Yes,” said Budo. “You are right. Rigid is better, but takes more time and skill. A non-rigid—“
“—Is a flying bomb. I will not be a part of that.” Omolola did not like losing arguments.
In between this activity they copulated compulsively. I envied their vigour and youth.
Using untreated leather and alloyed iron sheets he built armour for our men. He attached metal tanks to each hollowed-out tree. I could not help myself, I had to ask what they were for.
“They are boilers,” said Omolola. “The coal furnace heats water and generates steam. A one-way valve allows it to generate steady pressure.”
“Pressure for what?” I asked but she spied her lover entering his bunk.
She became feral and dismissed me. “Abyssus abyssum invocat.”
Deep calls to deep. I taught her that when she was twelve. She had been my most talented student. She was also a painter and sculptor. Wild of heart, fickle, capricious, but brilliant. Not to be underestimated.
In all of his actions I saw that Budo was cultured, had good manners and could read and write. He scratched out symbols in the dust, frowned and drew others. For days on end smoke, steam and foul smells emanated from the building where they carried out their research and erections. Budo listened to all the stories of the griot. He attended the chief who laughed with him and at him, sparking my envy.
When the raid happened we were prepared. The older villagers such as myself hid where we could observe. The young women and men went to their designated jobs as soon as lookouts reported redcoats. They fired up all furnaces. Omolola set dials on mechanisms that were little more than naked mainsprings. “No time for aesthetics,” she said, when I asked.
The British came with rifles and swords, most likely planning to intimidate us into surrendering our healthy ones without a fight. I am not ashamed to say I was in favour of this non-violent approach. Appeasement ensures survival. The English stood back and barked instructions to the Indians in their turbans and the black collaborators who made up the front line. They fired a warning volley from their Lee-Metford rifles even before they reached the village. This was their way. When I was a child we used to call the guns lightning sticks or amunowa, bringers-of-fire.
The blacks and the Indians broke cover, exploring the village, puzzled. The English came on their heels, sweating, arrogant, expectant. One man noticed the small furnaces smoking on the trees, but had no time to examine them. Misshapen bladders of black rubber rolled out from doorways of buildings and huts. Archers nocked, aimed, and let loose their arrows, puncturing each bag, releasing a green miasma that crept forward, hugging the ground, engulfing the invaders. I was curious about the smell, but Budo had us wear gas masks and we looked like glass-eyed demons to each other.
The invaders choked on the noxious gas. “Fall back!” screamed someone, but the moment for retreat had passed. The mainsprings wound down at the same moment.
“Get down,” yelled Budo at everyone.
The men nearest the tree were lucky. They died instantly, heads pulverised as the steam vented and the metal projectiles flew in every direction. Each tree discharged a foot-long metal missile. Men further away took hits to the belly or chest and died in agony. The ones furthest did not die. The depleted force embedded the rods in their bodies. They screamed in pain, and would live until they succumbed to inevitable corruption of the flesh.
Some of these tree-cannons failed. Boilers ruptured without building up the necessary pressure to propel the projectiles. Furnaces fizzled out. The rods went awry. Despite this, enough fired to discourage the English force.
We celebrated with loud cries and songs thanking Olodumare, the creator. Our mistake was to misidentify a skirmish for the war. The second wave hit before we could reload Budo’s magnificent weapons. They gave no quarter. They razed the village and killed old men, women, children. The English singled out Budo for particular cruelty as the architect of their suffering but also for his secrets. He never talked.
Omolola and her six children disappeared.
That was five months before.
If Kenton wanted Budo it was for the engines of war trapped in the prisoner’s head. The problem would be how to motivate Budo to give up his secret knowledge. I translated rapidly.
“…Légion étrangère, Algerian infantry, Penal Light Infantry Battalions, Zouaves and a smattering of mercenaries,” said Kenton.
“They came up river?” asked Budo.
“Under false Trading Company flags, then disgorged troops on the west bank of the Niger.”
A map sprawled over the table showing the rivers Niger and Benue, and where they met to form a Y. A Matroyschka doll marked the position of the French.