The fire crackled, the warmth spreads throughout the room.
The smoke bellows out from beneath the fire.
But the twigs catch fire and the smoke subsides.
Gently tending to the fire, is a hunched solitary figure.
Then the figure turns and sits up, crosses his legs and clears his throat.
“Ahem!” Hush! Low and quietly he starts speaking.
Oh! The audience is a group of children.
Wide-eyed in anticipation.
Gathering close, close to hear stories …”kastom” stories.
This man never came indoors! So we go to him.
He always made his place in the nearby “obala”; the kitchen outside.
It reminded him of home, the fire; the scent of burning wood!
“Aah! nau ku ngado na neri!” he begins by expressing his approval.
Then he starts, monotonous at first then he raises his voice.
A muffled whisper, a sharp hiss followed by a deep low mumble.
Every sequence of the story is emphasized in its own way.
He transports us to a mythical world.
He spoke of trees with majestic leaves,
the “akalo mouri” who soared through the jungle.
The “gosile”, the giant who terrorised villagers.
The brave boy who escaped his clutches and lived to tell the tale.
The “ramo”, the warrior who defended the village with his “alafolo”!
For he was brave like no other; untold wealth of pigs and shells tell of his bravery.
The “ramo” fought for all; because everyone cared for each other!
“… na biranga nia yimola kolu”, the way of our people.
“Look! Behind you!” he’d suddenly hiss
…we shifted uncomfortably, genuine fear stifling our laughter!
Perfectly timed! A sudden gust of wind blows in, gently caressing the night skies.
It added a mystic charm as one more story reached a climatic crescendo.
We snuggled closer at the mention of “akalo”, the diablo, the devil.
He was Iaga, our favorite story teller on his routine monthly trips to town.
A wily old men with a healthy set of teeth but a limp in his walk.
The right hand paralysed; perhaps the victim of polio many moons ago!
Always dressed in a blue sarong wrapped around his waist.
He had no shirt, sometimes only sporting a sweat shirt if he ventured into town.
The price for that dose of bedtime story, nails.
Yes nails we had collected from a nearby construction site.
We hoarded them, giving just enough for one story.
The rest – our bargaining chip if left unsatisfied with the first.
Sometimes we would plead “One more!”, “kae si ununu to’ou bana”!
Even if we had run out of nails.
But Iaga was no ordinary man, he was the village orator.
He was the keeper of the village story.
The sole authority on our oral history.
For he can speak of our lives through the passage of time.
He can speak of when we first came, reciting every lineage.
He was highly sought for his wisdom.
For he knew how our very being is entwined with the land on which we lived.
And as the night closed in, we drift off to sleep!
The voice, Iaga rambles on about “time before”.
Long, long ago when the earth was new!