Then they took our healers. They were not hard to find. Most days, they lingered about the village, repairing bodies and minds too troubled to heal alone. They had learned from us the value of our healers. They knew that, without them, we were weak, vulnerable people. If they took our healers, they must’ve assumed, they also took our ability to mend ourselves. They were right. So they captured our healers that we might not rebound. Villages of frightened, wounded people, without medicine men and women, would take centuries to restore. They knew this. Their strategy was as calculated as the hyenas’ attack. Without shamans, who would usher life back into our suffering souls? Who would reassure us that Death had not come to stay? Who would cleanse the forest and the land of poisonous energy brought by evildoers? We didn’t know. What we knew was that our wounds would fester for a lifetime without someone to cure them. In a day, panic and uncertainty became our way. Our pride deteriorated into fractured, deep-seated insecurities.

Next, they took our jali, that our stories might not be told. After them, the warriors, that our collective strength might be diminished. Then they bound the artists, who had told us we were beautiful. They chained and muted orators and teachers to stop the flow of inspiration and abort the belief that we were gods. They murdered gatekeepers on the spot since, at their word, multitudes of ancestors would’ve come. They would’ve come! But they were never called. And, finally, they slaughtered those whose gifts were less visible, although to us no less valuable: keepers of knowledge, masters of the spirit, gurus of assistance, guardians of order and balance. In the end, they stole away everyone and everything that made us strong.

This was The Coming.

We marched quickly. We marched through forests. We marched over hills and valleys. We marched through hot, desert land. We marched alongside waterfalls and brooks, which, the day before, had quenched our thirsts. We marched through high grass. We marched on barren earth. We marched past monkeys that dashed through trees, screeching and squealing with confusion. We marched past giraffes whose frantically swiveling heads told us to never give up the fight. We marched past lions roaring anxiously in the distance. We marched past anthills wherein frightened ants scrambled hysterically, then vanished out of sight. We marched past gardens sprouted, but not tilled. We marched past neighboring villages we thought we despised. We marched past sights of rituals where we’d known spirit possession and healing. We marched past communal huts where government officials once met to solve collective dilemmas. We marched past people we did not know. We marched through regions we had never seen. We marched until some of us died. They were unchained and tossed aside. There are no markers to commemorate them. Of this we are sure. We marched and we marched, from the rising till the setting of the sun. Then we collapsed and the moon gave us ease. But at the sun’s rising, we marched some more.