The Song of the Christmas Butterflies

By Shuna Meade

Akuji Mobutu was ten when he first heard her song. He stood at the graveside of his best friend Jamba and cried. Just that morning they’d been playing football on the only road through the village when a truck careened around the corner, its load was unsteadied and it skidded off the road. It came to a stop on its side, wheels still spinning, yams, cassava, bananas, mangoes and plantains were strewn across the road where Jamba lay. Akuji had been the first to arrive at his friend’s side and when he realized there was no breath, no movement, he stood and filled his lungs and let out a howl of dismay.           

After the burial the villagers congregated in the clearing with the elders as was the custom, but Akuji remained where he was. He dropped to his knees and buried his head in his hands. It was his responsibility to look out for the younger ones and that included Jamba. They had all been warned, the children of the village, not to play in the road. The trucks always travelled too fast and many an animal ended life as fur-covered pulp.

“You’ll be safe with me, they can’t touch us,” Akuji had told his friend. In truth, he knew once the morning truck rumbled through it would be safe to play until the sun passed overhead, but not today. Today two trucks came through that morning.  

“I’m so sorry Jamba,” he sobbed, “I wish it had been me.” Then he heard it, the song. There were no words, but the voice was pure and gentle and the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. It called him to follow. He left his friend’s grave and followed the song to the edge of the village where the old blind man sat every day. “Do you hear it?” he asked.

“Is there someone there?” the old man raised his blind, milky eyes, waiting for a response. When none came he went back to the piece of wood he was carving. The dog at his feet opened one eye, growled softly then went back to sleep. Even the dog knows it's my fault Akuji thought.

“Akuji, Akuji, Akuji.”

For a brief moment he thought he heard his name on the breeze. Who? It wasn’t his mama. He turned again to the blind man, “did you hear someone calling me?” But the blind man said nothing. Akuji heard the distant sounds of the villagers singing of their grief and remembered again the warning he had chosen to ignore. The song called him to follow and he couldn’t resist. All he wanted was to be alone with his sadness and so with a final look back at his village he turned and followed the song. 

He walked past the tree he and Jamba had climbed last week, past his favorite hiding place, past the place where Jamba fell and broke his leg when they were too young for school. With a final glance over his shoulder, he picked up his pace and walked and walked as if to pay homage to his friend.

He had no idea how long he’d been walking but the sun was two hand widths from overhead and the bush had thinned out. In front of him, the dusty road crossed another and in the center stood an old mango tree, its fruit hung in heavy globes of red, green and orange. He sat under the shade of the giant tree and watched as a group of white Christmas butterflies fluttered around the branches. He followed them with his eyes as they danced and chased each other, seemingly attached by invisible threads. He smiled and for a moment forgot to be sad.

He wondered why they were called Christmas butterflies and remembered a story his mother had told about how they were really snow flakes, snow flakes for a hot land. Jamba said snow flakes were parts of clouds that broke off and fell to earth and Akuji had laughed at him. “Oh Jamba, I wish you were here,” he whispered.

Now at the crossroads he had to decide which direction to take. The first route he tried the song grew quieter with each step so he returned and tried another. “West,” he said, “towards the setting sun,” and the song continued, sweet and lilting, calling him forward, guiding him.

The road stretched into the distance. It looked to Akuji like a brown line drawn across the land and he was surprised to see a dark spot, far away. He watched it grow larger and larger; his heart thumping in his chest until he realized it was a truck, the afternoon truck, rumbling through the quietness of the land. The closer it got, the louder it became, until it passed Akuji at great speed, faster than he had ever seen a truck move before and he’d had to jump off the road. Within seconds, all that remained was the brown dust cloud that clung to its back.

As the afternoon drew on, he wondered where the song was leading him. He knew if he walked far enough he would eventually come to the ocean. The sun had travelled across the sky until it hung just above the horizon. Akuji knew it would be dark soon and he must find somewhere to sleep, somewhere safe from the animals that prowled the darkness.

What he saw next made his heart thud. A huge monster crouched against the sky, black and silent and threatening. Akuji wanted to run but his legs wouldn’t move. He’d never seen anything like it before and his hand tightened around the stick he carried, ready to defend himself. For a long time he watched and when he was ready, he inched closer. When he saw it wasn’t a monster but some kind of rusted machine, like a truck with bigger wheels and a place for a driver to sit, he was relieved no-one was there to witness his foolishness.

Akuji climbed on top of the hulking mass of metal and watched as the sun sank, leaving it’s tendrils of colour across the sky. He loved it when the sky turned to yellows, oranges, pinks, greens and grays. It was as if the Gods were painting on the canvass of the heavens before the light went out. Then there was only the moon and stars to light the world.

He lay and gazed at the star-filled heavens and before long fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. He didn’t hear the night calls of the animals, the passing of a herd of elephants. Nor did he hear the gazelles dashing past, spooked by the roar of a lion.

When he woke at dawn he sensed something was not as it should be. He listened. The song was still with him but it was the piercing shriek of a bird that made him pick his way deeper into the bush, curious, for it sounded like the call of the Lovebird. He came upon a rodent writhing in agony; spasms shook its body, foam spewed from its mouth. Akuji froze; his eyes scanned the bush floor searching for the olive green body he knew would be nearby, a Black Mamba, the deadliest snake in all of Africa. Mamba struck their prey then retreated, waiting for paralysis and death.

It wasn’t until the giant snake reared its head mere inches from his face that Akuji felt truly afraid. The beady black eyes held his entranced, fierce and challenging and he offered a silent prayer to the gods that he be spared. The crashing of an animal through the bush broke the spell and the snake’s interest returned to its next meal. Akuji gulped in the air he’d been too afraid to breathe and laughed with relief. He watched as the inky black mouth stretched wide around its prey and shuddered as he heard the Mamba crunch through bones.

Akuji crept away and returned to the road. He took comfort from the song that filled his head and followed it westward as before. When the sun was at it’s highest in the sky he found shade and slept for a while. It was cooler when he woke and he set off again. Soon he came upon a village, not unlike his own and he watched a group of women gathered around the well, their sing-song voices floating towards him on the breeze. He saw children playing, laughter filling the air. Tempted as he was to stop and join the fun, he waved to them and kept walking.

Without warning, the dirt road turned to pavement. Curious, Akuji bent to touch it, surprised by its evenness and how hot it was from the sun. It felt hard under his worn sandals. More trucks passed him now and even a few cars. He guessed he must be close to the city; the huts he passed were not like those in his village, they had concrete walls and galvanized roofs. He saw women carrying baskets on their heads, endless roadside stalls selling all kinds of food and colourful drinks in bottles that drew his attention. “What is that?” he asked, pointing to a bottle of strange green liquid, but the old woman paid him no attention. He was growing used to being ignored.

As he walked on, trucks, cars, bicycles and carts filled the road. There were more people than in his entire village many times over. It was exciting and scary all at once. He watched as a couple of stray dogs slunk between the stalls, scavenging. The air was thick and heavy with smells of food and fumes and fat, lazy flies were everywhere.

Akuji noticed too how sad these people looked. The smiles he did see were not the spontaneous face-filling grins he was used to seeing in his village. He missed Jamba, he missed the other children and he missed his mama. He could no longer hear the sounds of the land, of the bush, only the roar of cars and trucks and the babble of so many people. He didn’t like this place and when he realized he hadn’t heard the song since he entered the city; tears welled in his eyes but did not fall.

He gazed in wonder as he came upon the tallest building he had ever seen. It was taller than the tallest tree in the jungle and as he looked up, his eyes squinting against the sun, a flash of light hit the windows and momentarily blinded him.

When he opened his eyes again he saw two Christmas butterflies fluttering nearby. They were the one thing familiar to him in this confusing and bustling place and he followed them, through narrow back streets, until he found himself in the sanctuary of a garden square, a stone church stood on one side.

In the quietness he realized the song was still there, it had just been drowned out by the noises of the city. He was so relieved he sat on the steps of the church and before he could stop himself, tears began to flow down his dusty brown cheeks. 

It was then that he saw it, the cheetah tooth Jamba had always carried with him. Akuji picked it up and stared at it for a long time. How could this be? Had Jamba come this way too? “Oh Jamba, I miss you so much, I wish we could both go home." 

Before long the butterflies playing around his head made him laugh. When he reached out to them they fluttered away, always just beyond his reach. Were they leading him somewhere? He stood, his tears forgotten and followed as they fluttered down a passageway beside the church where it was dark and cool and smelt musty, as if the sun had never touched it. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw the butterflies once more, sure now they were waiting, waiting for him. He watched them flutter up a set of rickety wooden stairs and he followed them up. 

He found himself in a stone tower; gigantic arches circled the room. The constant breeze ruffled the clouds of white butterflies and still the voice sang, softer now. He didn’t notice her at first, the old woman sitting in the rocking chair; her back bent, her fingers gnarled, her white hair blown into wisps by the beating of hundreds of butterfly wings.

“Is this where snow comes from?” he asked her, for he had never seen so many Christmas butterflies in one place. But she just smiled and continued working, her fingers, despite their knobbled form, were moving deftly, stitching with delicate thread. When she lifted her head, he saw how beautiful she was.

“No my child,” she said. Her voice was sweet, like a young girl’s and her smile was radiant. Then she began again, this time the song that came from her lips was gentle, like a lullaby. Akuji began to feel sleepy and sat on the floor, watching the white butterflies continue their dance in the tower and listened to the song with no words. “What is the song you sing?” he asked, his voice full of sleep now, his eyes drooping, only to spring open again as he fought the tiredness that tugged at him.

“It is the song of the Christmas butterflies,” she told him.

“Why are there so many of them?” he asked.

“I’m making them into wings for my angels,” she smiled down at him and waved her hand to show the sleeping children at her feet. “Do not fear little one,” she held up a pair of beautiful, iridescent wings she’d just finished, “watch.” She reached for a child, laying him across her lap while she stitched the wings on with great care. “There, now give them a try,” she encouraged the child.

Akuji watched in amazement as the wings flapped once and the child rose as if from the dead, a beatific smile upon its face. “Jamba!” he stood with eyes wide when he saw his friend hovering before him, surrounded by hundreds of white butterflies, "I knew you were alive, I found your Cheetah tooth, see? Now we can go home." 

“No Akuji my friend, we’re already home. We’re angels now, see my wings?” he flapped again and was gone, soaring high above the clouds, his laughter floating back to them on the breeze.

“What does he mean?” Akuji turned to the old woman.

“You heard the song didn’t you?” the old woman asked. “It’s the call of the angels, a song of re-birth; you were too distracted to follow at first. Jamba came before you. Now rest awhile, you must be tired, you’ve come a long way. I’ll wake you when your wings are ready.”