1.

‘You must stay here,’ said Kangure to his mother, old Sau. ‘We are going soon. Our place is where we are going. Your place is here.’

Sau put two fingers onto her son’s cheek. ‘I am content. I have lived a full life, and I am to become your ancestor. I am happy to stay, for I will dream.’

She looked deeply into the green eyes of her son. There, she could see the spirits of his father, her husband, and of his grandmother and grandfather. She could see the spirits of all their ancestors. Sau was content.

‘Go now,’ she said. ‘Leave me. Make your journey.’

As tradition demanded, Kangure kissed his mother on the top of her head, and stood back to look at her. All was well. He turned and walked away, away from his mother, away from the river, away from their lives together.

He made his way back to the camp.

‘It is done,’ he said to his wife, Awei. ‘We must go now.’ Awei rose, and went outside to call the children. Kangure led his wife and his children into the forest towards the new camp. It was a three-day trek. Kangure was content.

2.

Sau lay by the Congo river. She looked across to the far side, where she fancied she could see bonobos playing in the trees. She was comfortable. She lay in the shade of the bush, where the wind could throw a fine spray onto her face and her arms. She liked to rest here and drift off to sleep.

Occasionally, an ant would venture onto her arm, a fly would alight on her shoulder, and she would greet them with ‘Ankawa’ in welcome. She felt a kinship with the animals of the forest, and enjoyed their companionship. They lived together in accord.

Next to her, Sau had a gourd. It was full of water. When she grew thirsty, she would put it to her lips to sip. She needed little water, but eventually the gourd would be empty. When this happened, she would reach out to the river water, which was an arm’s length away, and refill the gourd.

As the day passed, and the sun moved overhead, she would be bathed in heat. And when the rain came, she would become drenched. But soon enough, she would be cool and dry once again. She had chosen her place well.

3.

Sau had lived her life in the arms of her tribe, the Bakola. Their traditions had drawn the people together, and allowed them to feel safe in the forest. It was a tradition that decreed that she must be left, by the tribe and by her family, when she was near the end of her life. She must not hold back the movement of the people through her own immobility. They needed to move, to find fresh sources of food. She must not hinder them.

She became a young girl again, gambolling about the camp with the other children. The picins would hunt for game, and gather seeds and fruit in the forest. They would sow manioc and tend to the cattle, and sing together. When they were done, Sau would rush to her mother and gabble out the events of the day. Her mother would listen spellbound, with all the love at her command.

When the light entered her eyes once more, and her body ached, she became old Sau once again, awaiting her final departure. But it was not to be, not yet. The darkness was laid upon her by the Spirits of the Night, and she slept.

4.

Sau awoke in the night. She did not know why. An antelope, maybe.

Come morning, there was a light mist. She felt calm, as calm as she had ever been in her life. She had not expected her final days to be like this. She had expected to be anxious, fretting over the ending of her life and her coming ancestorship.

She was not hungry. What need had she of food? She sipped at the gourd. She had no wish to move. She had moved constantly in her life, but now her energy had departed, and she lay still.

When the end came, Kangure and the tribe would know. The spirit of the forest, Jengi, would inform them, and they would mourn her passing, and celebrate her beginning as an ancestor.

A passing grass snake rested its head on her thigh, and peered at her for a while, before continuing on its way. The gentle snake, they called it.

Her breathing became shallow, and the light grew dim, though she sensed it was still the daytime. The trickling of water nearby grew faint, until she could no longer distinguish the sound from her breathing. She became one with the forest.

The end.