THE MYTHOLOGIST

The concept of Myth to an African Man has to do with

Creativity, Art and Imagination,

It is the mythologist who reaches the black Ink of Imagination smearing it

over the canvas of reality.

They called it the cemetery of roses.

She stared in sullen silence at the vast field of protruding crosses from the field of a thousand roses, the air bickered cold at her face, slapping her with the sweet smell of dead men.

Dead men should smell rotten and bitter and ugly; but not after all fortunes had been transferred to her, not after all the great riches of the clan leaders had sunk into her account, not after she had all the gold and diamond of all the dead men buried here.

“They fought well.” His voice crawled from behind.

“They fought hard.” She whispered, staring at the white crosses and the vast rosy fields, scarlet roses, and yellow roses, and violet roses and black roses and white roses and pink roses and all the colored roses.

The girl had a mind for art if you’d inquire, making the cemetery even look appealing with crawlings of an artistic mind.

“We lost too many…” He curled down his lip.

“We lost all of them…” she glared, heart thumping softly at the sight, the smell of roses cringing and twisting the air in nothing but sweetness and softness…Peace.

Peace was a fine thing, beauty was another.

“What are you going to do now? Now that the Dead rates have increased by a Hundred…The Ten are having their fill indeed.

Feasting wherever they like, giving the Police force a hard time, not even the best Detectives have been able to crack the case of their existence.”

“They are smart…Even after winning the war they choose to lurk in the murks…these bloody creatures…they have a hard mind, uncracked.”

“They choose to prevent Chaos and work in vast greatness from the shadows…Showing themselves would only cause rise to too much resistance; they planned everything so damned perfect...so damned well.” She frowned lightly.

“So…what are you going to do now? Being the last?” his voice growled cold from behind her, his shadow loomed long, tall and thick and hard.

Had a long cut running down his face, with grey beard and hair, shaved neatly and elegant and clean and immaculate.

Baba; they’d called him, the butler for the Tana Myth clan, a giant of a man, with a hard face and crystal looking eyes, clad in a clean suit, ironed and pressed, clean and sharp, cut and fit.

He had seen things, he had seen the little girl before him born, her mother was a pretty sight; like some damned tourist sight walking paths and roads.

The girl had her mother’s eyes, silver and sharp, she had her father’s complex; too arrogant, too proud, too…high, but she had her calm.

Stared at the fields with a thin smile across her pretty face, a certain delicate smile, one that could soften the heart.

Dark brown skin glistening beneath the wake of the glittering sun, sparkling elegant in it shades of gold, thrusting the Cemetery of roses with its light beaming out the beauty of the field of the dead…Roses and the dead, roses and the dead.

The honored dead.

The air bickered and blew once more, her scarf flay and flattered round her neck, then settled silently as the air calmed. His question of what she would do next hang In the air for quite a moment.

His question sang and hang silent in the sweet smelling wind hovering like some bird, hovering like some kite, hovering, hovering, hovering.

Then her lips spewed out a soft whisper. “ ODOMANKOMA…The Tree of life.” she smiled and the wind bickered, and petals danced, blown, scattered.

He felt the air lick cold at his face, the name spurned attention.

“Wh…what do you mean? Kukua.” his eyes slid down at her.

“Odomankoma…has Ten Emanations and twenty two paths…the map which leads to immortality.” Her words crawled into the sweet scented wind.

“Do you intend to?” his eyes quivered, cold, shivering, sweat crawling down his face, glistening beneath the glimmering light of the morn.

“Aye…I intend to…” she cast her eyes far and wide towards the field of roses and crosses. That smile on her face, that arrogance, that strange coldness lurking beneath that smile, that air.

He felt it crawl within him.

She waited a while to spit the word out.

“To Resurrect all, from the Cemetery of Roses.”

His heart twisted, that sounded…Impossible.

At the mention of Odomankoma, at the mention of the Ten Emanations, at the mention of the Twenty two paths.

He knew all what it entailed, it was far grim and dour and dark. And this girl was ever ready to take that part, that impossible path.

A few had tried to follow Odomankoma…the path to Immortality and failed.

What was so different?

How was she different from those age old legends?

How was she different from those who took such a path?

He glared down at her, then scoffed.

“You know each of the Ten have in their hands The Emanations you seek right?”

“Of course yes…” she turned to stare back into his crystal blue eyes, his bearded face. “You know I’m the strongest.” She smirked, and the winds, the winds bickered, her scarf flattering wild and waggling hard.

“I shall First Seek the First path towards the First Emanation.” She sniggered. “The murders shall lead us towards it… would you help me in this quest?...Baba.”

The wind slapped at his face, her scarf waggled.

“I’ve sworn an oath to watch over the Tanas…You are a Tana…And I shall do likewise according to my oath.” His big rusty voice rang in the battering air.

“Heh…” she smirked arrogantly.

“How are you going to find them then? You know its difficult without those Demon Painting users.”

“Do not worry…I shall find.” She smiled.

“I Hear whispers that in gathering them you would need a Gourd.”

“A gourd?”

“I do not know what it means myself.”

“Heh…I see.”

“But it beats me…Your will to conquer death.”

“Heh…you do know how death came about right?”

“Of course yes we all do…But all believe it’s a myth…thanks to the ritual.”

“Heh…I would still conquer it anyways.” She smirked.

ONE: INSPECTOR BEDIAKO AND THE SUNFLOWER MURDERS

THE FIRST PATH

“So…this is the Residence of the Somoah Family?” he glared up at the Mansion towering high. It’s shadow casting down cold over the compound of cobblestones. A long cold cut across his face, his grey coat sitting across his shoulders, never wore his coat, hated it.

Ghana was too hot to be wearing a coat here and there, but loved to wear it over his shoulders, where the empty sleeves flayed here and there at his every step.

Made him look damned cool, and he liked it.

“Yes, Inspector.” A police officer responded, standing by his side. His lazy eyes roamed round the vast compound house.

T’was a fine house indeed, one could smell all the damn traces of money hissing from behind its forging.

“Tschh…these bloody rich fools.” He chuckled and spewed out hard nicotine air from his tomahawk smoke pipe, glaring as the police roamed to and fro round the house in their black uniforms.

A number of cars parked before the heavy iron gates.

“Lead me to the damned scene then? What are you waiting for? Some party?” he chuckled.

“Sorry sir…” the Officer fumbled and led the way.

Mr.Bediako was an arrogant man himself, known to be the best in the force, known to be hard boned, sharp eyed and gave no shits apart from crime scenes and all. Some say he hardly smiled, always seen with his smoke pipe clipped by his lips, spewing out hard nicotine into the air.

Said it helped him think, said it helped him solve all those bloody mysteries lurking behind the murky depths of Accra.

His hair was nearly grey, man was slowly chained by age and time, tall and lanky and brown. Lazy eyes scanned all over as he followed the fumbling fool towards the Mansion.

Was known to have solved the most bizzare of cases, the most mysterious, the most puzzling, the most grim, and the most fierce.

The man had seen things, unsettling things if you’d ask.

He barely slept when those scenes switched cold in his mind, had nightmares most often of screaming children and torn and ragged souls. Screaming dead men, weeping dead men, laughing dead men.

Monsters…monsters were not some creatures lurking in the murky depths, monsters were not creatures with snarlings and long fingers and sharp teeth and ugly bodies, Monsters were men themselves.

At least that’s what he had seen during his life as an Investigator.

Men were savages roaming in wedding gowns and sweet faces, Men were beasts roaming in cloaks of smiles, never trust a man who smiles too much, who seems too good, who seems too kind, who seems too…Holy, or even…Divine.

That’s what the bloody inspector believed after years of seeing grim things, grim deaths, minced men and all.

Not a pretty sight, not a place of sunflowers.

His eyes scanned the faces of the Officers, saw fear crawling all over their faces, saw a few of them vomiting, whatever the case their faces were shit.

They looked like ladies in gowns now, shivering and whimpering.

What in the heavens was in the room that made them shiver to their bone?

What made them quiver?

What made them wet their pants?

He thought of it, but what was worse than all those dark crime scenes he had investigated. He’d seen things alright, gore and blood and horror.

The Officer creaked the wooden door open leading to the hall, he feared to step in there.

“Why…are you scared?”

His face was drenched in sweat, his mouth wobbled, quivered.

He saw fear dancing all over his eyes like some princess in shiny dresses, fear had clawed the man, fear had gripped him bloody cold.

“Whatever…stay here and piss your pants.” He bypassed him into the hall, leaving the police man behind.

His eyes hit it, his eyes struck it hard.

“Seven Heavens…” he glared up at it, cold began to lurk and crawl over his skin, beads of sweat crawling down his face, heart thumping and hammering at the sight.

The air churned, and spawned and curled into graveness.

Saw blood dripping from above onto the glass table, it dripped, and dripped and trickled and trickled.

Upon all the crime scenes he had visited, this was…

This time the dead bodies were not sprawled all over the floor with blood crawling, this time the dead bodies were not still on some chair, this time the dead bodies were not found under the bed, or chopped into tiny pieces or sank into acid, this time the dead bodies hang in the air…close to the ceiling.

With curls of bright sunflowers growing and curling round the dead, the gouged out eyes stared hollow into nothingness, blood crawling from the dark empty sockets, soaking their night gowns into scarlet.

At first he believed it was some rope tying them to the ceiling, or some invisible string, but when he peered harder, when he leered, when he ogled, when he glared.

There were no ropes, no strings, nothing.

Just a couple of hovering dead bodies with growing sun flower plants coiling round their still lifeless souls, with gouged out eyes suspending vertical in the air.

Father, mother, two daughters and a son.

Hovering in circles, orbiting slowly in the air, dangling, slowly revolving…yet dead, far gone, far taken, far murdered.

The dead was Dead.

But the hovering dead, with flowers growing round them, twisted the Inspectors mind.

Never had he seen anything like it, never had he witness anything like this, or so he claimed.

As if some invincible force held them there.

As if an invincible rope, but nothing…nothing…this, this was bloody strange.

The room grew gelid and frigid cold, he felt his skin prickle at the sight, he could smell the warm smell of the Sunflowers crawling from within the hovering dead.

This…this was never near ordinary, this scene was…out of the Question.

CONFIRMED TIME OF DEATH; 20: 30PM GMT

DATE OF DEATH; 14TH FEBRUARY 2021

SUSPECTS; UNKNOWN

TYPE OF DEATH; UNCONFIRMED

INFORMATION OF DEATH; UNDISCLOSED TO THE PUBLIC