ABSTRACT
Kanaima had been on their heels now for weeks and months. Their home and village, comprising about sixty persons, had been stricken. Kanaima planted his signature clear at last in the fire he lit no one knew when and where; it came suddenly running along the already withered spaces of the savannahs, leaving great black charred circles upon the bitten grass everywhere, and snaking into the village compound where it lifted its writhing self like a spiritual warning in the headman’s presence before climbing up the air into space. The crowding phantoms of the bush had vanished, turning faceless and impotent and one with Kanaima’s cloak of trading darkness; the strong meat of life over which the lord of death stood had satisfied them and driven them down into the blackest hole at his feet.
