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[break]you've been born to inherit your family's farm. father taught you to be soft and the land made you hard.
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[break]gale valley is a heart, strong and beating. you've never known a life that is not grueling. all that is to be done must be done and you are the one to do it. the valley is mother and father. both life-giving and life-preserving. nature like magic is neither good nor evil. the amorality of it all is liberating, intoxicating, and above all humbling. you have been made to kneel even before you could walk. the valley gifts you a place in the world. time will mold you into a pillar, a cornerstone of the valley man's character. life's balance is yours to learn and maintain.
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[break]arriving on earth from your slumber, you begin to work. you seed fields, shovel hay, help to birth calves. you awake and scrub yourself raw with cold water. the sun bakes it to clay. at the day's end, you simply dust yourself off. a body is a tool. you build a well, dig an irrigation system, stone a fireplace. life is slave only to time. as you age, the rhythm reveals itself to you. secrets are shared with you. in fresh blown pollen, a horse's heavy lungs, and the crop's harvest. a seed is ever-present under your sock to bind your spirit. the intention of an okoro is to die on the land they were birthed. bello will be no different. in the end, your ancestors will lace their hands into yours as you lay in the tall grass.
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[break]creatures come. others come. you understand their desire for untapped life and you slay them still. no being stands in the valley's favor more than another. none of your family is more deserving than the corpses that lay at your feet. these beasts will not know the gifts of the land. however, they will know the joy of becoming one with it. you skin, dismember, and gut them as needed. you plant pieces of them with seed. you use their bones as tools. life will spring from their bodies in new forms. what does not will become the ground below. this is a peace all will come to know. to live a life of harmony, you swear your allegiance to nurturing this hill.

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bar·ren

1. (of land) too poor to produce much or any vegetation.
2. (of a place or building) bleak and lifeless.

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[break]dust to dust, you are married to this land. it has all but dissolved underfoot. you are making fists in the sand. this hill is your ancestor. generation upon generation of okoro blood turns it red. the soil is in your blood too. 
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[break]when grandmother is sick, you can feel it in the corn. it is the family's prized crop: glass gem. each kernel round, full, and sparkling. sunday dinner comes. a ceramic bowl steams with ears and ears of it. you take one and slather it in the butter mother made. there is a familiar crunch. your mouth fills with fluid. when you pull away you can see blood gushing from the cob. it forms crimson rivers around each individual kernel. you think one of them is a tooth. the okoro matriarch chokes and chokes and chokes. you all take turns trying to perform the heimlich maneuver. your fingers sort violently through chewed food.  the more you pull out, the more there seems to be. chimamanda okoro dies at the table with a mouthful of corn. you gather scraps for the slop bucket, starting with her plate.
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[break]you go to the bathroom. in between your first and second premolars, there is a sharp pain. there is something in your teeth. you slice in between each tooth with silk thread, over and over and over, your gums bleed. you use water to wash it away, then start again. saliva prunes your fingers. there is something in your teeth.
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[break]on the second sunrise from your grandmother's death, she is finally prepared for her journey. your mother has worked on her tirelessly. as the new matriarch, it was her duty to dress her mother. dew is still on the grass when you reach The Tree. the eulogy stretches like a midsummer day. at the end of it, your mother slips the seed out from chimamanda's slipper and presses it under her tongue. you open the earth and father wraps the dead in tree roots. each okoro sprinkles enchanted water on the fresh grave. you work so you do not cry.
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[break]in the dark of morning you go to the barn. heavy rain masks the sounds inside. the ground is muddier than usual, with less and less plant life to hold it still. it takes concentration not to slip. two heavy buckets in each hand. a gentle press against the door is all it takes for it to open. their slop bucket is completely empty, this is a surprise (despite that fact you'd come to refill it). instead of waiting on you as usual, they've decided to gorge themselves of each other. they are choking and squealing and forcing themselves to eat in spite of their heavy wounds. at a loss you slosh the buckets towards them, dousing them in slop. for a moment they stop and turn to look at you. their beady eyes possess more awareness than usual. the wooden floor is stained in blood and slimy bits of last weeks dinner. on the way out of the door, you almost slip on a chewed corn cob.
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[break]anxiety pulls you awake. you are sitting stiff and upright before you can open your eyes. in the darkness, you stumble to The Tree. you press a palm flat against the rough bark feeling for a pulse. your family has always been large. cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, grandparents, all have lived and died here. you do your best to know your predecessors. as a young boy, you would try to memorize their names carved in the wood. you call out to them until there's no voice left in your lungs. where have they all gone now? the okoros are in need of relief, a blessing. both your ancestors and the land are silent. 
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[break]valley men are without fear. they fulfill their contractual duties and the land blesses them. when you go to the market, there is little to bring with you. every time you have less and less to sell. at first, your neighbors all agree it is just bad luck. even when you care for the land, she is old, sometimes the bounty will not be as much as others. your farm still produces enough to sustain your tribe and then some. mother starts to ration food. she sets to work fermenting, preserving, salting and drying. you are one of seven children, it will not be enough. your neighbors stop by to gift food and supplies for the winter ahead. you cannot help but notice their eyes roaming over your fields. you cannot help but feel them plunging their fingers into your soil. they're vultures, you're sure of it. the grief of your grandmother's parting is overwhelming.

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"seems the valley's favor left with chimamanda."
[break]"what a disgrace. that hill they live on is nothing more than a glorified pile of dirt."
[break]"even their family tree is looking particularly sad."
[break]"i personally can't wait for the auction."
[break]"what have they done to provoke such apathy?"
[break]"i doubt they'll last another year in gale valley. they've fallen out of touch with the land's spirit."

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[break]you want to raise the veins from the dirt. the familiar pulse is undetectable to you. it is becoming harder to know when to do what. this is the metronome that all of valley's people base their work on. there is still the sky and the farmers almanac. dread is heavy on the horizon. spring may never come.
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[break]you have never been in possession of intellect. when the neighbors compliment you it is all "you're so tall. so strong" "such a hardworking boy." "you're a good son." this is fine with you. superior intelligence is a foolish thing to take pride in. you are simple, believing in what you can see, taste, smell. you are a man who’s heart and head have always been in his gut. still, something is amiss here. who else is going to solve it? your family knows magic in the way all country folk do. cleaning enchantments, warming spells, potions and salves to heal the sick, basic weaving. this quaint power is not enough. the okoros are a clan of plant shapers. even with your bloodline of knowledge, you are at a loss. something dark has spread over your land.
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[break]before the dinner bell you double-checked to ensure the barn was locked. it is time to act against your father's better instincts. in the dead of night you enact your plan. the flames taunt you, wave their hands in your face. you stand and watch until there is a blanket of ash. the fields are fallowed as a purge. prepared and salted to draw out illness. fog rolls over them, a mist of holy water. there is no break in the air pressure. it swells with rage, folding over into itself time and time again until the air is thick. the grain of it burns your throat until you too are filled with corruption.
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[break]it takes days but you manage to sweep all the ash from the ground. underneath there is no longer fertile soil. instead what was once a soft bed of nutrients is reduced to hard rock. the black of the dirt faded to a dusty gray. you find runic inscriptions underneath where the heirloom tomatoes used to grow. the okoros have never learned runescripting. generations have gone by and no one has ever had any use for it. whoever wrote these, they've bled your land like a stuck pig. they've no regard for the valley, for the balance found in all living things. bile claws up the back of your throat. particles lift from the ground and resettle as you try to test of the inscriptions. 
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[break]ice is in the air, it freezes your clammy hands. it is dead as far as you can see. this land is dirt stamped flat. each granule is the same as the last in color, texture, and size. its dawn but there is no sun on the horizon. there is twilight. this weight on your chest will not allow you to awaken. a voice rings out. you cannot turn to verify your suspicions that there is no body to hold it. the words it speaks are deep and low. over and over it repeats itself, each time a fraction louder. the sunless sky fades from twilight to twilight, day to night and over again. a weight is crushing you chest, you struggle to breath haggard breaths.
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[break]a week passes. when you awaken, you cannot see the walls of your room. it is packed full with everyone you know and some you do not. a powerful magic has bound to you and it took many witches for it to loosen its grasp. dirty cotton is wrapped around your left hand. it burns but even through your blurry vision, you can tell there is no fire. water has fled your body through sweat, through tears, through urine. the reed woven mat beneath you wicks away moisture and keeps you cool. it is soft surrounding your toes, someone has buried them in dirt from The Tree roots. your family, both present and past, have kept you here. 
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[break]blasphemy is your only course. you bite down hard and sever your feet from the roots they're sprouted. you reject all that has grown you. valley forgive. grandmother forgive. you swear in front of your whole clan, at the head of the table, you will return. air, water, and sunshine will trail behind you upon your return. bello okoro will restore this land to its former glory. all you leave behind is a dark lock of hair buried.


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bad man don't exist
[break]no evil man exist

i know good man don't exist

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[break]under this new atmosphere everything is heavy. a nameless throbbing pain has consumed your every muscle. the further from home you are, the louder it becomes. the pain in your tooth becomes a whirring sound, splitting your jaw. there are no more nails for you to break clawing at your mouth. you do it still, pressing fleshy fingers against your alabaster teeth. when this proves fruitless you dig against them with your tongue. even your saliva has grown thick and bitter. this pressure is dark clouds. it will break and the storm will rage. you are unsure what will remain. 
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[break]you bite into the flesh of your palm, splitting it open. you make a fist and let the blood drip. it is thick and muddy. there is still dirt in your veins. there is still a seed in your shoe. tradition says you will learn plantshaping. it pains you to tell it no. you've come to the city to learn purification. you pray the ancestors are watching you now, blessing your journey. you are a strange man in a strange land. the strongest of your line, only you were fit for this task. the valley has shaped you into a titan. skin the color of clay, your muscles feel like they've been forged in a fire. you tower over the city witches and they take notice. it does not take you long to find work.
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[break]no one has ever told you but you know. bello okoro is a guardian. the valley is your charge. you tell yourself this to get through the most unsavory parts of work. it is arguable that this kind of loyalty is noble in itself. that is not to confuse nobility and morality. good and evil are of little concern to you. all that is done of either is for the sanctity of your family name. in spirit you are in the valley. in spirit, you return all you slay to the earth. the only mercy you know is that which death brings. still, you are not sure what the purpose of your occupation. this road you've started down is somewhere between mercenary and door man.  the face of your employer is a mystery you don't care to uncover.
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[break]sleep is a demon. this curse has become your bedfellow. nights are restless. scenes make their way to you in pieces. images play across the backs of your eyelids like a film. the barn, the scar in your palm, graves, burning flesh, corn. even in the waking world, you swear you can see those same inscriptions ... on cobble stones, in the shingles of a roof. they're following you. they're taunting you. around your waist you keep a leather skin filled with ashes. when the pain in your body threatens to immobilize you, you dip your finger in the pouch and draw the ash across your forehead. this curse may never leave. you must keep it at bay.
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[break]"primate sharpens tool
[break]to survive and thrive in the jungle
[break]maybe hearts were made to pump blood
[break]maybe lungs were made for flood
[break]you're my brother but your eyes are cold
[break]you're my sister but your womb is bare"

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[break]the valley's code had no place here. you struggle to learn new laws and struggle even more to abide by them. months have passed and you have complete all tasks assigned to you quickly and efficiently. a series of whispers lay out your next course of action. he is impressed with you. even with the minimal magic you know, you have been able to lay all who oppose you flat. you have never flattered in your loyalty to him. where some would hesitate in the face of these crimes, you step into the depravity. there is place for this.

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[break]it takes, what you consider, too much time to follow the plan laid out for you. the instructions are riddles, if that at all. misdirection is frustrating to you. this world you are trying to enter is made of smoke. outstretching your hand, you repeatedly grasp at nothing. you make many visits to places you did not even know existed. you visit many people, never more than once. time is both a loop and an endless rabbit hole. this cyclical nonsense is wearing your mind thin. one night you go out to meet the ocean. she is huge and dark. allowing your legs to dangle off a low lying dock, your toes graze the water. the moon changes phases, you wait so long. sleep takes over your body and for once it is peaceful. a paper greets you in the morning. "welcome and congratulations." folded into the paper is a small velvet bag, inside of which is a small hourglass. 

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[break]you think all evil things must come home to rest here. by taking residence in the belly of immorality, you will find the answers you seek. feet bleeding from the distance, roots sprout from your open wounds. with the passage of time you will become strong again. the headaches your teeth bring phase in and out. the scar in your palm only sings when it wants. through your new allegiance, you will discover a way to unchain yourself and when you do you will wreak havoc. no force is strong enough to split an okoro from their land. you will bring glory to all you are a part of.

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