At the most western point of the village, he found a building that was separated from the rest of the village by a large yard, which was green with plants and some vegetables growing in it. The whole place was surrounded by a handsome looking wooden fence that was only about three feet high. Aiman nodded towards the “rich” man’s house and walked slowly onto the covered front porch area.
The front door was hanging open, so he knocked smartly on the wall. He stepped backwards out of the shade of the covered porch and waited in the street.
He glanced up just in time to a see a woman quickly sidestep out of sight around the wall. He fought the urge to call out to her and waited patiently. It was not proper for a man, especially a visitor, to speak to a woman without first speaking to the man of the house. From what he saw from yesterday, some of the customs here were of Islam but there were differences. So, he would stick to the strict laws of Islam as he knew them to be. If he could be more lax in them, then he would learn from the people here. He wouldn’t assume liberal views till he saw proof of them. Insulting these people would be counterproductive.
He waited for long quiet moments. In the early afternoon heat, all the animals knew to find shelter and conserve their energy. He shook his head, ‘only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun.’ He was neither, and yet here he was standing under the full brunt of the sun, sweating openly, on the hopes of getting some information.
A gravelly voice suddenly spoke from just inside the house.
Aiman couldn’t understand the language. It was completely unknown to him. He turned slowly towards the house but couldn’t see the speaker himself.
“A Salaam Alaikum,” he called out formally.
There was a long pause. Then the disembodied voice responded in Arabic, “What do you want, stranger? Why are you here?”
Aiman took a slow step towards the house continuing in Arabic, “I’m here to ask about the village of Kabultiloa.”
“What interest does a western Muslim have in that place?”
Aiman breathed a mental sigh of relief, at least the old man was willing to speak about the place. He would have to proceed with caution though. “I want to know the location of where it might have been. My team and I are interested in proving the village’s existence.”
There was an audible scoff from inside the house. “With all the treasures of Africa to be found, no one comes to find ruins.” A man hunched over from age appeared in the doorway of the house. The old man was bald with deep black skin. His slender shoulders were bare, showing the deeply set bones and the aged skin that hung from them. The man was wearing nothing put a pair of baggy pants that were held up by a length of rope.
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Aiman replied truthfully, “We seek only knowledge and proof, not treasure. We don’t want to disturb your life here, or anyone else’s. Will you help me to find what we seek?”
The old man looked at him sideways and spit in the dirt next to the house. “How do I know you only seek what you say, and not other, darker knowledge?”
Aiman bowed and covered his heart with his right hand, “I give you my word in the sight of Allah that we only seek to know the location of the village of Kabultiloa, nothing more.”
The old man gazed long and hard at the brown man standing in front of him in the noon day sun. “Come inside, stranger.”
Aiman stifled a smile and, silently thanking Allah, he followed the old man into his house.
The house was much cooler than it was in the sun and he was led to a large front room where he was offered a seat on the rug. The old man sat on a small stool, his bones and joints audibly creaked as he sat down. The two men sat and looked at each other in silence.
A young woman brought tea into the room and Aiman and the old man drank the hot liquid. Aiman held the cup in his hand. When the woman reappeared, he gently covered the mug with his hand. The woman nodded and silently left the two men alone.
“Why do you want to become Bultungin?” The old man asked suddenly.
Aiman took a moment to recover. The village chief had thrown him out of his house immediately when he even suspected that was Aiman’s true goals yesterday. Today he was still sitting in a village elder’s house after the old man suspected he wanted more than the location of the lost village.
“I don’t want to become Bultungin. I meant what I said, my group and I are scholars and we are simply seeking to prove the existence of such a place or at least that it once existed.”
The old man regarded him levelly over his mug, the steam from the liquid gently rising to blur his features subtly. “No one come to Africa, dressed like that,” he said motioning towards Aiman’s clothes, “only asking to see if ruins of some fabled place existed. Do you take me for a fool?”
Aiman wasn’t sure where the old man was going. His tone was not hostile but his words were pushing that way. He seemed to be implying that Aiman was lying, or that he had some nefarious reason for looking for the lost village. He probably had surmised that he and his group, whoever they were, actually wanted to become Werehyenas. The idea was flawed, but he couldn’t fault the villager’s, from both yesterday and today, logic or suspicion.
“Is there no way to convince you of my sincerity?” Aiman asked calmly.
The old man stared at him hard and replied quietly, “Swear on your mother’s and your friend’s lives.” He pointed to the floor. “Do that, and I will tell you what has been passed down through the generations to me.”
Aiman looked up sharply at this demand. “I cannot swear on anyone or anything other than Allah. How could you possibly ask this of me?”
“I ask this because I know the laws of the Quran.” The old man leaned forward. “And if you want what I know you will forsake your laws.”
Aiman stared emptily ahead. He found himself shaking his head. “I will not. I can’t.”
“You will or you will wander this desert for an eternity and never find what you seek. Now do as I say, swear on your friends and your mother, now!”