The Old Woman and the Leopard

The leopard changed his clothes so the hunters would not catch him, but still, he fell in the trap.

Yewande’s ancient bones screamed when she yanked on her door, trying to open it; a rope tied to the outside handle tethered it to a spike pounded deep in the earth, and it budged only a few inches. She pulled again but not as hard—her shoulder still ached from her first try. She pulled with both hands, pushing futilely against the doorframe with her left foot. Still it held fast, but the opening was enough for her to put one arm through and claw at the knot. Ekundayo, her son, tied that knot well, and no matter how hard she fumbled with it the rope would not loosen.

She was trapped in her own house and the monster was somewhere outside. Her son’s body lay crumpled and lifeless just yards beyond her front steps. Somewhere in the bush lay her daughter-in-law’s lifeless figure. And inside the house with her was the mangled body of her grandson, swaddled and tucked into his crib. Yewande collapsed into a chair and cried. It was all she knew to do. Not even the smell of burnt bean cakes and pork bothered her—they sizzled and popped and blackened in a pan of oil at least eleven inches deep.

Outside, somewhere close to her front door, the monster growled.

At first locking the old woman into the house alone had seemed a good idea. “Mama,” Ekundayo had said to her, taking her own hands in his while he spoke, “that monster killed my son. It pushed through that door and stole him from his bed while he slept.” The old woman thought of the toddler; he had been soft and helpless, barely able to walk. Had he smiled when he saw the animal towering over him, thinking it was one of his toys that had come to play with him? Did the beast growl; was the baby afraid? Did her grandson cry out when its teeth sliced through its flesh, or was death merciful and quick? She shuddered. She never heard the baby cry while she slept in her own bed. She only heard her daughter-in-law’s screams when she found the empty crib and bloody sheets. The trail of blood led out of the house, and the door was wide open, swinging lazily back and forth in the late-night breeze.

“Mama, the monster killed my wife,” her son had told her. Yewande remembered Ekundayo trying to calm his wife before grabbing a lantern and running out into the darkness. She was beyond consolation, and when the sun rose the next morning she walked out of the house, her grief worn on her body like a robe two sizes too small: tight and constricting. There were no neighbors for at least two days’ travel, and no animal had ever been so bold as to break into a human’s house, at least not in her lifetime. “It was evil spirits. It had to be,” the old woman remembered thinking as she heard her daughter-in-law’s wails coming from the other side of the trees. They were faint, but still her ancient ears heard them. She heard her scream as well; it was primal and defiant, and then she heard the roar. And then silence.

When darkness fell her son walked through the front door, his face twisted in grief. In his hands was something wet and lifeless—the body of his son. Or, rather, what was left of it. Yewande nearly fainted when she saw the mass of gristle and bone; it had been mauled and torn and eaten. Had it not been for the swaddles still wound about its feet she would have never known it was the body of her grandson, but she recognized her own cloth, fabric laboriously sewn by her own twisted fingers. “It can’t be,” she said.

“Where is my wife?” Ekundayo had asked.

“She went out there.” Her voice was a whisper and she pointed at the door. “I couldn’t stop her, and you weren’t here to help me. She went out there. I heard her calling the baby’s name. I heard her scream. I haven’t seen her since.”

Something lunged against the front door. The wood bulged in but it held. The old woman screamed, and Ekundayo jumped, the small body falling to the floor at his feet with a thud. Yewande felt sick to her stomach and held her mouth. Something outside growled; it was almost a maniacal scream, not quite an animal but definitely not human. “Evil spirits,” she whispered, backing away from the door.

It growled again, clawing at the door. “Not evil spirits, mother. It’s a leopard.” Again and again it pummeled the door with the weight of its body as Ekundayo pushed a heavy chair across the floor, jamming it against the door; and just in time as it gave way, and a powerful claw sliced through the open space. He pushed the chair harder; the paw was caught in the door and the leopard screamed in pain. It pulled at its own foot; in a burst of fur, gristle, and gore, the leopard pulled its paw free.

Ekundayo listened as it ran out into the night.

The father sat in that chair against the door, staring at his son’s mangled body; stiffly, the old woman walked to the baby’s room and returned with a blanket. Carefully she bent to the floor and swaddled it. Tears stung her red eyes; she shuffled back to the child’s room. Ekundayo heard her close the door, her feet dragging on the wood floor as she walked back to the main room. Exhausted, she sat in another chair across from her son; ancient mother and middle-aged son sat like that all night, too exhausted to move but too afraid to sleep.

When morning came it was almost a relief.

“I’m going to Ondo,” he had said.

“What?” She was barely listening. Sleep was close, but fear kept it at arm’s length.

“I’m going to Ondo,” he said again.

The old woman sat up in her chair, her head shaking, and her mouth forming the word no even though fear stole her voice. “Something is not right with that leopard, mother. It is a monster. Leopards don’t attack humans. They most certainly don’t break into houses. It must be sick—I don’t know . . . distemper? Rabies? Or maybe it’s just lost its fear of humans. Maybe I can find a hunter in Ondo who will come back to hunt it and kill it. If it leaves the country and goes to the city before anyone knows, things will go badly. And if I don’t do something, it will kill us as well.”

“If you go out there, it will kill you.” Yewande’s voice was barely a whisper; fear was heavy, and it bore down on her chest. She could barely breathe.

“And if I stay here we will both die. Even if we bar the door and stay inside we will die. We will starve. I have to go.”

“I will go with you.” She stood; her body was stiff from a night spent sitting in the chair.

“No, mother,” Ekundayo got up and put his hands around his mother’s waist. He helped her to stand. “You can barely walk. You’re too old to ride a horse. You’re too sick to make the journey. We will never make it if you go. I must go alone.”

“I’m afraid!” Her face twisted and tears came. “If you leave me that monster will come in here and I will die.”

“It won’t get in, mother. I promise you. The leopard is strong enough to force the door open, but it’s not strong enough to break the wood or the frame. The latch is old but the wood is solid. I’ll tether the door shut once I’m outside. I’ll tether it well. It won’t be able to get in.”

“And I won’t be able to get out!”

“When I come back with the hunter in a few days we’ll get you out, after we kill the beast. You have enough food here to last you for days. You’ll be fine.” Her eyes pleaded with him, “Please do not go!” But his mind was made up. “Mother, the leopard killed my son. It pushed through that door and stole him from his bed while he slept.” When still she did not answer he said, ““Mama, the leopard killed my wife.” When still she did not answer, he took her head in his hands and made her look in his eyes. “Mother, if I do not go it will kill us both. This is our only chance.”

“Go,” she said. Yewande sat back in her chair, her hands clasped over her heart. “Go and find your hunter. Just be careful. And come back for me.” That was when the tears came; they were hot and free. Her son ran through the house gathering what he needed. Yewande busied herself making a meal—while her son looked for what he needed, she put bean cakes and pork in a pan of oil, and set it over the household hearth to heat and fry. As the smell of food filled the house, Ekundayo found a rope and tied it to the door’s handle so tight that no human hands could undo it; and then, he found a spike. It was long, and he tied the rope to the top of that. Giving his mother a light kiss on the cheek, he went outside and shut the door behind him, and Yewande could hear Ekundayo grunting as he hammered the spike deep in the earth. He gave the door a gentle shove, and when it didn’t give, a more forceful one. It barely budged.

“But you must eat before you go,” Yewande said. She was afraid to be left alone.

Through the small crack he called out to her, “I love you, and I’ll be back with help soon.”

“But you can’t leave without eating,” she pleaded.

“I’ll be safe, mother. Stay inside.”

“Stay inside,” she thought. “As if I have any choice now.” The pork-and-bean cakes were burning; she could smell them but she paid them no mind.

That was when the monster came: perhaps it had been in the bush watching from behind the trees, or perhaps it was just blind luck, a random attack. But as she stood beside the door peering through the crack she heard the monster growl; and she saw her son’s face twist into a mask of fear. There was another growl, almost a roar; it was a sound not belonging to this world, the scream of a maniac. She heard her own son scream; and by instinct he ran to the house and tried to rip the door open and run back inside. When the door ripped itself from his hand and slammed shut in his face Yewande screamed; she clawed at the handle and tried to open it but it wouldn’t budge. She heard fast, heavy footsteps down the front porch, another scream, and then silence.

Now she stood peering outside the door. Her son’s mauled body lay only yards from the house; it was all blood and gore. And the leopard was nowhere to be seen.

“He’ll kill me next,” she said, shutting the door.

The smell of burnt food was strong; the oil sizzled and popped as thick smoke filled the house. Outside the leopard sniffed the air; the smell of burnt meat was tempting and he walked up to the front door. As the oil sizzled and the old woman listened to its pop, the leopard scratched at the door. The latch was broken from Ekundayo’s futile attempt to get back inside, and it swung open as far as the rope would let it. The monster growled. Yewande screamed, and when the beast heard her scream it went silent. The old woman stared at its red eyes as it pushed its head through the crack; she shuddered at the foam that dripped from its mouth onto the floor. There was madness in the creature’s eyes. And that’s when fear left and anger came.

“Evil thing!” she seethed, backing away from the door. The room was silent except for the pan of oil sizzling over the fire. The head backed out and a great paw with razor sharp claws sliced the air between them. Then the leopard’s head came back, and with its paw it pulled at the wood floor, trying to pull itself inside. The door held firm and the beast was stuck.

“You killed my grandson,” the old woman hissed. Carefully she wound bands of cloth around her hands, and backed up to the fireplace.

The leopard growled.

“You killed my daughter-in-law, and my son.”

The leopard hissed; without turning her back to it, she reached into the fire and lifted the pot of sizzling oil from the embers. Carefully she shuffled back to the front door, the pan shaking and hot oil spilling to the floor.

“And now you want to eat me.” The old woman stood just inches from the beast’s paws; they stared each other down, greasy foam still spilling from the leopard’s mouth to the floor. She saw the claw marks on the carefully polished wood, wood she spent years wiping and mopping and scrubbing while her only son was still a child. Wood that was as ancient as the skin on her bones; wood that would still be there long after she was dead.

“So eat this,” she hissed, flinging the pot of oil with all her might. The oil made a graceful arc in the air between her and the beast; everything seemed to move slowly, and the old woman watched as it reached out like a wave and caressed the leopard’s head. The pork-and-bean cakes were blackened; they rolled to the floor, and the sick scent of burnt flesh filled the room just before the sick thud of cast iron cracking bone assaulted her ears.

The leopard screamed. It twisted and bit at the air, trying to free itself from the door, its one claw slashing its own flesh where the oil burnt its fur, blackened its skin, and melted its eyes. Yewande watched as the leopard lunged backwards and pulled itself free, writhing and twisting on the earth before it tripped over her son’s lifeless body, falling still at his mauled feet.

She walked through the oil, slipping and almost falling before grabbing the door to catch herself. With her one good eye she peered out the crack; it was wider, and she saw the tether that was pounded in the earth was all but ready to give away from the leopard’s strength. She gave it one more good pull; the line pulled free from the earth.

Yewande stood there and watched as the leopard took its last breath.