[attr="id","sybariscol"]BELLO LOVE OKORO

[attr="id","sybariscol"]a man and a stone

unflinching and unfazed. only moving, only changing, only obliging if it’s his truest desire. motivated by his base needs & then by the desires of those closest to him. a guardian, an attack dog. discriminating taste… isolating himself, operating from behind many doors, guarded. appears stupider and simpler than he lets on.

positives (+)[break]
assertive ✦ earnest, honest ✦ down to earth ✦ grounded ✦ reliable ✦ loyal ✦ dutiful ✦ ambitious ✦ self-assured ✦ pragmatic ✦ responsible ✦ independent ✦ brave ✦ disciplined ✦ patient ✦ action-oriented ✦ competitive ✦ protective & nurturing (if you can get him to care)

neutrals (/)[break]
sensual ✦ predictable ✦ contemplative ✦ inquisitive ✦ close to nature ✦ strong appreciation for the arts + beauty ✦ hands-on ✦ slow to open up ✦ values strength, honesty ✦ non-conformist ✦ transitions from stoic to obnoxious with unique ease ✦ introverted ✦ truly only cares about him and his own ✦ "if it aint broke don't fix it" ✦ spiritual

negatives (-)[break]
aggressive ✦ obsessive ✦ hard-headed ✦ greedy ✦ hedonistic ✦ selfish ✦ reckless ✦ obstinate ✦ vain ✦ arrogant ✦ prideful ✦ critical of self ✦ controlling ✦ anti-authority (unless it's his own) ✦ workhorse ✦ assumes TOO much responsibility ✦ will hold a grudge until the sun explodes and then some

miscellaneous[break]
huge, like unreasonably... a giant ✦ oldest of 7 kids (experienced with childcare) ✦ good with animals (will steal your dog if you mistreat them and beat you up, not necessarily in that order) ✦ farm boi  ✦ raised scar on the back of his left hand

[attr="id","sybariscol"]i.

you've been born to inherit your family's farm. father taught you to be soft and the land made you hard.

the hill 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. nature is mother and father. both life-giving and life-consuming. 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. your family gifts you a place in the world. time will mold you into a pillar, the cornerstone of a man's character. life's balance is yours to learn and maintain.

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 into clay. at the day's end, you simply dust yourself off. a body is a tool. you build a well, dig an irrigation system, and stone a fireplace. life is a 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.

there are always interlopers, troublemakers, wild animals. occasionally they present problems for the farm: destroying crops, attacking livestock, and scaring your sisters. even when it's unsavory you defend yours. you skin, dismember, and gut animals as needed. you plant pieces of them with seeds. 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.

[attr="id","sybariscol"]ii.

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.

when grandmother is sick, you can feel it in the corn. it is the family's prized crop: 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 dripping 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.

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.

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.

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 the fact you'd come to refill it). instead of waiting on you as usual, they've decided to gorge themselves on 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 week's dinner. on the way out of the door, you almost slip on a chewed corn cob.

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, and 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.

"seems the land’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]
"i doubt they'll last another year."

okoros 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.

you want to raise the veins from the dirt. the familiar pulse of the land is undetectable to you. it is becoming harder to know when to do what. spring may never come, but still, you toil. there will always be work. day after day you labor on as if your efforts aren’t in vain. as you attend to your daily chores you imagine all the love in your body pouring out across the fields, revitalizing the land. simpler times feel like distant memories. old dreams seem foolish now. weren’t your children going to live here? your children’s children> dread hangs heavy on the horizon.

[attr="id","sybariscol"]iii.

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 whose 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, the basic summoning of tools. 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.

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.

it takes days but you manage to sweep all the ash from the ground. underneath there is no longer fertile soil (if there even was before). 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 worked with runes. 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 nature, for the balance found in all living things. bile claws up the back of your throat. whoever has done this, they’re a parasite: evil and unable to sustain themselves alone.

has the weight of your soul changed? your bones do feel heavier as if gravity has suddenly increased on you. it's oppressive the way the atmosphere bares down on you. remorse knocks at the door and you do not answer. an arsonist opens the gates to power they cannot control. fire is hot, wild, and purifying. nature has shown you that there is no end to life. destruction, decomposition, it's all essential. the sun rises. the sun sets. the moon rises. the moon sets. time passes as it always has.

[attr="id","sybariscol"]iv.

when you sleep you do not dream. so when you awake in one, instead of floating in familiar darkness, it alarms you. even as you are unconscious you can feel pain in your hand. the sensation takes you back to the inscriptions you found in the dirt… you could’ve sworn they hummed, sang, as you uncovered them.

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. It's 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 nobody 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.

you struggle to breathe haggard breaths. do you need to breathe in a dream? the rise and fall of your chest seems to be the only thing tethering you to earth, keeping you from being forever trapped in limbo.

[attr="id","sybariscol"]v.

a week passes. when you awaken, you cannot see the walls of your room. it is packed full of everyone you know and some you do not. 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, tears, and 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’s roots. your family, both present and past, have kept you here.

the inside of your mouth is drier than the fields. through your delirium you know there are important things to tend to. questions that need to be answered. if you try to think your mind empties itself entirely. sleep doesn’t release you for long. you fall in and out of sweet darkness. the days of your life are a blur. you’re just a body moving in and out of rooms, not entirely conscious. at some point, you blink back into existence. you’re in the kitchen, mid-conversation, staring down into a sink of hot soapy water. what have you been doing all this time?

sickness is weakness and weakness is unbecoming to you. being shown just how fragile, and breakable you are disturbed you deeply. your broad shoulders, dense muscles, beating heart … these things do not grant you immortality, even if it feels that way. sickness isn’t something you can beat into submission. it’s something that lets you go when it chooses, where it chooses: on this side or another. being doted upon fulfills you and humiliates you equally. it's impossible to fall too far when you’re surrounded by a net of love like this. the okoros take care of their own if nothing else.

the burn on your left-hand transforms. every time you redress it the surface of your skin is changed. wet, shiny, sticky, scabby. it itches. you suppose this mark is the fruit of your labor if nothing else. looking at it is like gazing into a pool of water. you stare at it. you imagine all the answers you need were seared red hot into your skin. if only you could pluck them out, coax them out. the scar that is forming feels like a wild animal. a creature, a parasite, an unwelcome intrusion on your body.

when you’re stable enough to do your chores without someone hovering over you, your father asks to speak to you. he uses a tone that is rarely directed at you, his golden boy. as he speaks your ears seem to ring, the heat of shame, embarrassment comes over you. did you think your father was a fool? that he didn’t know you, see through you, after he built you from clay himself? he presents you with two damning options: confess to the family what you’ve done or leave immediately. must he take everything from you?

this feels blasphemous. you bite down hard and sever your feet from the roots they’ve sprouted. you reject all that has grown you. may your predecessors show you grace and forgiveness. in the silence of the night you abscond, leaving a dark lock of hair buried in the dirt.

[attr="id","sybariscol"]vi.

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.

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 on the back of your hand, graves, burning flesh, corn. even in the waking world, you swear you can see those same inscriptions ... on cobblestones, 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.

you cut 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 plant shaping. you've come to the city to learn. 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 farm 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.

child-rearing, cooking, animal care, plant care ... all components of your varied skill set. work in any one of these areas could have proved lucrative for you. instead, you choose another path. crime becomes you. where some would hesitate to defy the law, you step into depravity. there is a place for this. of course, you don't see yourself as a criminal but as an opportunist. this road you've started down is somewhere between mercenary and doorman. perhaps you've been tainted by magic of an unknowable source or perhaps there are darker corners in your heart than you imagined. after all, pain has an odd way of perverting pleasure... making softness of any kind sting to give, to receive.

no one has ever told you but you know. bello okoro is a guardian. your family, your land 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 hills. in spirit, you return all you slay to the earth. the only mercy you know is that which death brings.

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 on your hand 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.