The Hyena People

The sun rose over the City of Cap-Haitien, Republic of Haiti. As is my custom, I rose with it. I didn't get home till the wee hours of the morning, since there was a full moon and I was away in the wilderness, for I had certain urgent matters to tend to. Nevertheless, I woke up rested and refreshed. After showering, getting dressed and eating breakfast, I walked from the crowded, vibrant suburb of Bel-Air to Rue Deux, and caught a Camionette heading deeper into the city.

As to be expected, the Camionette was quite crowded, like any city bus in the second largest city on the island of Haiti. All around me, well-dressed men and women whose skin tones ranged from chocolate to caramel, mahogany to caramel ( and everything in between ) chatted away, lively as ever. A rather well-dressed young man with skin the color of a Hershey bar possessively laid his hand on his lady friend's lap after noticing that she was smiling at me.

I smiled at the young Haitian couple and busied myself reading my copy of Haiti Progres, a long-standing newspaper that I happen to like very much. The bus sped on the bumpy rode, and some fool nearly spilled his drink on me. I rode it to Rue Dix, and then began the long walk up the hill leading to Universite Notre Dame Du Perpetuel Secours, an all-male Roman Catholic institution of higher education led by the Les Freres Saint Croix. This venerable old institution, over a century old, is where I teach World History.

"Bonjour Professeur Marcelin," says Bernadette Angier, the secretary at La Direction Academique. I smile and greet the short, curvy, short-haired and light-skinned young Black woman with a nod. We exchange a few pleasantries, and I speak to Pere Anthony, the elderly dark-skinned priest in charge of Les Etudes Classiques. Some members of the U.N.D.P.S. Board of Directors have taken issue with my focus on Western politics in recent sessions, and the old man speaks to me about that.

"Marcelin LeGrand, please remember that we're in Haiti here, and our country should be the main focus of your lesson plan, you're a great instructor, your fascination with the United States of America notwithstanding," Pere Anthony says in that serious tone of his, while flashing me that smile of gentle wisdom common to the Haitian priesthood. I hold his gaze for a moment, and then smile. So it's like that, Padre?

Of all the priests working and teaching at Universite Notre Dame, I respect him the most. Pere Anthony has helped rebuild and strengthen Universite Notre Dame Du Perpetuel Secours. It's one of a few educational institutions of higher education to remain unscathed, physically and administratively, after the 2010 Earthquake which ravaged the island of Haiti. We go way back, Pere Anthony and I. Indeed, he's one of a few mortals who are privy to my secret. What do I mean by that? I'll get to that soon, no worries...

"Duly noted, old man," I reply, and clap Pere Anthony on the shoulder while he smiles and rolls his eyes. I wink at Bernadette as I exit the office, and can feel her eyes on me the entire time. Stopping by the supply room, I pick up a folder, and then head to my first class. I take the steps two at a time as I make my way to the third floor. It's a hot day in Cap-Haitien, even by Caribbean standards. Who knows what a day like this will bring?

"Professeur, the reason why the United States of America is in such turmoil right now is because of surging racism, they fear the potential of the Black man after Obama's presidency, that's why you see a chump like Trump in the halls of power," says Pierre Dorvil, one of my favorite students. The tall, slender and brown-skinned, bald-headed young man smiles at me, and awaits my response. I glance at the entire class, and smile, and shrug.

"Well put, young man, but you should know, identity politics are one thing, xenophobia and nationalism are similar but altogether different concepts when we discuss history," I reply, and Pierre nods sagely. I look at him, and at the other young Black men in the classroom. These brothers represent the future of the island of Haiti, no, the future of the modern world. I couldn't dream of a better assignment than to help mold the minds of such intelligent young Black men...

We're in October, and in a few weeks, I will officially be 248 years old. You can't tell by looking at me, though. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what a centuries-old fellow looks like. A six-foot-two, lean and athletic man with mahogany skin, a smooth shaved head and a slick goatee, clad in a blue silk shirt, Black tie and Black silk pants, that's me. I've been many things throughout my centuries of existence. Slave, wanderer, farmer, artisan, painter, mechanic, cook, bodyguard, and more.

In this lifetime, I endeavor to be a scholar. I've lived all over the world, and seen a lot in my time. I hold a bachelor's degree in political science from Howard University in Washington D.C. and a law degree from Texas Southern University. I lived in the United States of America at a time when it was in the midst of a socio-cultural transformation, not unlike now. What am I doing teaching history at a small private institution in Haiti? It's simply where I'm needed the most.

This world of ours has always been dead set against people of African descent. The plight of the Black race did not begin with the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade orchestrated by the European powers. The Arabs have a lengthy history of enslaving and mistreating Black folks, both Muslims and non-Muslims. There are considerable forces arrayed against people of African descent, but I do believe that we can prevail against their the might of this nefarious collective...

Now, more than ever, it's important to educate young Black men about this world, and why it's their duty to fight against the forces of racism and oppression. The Black man might not be at war with racism, but racism is at war with him. I say this because I'm one who has witnessed history. I'm not speaking in metaphors. I was actually there. Indeed, I still bear the scars from atrocities committed against my people in the old days...

"Marcelin, you little shit, je vais te tuer," says Damien Guillot, the French plantation owner who'd owned me since birth. It was my final night on the Guillot plantation, which sprawled over the plains outside La Ville Du Cap, capital of the northern side of the island of Saint Domingue. Revolution had come to the island, and like a lot of the other Africans kept in bondage by the inhumane, brutish French colonists, I was restless. That night, after months of waiting and planning, the time had come to act. I'd set several of the other slaves free, and had come back for one special lady...

"Vas au Diable, sale blanc," I shot back, as I surged at Damien from the darkness of the shack. I came for him, armed with the same bloodstained, curved blade I'd used to kill Laurent Germain, the cruel overseer. The look of sheer surprise in Guillot's frosty blue eyes was one that would make me smile for ages to come. Plunging the cutlass into his chest, I gave it a good twist, and then pulled it out. Damien Guillot, slave owner, rapist of colored women, and all-around scumbag, died at last. A much quicker death than he deserved, I can assure you.

"Viens avec moi," came a voice, and I whirled around to see...her. Cecilia, the six-foot-tall, chocolate-skinned and downright statuesque vision of African beauty who used to haunt my dreams. There she stood, holding a pistol that she'd taken from a planter whom she'd slain. A freedwoman working for an artisan in Le Cap, she'd always shown me kindness when I visited her shop while on an errand for my now dead former master. I looked at Cecilia and smiled, then nodded respectfully.

"Yes mademoiselle," I replied and Cecilia led me into the darkness. Slipping past the sentries, we made our way into the woods. It was Cecilia who told me about the runaway slaves forming bands that raided the nearby plantations, killing slave owners and setting their brethren free. This woman stoked the fire of revolution in my breast, and once that fire was kindled, there was no putting it out and no turning back...

The year was 1789, and the French troops sent by Napoleon Bonaparte and led by his brother-in-law, General Leclerc, were battling the Haitian Revolutionary Army, led by stalwart men like Toussaint Louverture and his lieutenant, future Haitian Head of State and stalwart warrior Jean-Jacques Dessalines. I was fated to join their fantastic army, and fought bravely for the cause of Haitian Independence.

Against all odds, we the African freedmen and women who fought against the French Army actually won. All this is true. What I'm about to share with you is my personal history, if you will. After Cecilia and I escaped from the Guillot plantation, we joined the bands of African freedmen fighting against the French colonists and the soldiers sent by Napoleon Bonaparte, that's true. Not right away, though...

"You are something else, Cecilia, you are a woman but you are stronger than most men I've ever known, and you never seem to tire," I said to Cecilia as we took refuge in a grotto near what would later be known as the commune of Quartier Morin. It was raining, and we'd been on the run for several days. Evading French colonist militias was proving quite costly, for we hadn't eaten anything, and were dead tired...

"Thank you, Marcelin, but there's a secret to my strength," Cecilia replied, and I looked at her, marveling at her strength and beauty. After days on the run, I was filthy, but Cecilia looked as fresh as a rose, save for a few mud stains on her boots and on the hem of her robes. Sitting on a stubborn patch of grass that somehow grew inside the grotto, the lady ran her hands through her thick, kinky hair which formed a veritable lion's mane on her head. Gently licking her lips, Cecilia smiled at me.

"I've often heard that women are stronger than men, they simply have different strengths, I didn't buy into it at first, but after knowing you, I can believe it," I replied, and Cecilia laughed heartily. I looked at her and smiled. There was something enchanting, almost otherworldly about Cecilia, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The lady is unique, in ways that had nothing to do with her physical beauty...

"Tu parles trop," Cecilia says, laughing, and she tapped the ground beside her, and I grin and sit beside her. We look into each other's eyes, and just like that, we kiss. Cecilia's lips taste hot, and sweet, very unlike other women I've kissed and bedded. The lady draws me into herself, lovingly wrapping her arms around me. We undress each other, and began making love, right there on the grotto floor, with a storm raging outside...

"Tu es si belle," I whisper, as I behold Cecilia in all of her glory. My eyes roam from her lovely, slightly angular face to her large breasts, her curvy body, her wide hips and those thick, dark thighs which open so seductively for me. I feel myself harden, and Cecilia grasps my manhood in her hands and strokes it. This lady is not passive during sex like other women I've been with, that's for damn sure...

"Make love to me, Marcelin," Cecilia demanded, and I kissed her lips, and caressed her breasts before licking her from her head to her toes. I've always been fascinated by the Black female body. A few Freedmen I knew had dalliances with "curious" French women, in spite of the risks involved, but these pale ladies left me cold. Give me a dark-skinned, curvy and big-bottomed African goddess to worship over a pale and skinny European gal any day...

"Oui mademoiselle, j'adore ta beaute," I replied, and I put Cecilia on all fours, and admired her big dark bottom, which she shook from side to side while grinning lustfully at me. I kissed Cecilia's bottom, and spread her thick ass cheeks, inhaling her womanly fragrance. I slid my tongue into her pussy, and began licking her sweet spot while fingering her butt hole. Cecilia began to moan deeply as I pleasured her with my fingers and tongue. The sounds she made were sweet music to my ears...

"J'ai besoin te toi, Marcelin, I need you inside of me," Cecilia said haughtily, as she pushed me down on the grotto floor, and climbed on top of me. I caressed her big bum and pinched her nipples, and Cecilia batted my hands away and gripped my throat with a strength that surprised me. Grasping my penis in a grip that was at once firm yet gentle, Cecilia locked eyes with me as she rubbed it against her wet, hairy vagina...

"I need you too," I replied, and I placed my hands on her hips even as Cecilia straddled me and impaled herself on my manhood. Bucking my hips, I thrust into her, even as Cecilia rested her hands on my shoulders and began riding me. How to describe making love to a woman of such raw power and passion? Cecilia's vagina gripped my dick like a vise, and I slammed into her, fucking her with all the force I could muster. And the sounds coming out of her mouth astonished me...

"I hunger for you," Cecilia squealed, and I looked at her, a disheveled, wild woman who rode me, wanton and beyond caring. Her voluptuous yet muscular body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat as we fucked, her breasts swaying this way and that, strands of long, kinky dark hair obscuring her beautiful face. Was it my imagination or did her eyes change? For a moment, they flashed, bright yellow, almost feral. Cecilia's passionate screams and squeals turned into more guttural, almost animalistic sounds.

"Oh fuck," I gasped, and Cecilia glared at me, eyes bright yellow now, and her full, luscious lips pulled back, revealing curving fangs, like those of a wild dog. A startling transformation came over Cecilia, and I watched as the beautiful Black woman who'd been my ally, my friend and constant companion, and now, my lover, became a hairy, fanged and clawed monstrosity. With an unearthly growl, Cecilia held me down and sank her fangs into my neck. That's when my whole world went Black...

"Welcome to a brand new world," Cecilia's very first words to me, when I woke up, a fortnight later. I looked at her, shocked, and shrank back. I remembered what happened between us in the grotto, how Cecilia changed from a tall, beautiful and downright regal African beauty into a monstrosity straight out of my worst nightmares. I shrank from Cecilia, and she smiled...

"What are you?" I asked, and Cecilia sighed, and then gently laid her hand on mine. I looked at her hand, which I clearly remembered turned into a freakish, clawed appendage, and waited for Cecilia to explain herself. I am a man born of the African motherland, which flows through my veins. I am descended from those who were brought to the Antilles by French slave traders to toil away for the rest of their lives as slaves in the plantations.

"In this lifetime, I am known as Cecilia, I am one of the Bultungin, the Were-Hyena people of West Africa, and I've come to the island of Saint Domingue to create a new breed of warriors, one with special powers, in order to defeat the French," Cecilia said sharply, her eyes boring into mine. I looked at her, considering her words. After all I'd seen and experienced, what should have sounded crazy actually didn't sound like that at all...

"What does that have to do with me?" I asked Cecilia, point-blank, while rubbing my neck. The lady smiled at me, and then, she sat me down and explained everything to me. Thus I learned the truth about myself, both as a Black man, and as the monstrosity that Cecilia's bite had turned me into. I was a runaway slave, whose only concern was one more day of life and freedom. Now, I had something more. A purpose, a cause, a reason to live and a reason to fight...

"You will be the first of a new kind of warrior, one that partakes of both the world of man and the world of beasts, yet belongs in neither," Cecilia said, and I nodded sagely. That night, when the full moon rose, we changed, then roamed the woods and hunted. We found a wild pig and slaughtered it. Cecilia and I feasted on the slain beast's carcass, and then made love. I fell in love with her, and with my new existence as a Were-Hyena, the West African equivalent of the Werewolf mythos...

Cecilia and I roamed the island of Saint Domingue together. By day, we moved from place to place, targeting isolated farms and killing the French colonists while setting their African slaves free. Some merely fled once freed, others joined us to free their kinsmen and women from inhuman bondage. Some even refused to join us, preferring the bonds of slavery to the uncertainties of life on their own. Yes, this did happen, and far more often than you might think...

Cecilia and I made a few Were-Hyenas, though not many. It's simple mathematics. No environment can support too many predators. In spite of our restrictions, we made quite a brood. I remember some, like Vincent Fossette, a tall, burly young man with dark brown skin, a bald head and a mean scar on his left shoulder. We set him free, and instead of fleeing, he demanded to join us. We also transformed his wife Lynette, a slender, short and wiry little woman who was utterly devoted to him. There was also Nicolas Jasper, a young Black man whom we rescued just as a squad of French troops were about to execute him. Together, we continued to fight for freedom, while growing the ranks of our supernatural army...

After the capture and imprisonment of stalwart Haitian revolution hero Toussaint Louverture due to French treachery, the bastards having captured him while he met with them to establish peaceful dialogue, Jean-Jacques Dessalines took over the Haitian forces. Now, he was more my kind of leader. The man was not a Were-Hyena, or any supernatural entity, not to my knowledge anyway. Nevertheless, Dessalines brilliance and ferocity could outshine the best of us...

A stoic, dark-skinned man with fierce eyes and a keen mind, Jean-Jacques Dessalines knew that the French colonists would never accept that the Black men and Black women they owned as slaves wanted to live as free citizens. General Leclerc, leader of the French forces, intended to quell the revolution and re-establish slavery on the island of Saint Domingue. Dessalines knew that in order for our fledgling Haitian nation to survive, every French person on the island needed to die. It was them or us, no other way.

"The Blacks of this island will be free, even if I have to slay every French soldier, every misguided Black person why sympathizes with colonial rule, and anyone else who gets in my way," I swore to Cecilia, one night, on December 31, 1803. We were at a camp led by Dessalines himself, and we'd been making some major headway against the French colonial forces. The Haitian soldiers knew that someone had been doing their dirty work for them, slaughtering the French infantrymen under cover of night. So far, they didn't seem to mind our help. Indeed, we had a don't ask/don't tell policy with them...

"You are amazing, my love," Cecilia replied, and I drew her into my arms and kissed her passionately. Smiling at me, she rolled on top of me, and I caressed her breasts, then gave her big bum a firm slap. Cecilia gripped my manhood and stroked it, and I held my breath as she bent down and took me into her mouth. I closed my eyes as Cecilia pleasured me with her mouth, sucking my dick while gently caressing my ball sac...

"Right back at you," I whispered, and Cecilia sucked away, getting me hard in no time. I propped her on all fours and licked her pussy from behind. Spreading her thick ass cheeks wide open, I fingered her asshole and then slid my tongue inside. Cecilia moaned softly as I began eating her ass. I love the way she smells and tastes, and delight in exploring her body, whether she's in her normal form or her supernatural one. I can't get enough of my lady...