Mud splashed on my blue jean. 'Waka' I shouted at the man who was sitting comfortably in his Honda highlander jeep. He didn't even notice how furious I was which infuriated me more. My day really wasn't going to get any better I thought. It was going to rain soon. The clouds were already looking moody. People where walking helter skelter trying to reach their destination before the rain begins to pour. I was waiting for a bus at the junction. I had been waiting for about 15minutes when a woman about 30years old walked up to me. She looked desperate, tired and unkept.
'Aunty please help me, I am going to owerri and I need transport money. I don't have money. Please aunty help me'. I felt pity for her, I really wanted to help her but I didn't have enough money. I pretended I didn't hear her and went on to press the buttons of my handset like I was sending an important message. She lurked around for a while then she moved to a man standing beside me. Whether he gave her money or not I didn't find out because a bus came along and I struggled into it like it was or do or die affair.
'This girl you are a tiger' the boy sitting beside me in the bus said. I didn't bother replying. What I really wanted to say was 'Please shut up you bloody idiot' .I was cranky and uncomfortable. The woman sitting beside me was fat. She took up the so much space, and to make matters worse a little girl was sitted on her laps. The little girl was carrying a bag on her laps also. The bus was really jam packed
'Madam you go pay for dis pikin wey u lap' the bus conductor said to the woman.
'Pay gini' She shouted 'isi adiro gi mma,your head is not correct' .She hissed like a calabar woman.
'Madam na your sef u dey tel, your money na #100, beta come down now,if u no go pay' the bus conductor told the woman who was already adjusting her wrapper in preparation for a fight.
The driver of the bus, turned to talk to the woman 'Madam abeg pay your money', before he could finish the bus hit a stagnant trailer. 'Bang' and someone shouting 'Jesus!' was the last thing I heard. The last thing I saw was the little girl the fat woman had on her laps, hitting her head on the rod separating the drivers seat from the passengers seat.
I woke up, I heard noise from every corner. 'This one is alive' one man said. My vision was blur. There was a sharp pain in my stomach. I wanted to sit up but I couldn't. There was blood mixed with sand all over my body. Then I saw the little girl lying on the floor, her body smeared with blood, her skirt was no longer on her waist. She looked dead. She was holding hands with a headless body. The woman who was preparing to fight with the bus conductor no longer had a head, she no longer had a life. Lifeless bodies were all around me. I was confused. Why so much blood. The sight was horrenduous. I went into coma again.
I woke up again, I saw a woman standing beside. Wearing white, my vision was blur. I couldn't be in heaven, her white overall wasn't white enough.
'Nurse I don't know this people from Adam and I brought them here out of pity, I don't know where you expect me to get deposit from'
'Oga they can't get doctors to treat them if you don't deposit money. You have to deposit money before we begin treatment, if not they would die. If you don't have the money, leave me let me face other people, as you can see this place is jampacked.'
The nurse said. She was getting very impatient.
'Madam Nurse, I don't have deposit, God knows I have tried by bringing them to the hospital, with my car and fuel.' He walked away, the nurse hissed and walked away also, leaving as hanging between life and death.
I could taste my blood in my mouth. The man lying beside me groaned in pains. I wanted to help him but I needed help myself. Another nurse passed us, a doctor passed us. Everyone passed us without stopping for a glance. We all easily blended into the choking number of people who were lying helplessly, sick, and agonised in the waiting room of the hospital. I could no longer hear the groaning from the man. I knew he was dead. They let him die, and they would let me die also.
'Kasie' someone said. I couldn't recognise the voice. My head ached.Where was I? Oh! That smell. The smell of a hospital. I hated hospitals.'Nne' I knew for sure it was my mother. No one else calls me that. 'Mummy' I said 'where am I,what am I doing here?'
'Relax, you were involved in accident' she replied 'God saved you,Chukwu daalu' she raised her hands to the ceiling in worship to God. My whole body ached. It was as though I was cooking in a pot. I felt hot inside and outside. I remembered the blood, the little girl, the bus conductor, the loud bang and the scream. The thoughts terrified me.
'Mummy my head is paining me' tears ran down my cheeks. They felt hot too.
Everything was hot. I needed to be inside a deep freeze. 'Ndo Nwam, Sorry my child' My mother said. I knew she was trying so hard not to cry. I could tell from the way she pouted and blinked fast. There were deep lines under her eyes. She hadn't slept well also. Her hair was a mess. Chidalu came in with a bag in her hands. At first she didn't know I was awake then she met my eyes 'Jesus' She shouted 'Thank God' She threw her hands around my mother 'Thank God' She repeated.
I was discharged after five days. My body was in good condition but my mind was messed up. I had trouble wrapping my head around the fact that I had come face to face with death a second time. What tormented me more was the little girl and the fat woman. One moment I was cursing and biting because the woman was taking up more space than she paid for and another moment she was headless. I couldn't get the image out of my head and I wondered about the little girl .Did she die too? Did her family find her? Do they know she was involved in an accident? Then the man who died because the nurse at the hospital wanted a deposit first. I also thought about the hundreds of people that lose their lives in such situations. The country's health sector was in a shambles. I would have lost mine also. I didn't know who saved me. I was too thankful to God to ask any one. Too thankful to hate the nurses that came into my room frequently, either to change my sheets, drip or give me injections for killing that man and thousands of people they have rejected because they had no money.
At a point I felt if I had given some money to the woman who begged at the bus stop maybe God would have averted the accident.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Monday, October 7, 2013
A PLACE OF NOTHINGNESS
She knew today would come, the day that is for the owner. What she didn't know was that, that day, would be today. He gives her a hard kick on her stomach, but she is determined to not squirm. She would show absolutely no pain. No one can see that she is scared. 'Shift like this' he shoves her head, 'Oya face the camera, thief like you, Oloshi'. He screams, pushing, and kicking her. The pain from his kicks are intense. They are touching her ribs, but she can't show it. She shifts closer, facing the camera. She keeps a straight face, that face she had so often practiced for this day. She hopes her hair is still in the tight knot she had put it. This is the picture that would determine how the world would see her. It would grace the pages of different newspapers. Both people that know her, and people that don't would see her, some may pity, some may insult, some may care less - What is important is that she can't look helpless. She is not helpless. She is not ashamed either. She stares into the camera, the sharp flash of light dazes her and causes her to see clouds of circle. She is a thief and a murderer, and she isn't ashamed of it.
The policeman, a tall dark man, with a deep tribal mark on his left cheek. His dark is disgusting, like soakaway water. She stares at him eyeball to eyeball. 'Witch' he says 'Why you dey look me like that? You want make i slap you. Thief like you, Ashawo Oshi'. She doesn't reply, she doesn't want another slap. It has been 20 slaps since she was arrested. Her face is burning, and her bruises are attracting the swarm of mosquitoes in the prison. They feast on her open wounds and she cannot wipe them away, because her hands are behind her back, in a rusted handcuff. Her ears are sore from the noise; the shouting of the police men, the crying of the prisoners, the sound of gunshots. She hates noise, she hates it so much that right now, her veins puff out in anger, as she watches this poor excuse for a man cry like a sick baby, 'Oga abeg' he pleads ' I get four shildren, and na me be the only pikin wey my mama born'. So he didn't know that this day would come, the day that is for the owner. Didn't he know? Did he think he is invisible? She wants to tell him to shut up. She wants to tell him that only those who are strong at heart should become thiefs. It's his type that would beat their wives, scream at their mother, boast and brag. Now, see the idiot, crying like a man less man. She? cry? Never! God forbid. She would carry her heavy cross with dignity. This is the prize she has to pay for killing that boy. Even though she had told herself it was a mistake, she didn't see him coming, she still killed a ten year old boy. She saw him everywhere, she saw him in her dreams, she saw him in her bathroom, her kitchen, her sitting room but he didn't enter her bedroom; that was her shrine. Her place of absolute peace, the place that was so silent that it almost deafened. He knew not to come there. She felt sorry for him, but she won't cry. It is his destiny, that she kills him, like it is her destiny to become a criminal. After all at the age of ten her parents killed her in the worst form of killing one could think of. They abandoned her, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere with #100. 'Find your way Shola', were the last words she heard from her father. Those words, even in the silence of her shrine, still echoed in her head. She tried in the first years to find her way, but, men always found their way inside her instead. At ten, with #100, no guardian, no food or water, she was asked to find her way.
They walk them to the cell; the policemen, with guns that look too heavy for them. She imagines a quick escape, she knows can beat the hell out of the three policemen at once, they look hungry and tired. The bones on their neck stick out of their flesh, it's almost painful to look at. She doesn't want to escape, there is nothing to escape for. She has no where to go.
She sits on the sticky floor of dry urine and spit, mosquitoes fly around her ears, at least this time she can smack them. She massages her wrist, the handcuff had made deep mark on her flesh. She feels the women gazing at her, their piercing eyes almost stripping off her dirty clothes. She ignores them. They look hungry, and defeated. The policemen had decided that they would move her to where criminals of her type are tomorrow. Today is the last day she would spend with this women, that stared at her as if she was an enigma. She doesn't want to go that cell, she doesn't want to stay in this cell either, she wants silence, absolute silence. Somewhere she could hear nothing. It would end today she says to herself. Her stomach sings in hunger. It's been two days since she tasted food or water. The shitty beans they serve her always ended up inside the small hole near the window that looked like the window of a bird cage, they call pit latrine. She feels the knife inside her trouser. She had hidden it so perfectly, even after so many search, the policemen couldn't find it. Her back aches from sitting upright all day.
The fall of every person, begins with a little mistake, a little slumber, a little carelessness, a little fear. Her own was a little slumber. One moment of confusion that made her pull the trigger on a sleeping child. If she hadn't killed that boy. She would have escaped the police on the mission, she promised herself would be her last. She was fast. Twenty years on the streets had taught her to be sharp, and on the alert. But it took one little slumber, to deadened her abilities. If that mission was a success, she would be in Ghana now. Starting all over, because she has a reason to. A reason to live again. She is pregnant, with a child. At first she thought of abortion, but, it made her feel like the people she had grown to hate.... Her parents that left her to the cold arms of life. She decided to have the baby, she was not her mother. She won't abandon her child. But, sitting in the police station with nothing but blighted hope. She knows she can't bring a child into this her world. A world full of bitterness and pain. They would go together; she and her child. To a place of absolute peace.
It is time, she hopes she doesn't feel too much pain. She isn't scared of pain, but she is scared that her baby might feel the pain. It's dark. Everyone in the cell is asleep, snoring loudly. She wonders how they could sleep to the extent of snoring, in this place that smelt like death. The knife glistens in her hands. She uses her finger to fill the spot were she would put the knife, the base of her skull, the back of her neck. The bone is thin there. It would cut her spinal cord and quickly paralyze her. She would die silently, no screaming or smacking. Plenty of blood though, but she wouldn't see it. She would be in a place of absolute silent. A place of nothingness.
The policeman, a tall dark man, with a deep tribal mark on his left cheek. His dark is disgusting, like soakaway water. She stares at him eyeball to eyeball. 'Witch' he says 'Why you dey look me like that? You want make i slap you. Thief like you, Ashawo Oshi'. She doesn't reply, she doesn't want another slap. It has been 20 slaps since she was arrested. Her face is burning, and her bruises are attracting the swarm of mosquitoes in the prison. They feast on her open wounds and she cannot wipe them away, because her hands are behind her back, in a rusted handcuff. Her ears are sore from the noise; the shouting of the police men, the crying of the prisoners, the sound of gunshots. She hates noise, she hates it so much that right now, her veins puff out in anger, as she watches this poor excuse for a man cry like a sick baby, 'Oga abeg' he pleads ' I get four shildren, and na me be the only pikin wey my mama born'. So he didn't know that this day would come, the day that is for the owner. Didn't he know? Did he think he is invisible? She wants to tell him to shut up. She wants to tell him that only those who are strong at heart should become thiefs. It's his type that would beat their wives, scream at their mother, boast and brag. Now, see the idiot, crying like a man less man. She? cry? Never! God forbid. She would carry her heavy cross with dignity. This is the prize she has to pay for killing that boy. Even though she had told herself it was a mistake, she didn't see him coming, she still killed a ten year old boy. She saw him everywhere, she saw him in her dreams, she saw him in her bathroom, her kitchen, her sitting room but he didn't enter her bedroom; that was her shrine. Her place of absolute peace, the place that was so silent that it almost deafened. He knew not to come there. She felt sorry for him, but she won't cry. It is his destiny, that she kills him, like it is her destiny to become a criminal. After all at the age of ten her parents killed her in the worst form of killing one could think of. They abandoned her, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere with #100. 'Find your way Shola', were the last words she heard from her father. Those words, even in the silence of her shrine, still echoed in her head. She tried in the first years to find her way, but, men always found their way inside her instead. At ten, with #100, no guardian, no food or water, she was asked to find her way.
They walk them to the cell; the policemen, with guns that look too heavy for them. She imagines a quick escape, she knows can beat the hell out of the three policemen at once, they look hungry and tired. The bones on their neck stick out of their flesh, it's almost painful to look at. She doesn't want to escape, there is nothing to escape for. She has no where to go.
She sits on the sticky floor of dry urine and spit, mosquitoes fly around her ears, at least this time she can smack them. She massages her wrist, the handcuff had made deep mark on her flesh. She feels the women gazing at her, their piercing eyes almost stripping off her dirty clothes. She ignores them. They look hungry, and defeated. The policemen had decided that they would move her to where criminals of her type are tomorrow. Today is the last day she would spend with this women, that stared at her as if she was an enigma. She doesn't want to go that cell, she doesn't want to stay in this cell either, she wants silence, absolute silence. Somewhere she could hear nothing. It would end today she says to herself. Her stomach sings in hunger. It's been two days since she tasted food or water. The shitty beans they serve her always ended up inside the small hole near the window that looked like the window of a bird cage, they call pit latrine. She feels the knife inside her trouser. She had hidden it so perfectly, even after so many search, the policemen couldn't find it. Her back aches from sitting upright all day.
The fall of every person, begins with a little mistake, a little slumber, a little carelessness, a little fear. Her own was a little slumber. One moment of confusion that made her pull the trigger on a sleeping child. If she hadn't killed that boy. She would have escaped the police on the mission, she promised herself would be her last. She was fast. Twenty years on the streets had taught her to be sharp, and on the alert. But it took one little slumber, to deadened her abilities. If that mission was a success, she would be in Ghana now. Starting all over, because she has a reason to. A reason to live again. She is pregnant, with a child. At first she thought of abortion, but, it made her feel like the people she had grown to hate.... Her parents that left her to the cold arms of life. She decided to have the baby, she was not her mother. She won't abandon her child. But, sitting in the police station with nothing but blighted hope. She knows she can't bring a child into this her world. A world full of bitterness and pain. They would go together; she and her child. To a place of absolute peace.
It is time, she hopes she doesn't feel too much pain. She isn't scared of pain, but she is scared that her baby might feel the pain. It's dark. Everyone in the cell is asleep, snoring loudly. She wonders how they could sleep to the extent of snoring, in this place that smelt like death. The knife glistens in her hands. She uses her finger to fill the spot were she would put the knife, the base of her skull, the back of her neck. The bone is thin there. It would cut her spinal cord and quickly paralyze her. She would die silently, no screaming or smacking. Plenty of blood though, but she wouldn't see it. She would be in a place of absolute silent. A place of nothingness.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
THE EYES OF THE SPIRIT
My grandmother sits on a stool stiff necked. Her face so wrinkled that it is difficult to decipher if she is frowning or she is straight faced. Her shoulders are high up. I know she is not guilty, she had loved Papa even at his worst moments. The Dibia sprinkles something on everyone while dancing to some unintelligible humming, the cowries on his legs clinking and adding rhythm to his hum. The chicken by the corner looks askance at the Dibia, like my grandmother it disapproves of the whole ritual. It knows any moment from now, its neck would be cut and squashed, and its blood would gush into a cup which the Dibia would use to make a mark on everybody.
My mother sits close to my grandmother, earlier she had tried to show some affection but mama eschwed her, mumbling something in Igbo.
Papa was the chief of the community for years before his death. His 'Nkolo' were we now seat was where land disputes were settled, where husbands and wives tore at each other, girls came to report their fellow girls for stealing their suitors. He settled all the community disputes, and those which were trivial he handed to his lower cabinet. Marriages which were not endorsed by Papa were null and void. Papa was not only just respected, he was worshiped. His wisdom was known far and near, from the villages of Apkulu, Ndi uno, Agueke, Obi agu. His words were like the sunset, consistent, true, and beautiful. He spoke proverbs even his peers could not understand. Papa was the greatest hunter of his time. His meats were the best in the whole of Awka North, and his barns over flowed with yam. He had lands here and there. Papa was truly a great man.
Papa was a hero and like all hero's he had a flaw. Papa's penis couldn't stay in his wrapper. He went from having wives to concubines and even at that his eyes would still follow the rhythmic movement of well rounded hips and the rise and fall of arrogant looking breasts.
Papa was a great man, and great men do not show any sort of emotion except anger or defiance. So if Papa scolded you more than necessary, it means that he loves you. Open display of love was a show of weakness and weakness was definitely one feature nobody could attribute to Papa.
'Dike! Agu! Mmuo!' The Dibia hails, he is clad in white wrapper, tattered with red and black pieces of cloth. He is covered with dotted white chalks and a big round circle is made with chalk on his right eye. On his neck hangs a thread of cowries that makes a noise as he moves. Two chicken feathers are tied to his head with a red piece of cloth. He says some incantations as he continues to dance. Almost every member of the family is gathered in Papa's 'Nkolo' except my immediate elder brother, Nnamdi, who wet his pants when he was warned that the rituals wasn't child's play, and he could go mad or even lose his life if he didn't adhere to instructions. Of course, my Uncle Peter who was formerly called Nwafor before he gave a standing order that anyone who dared to call him by that name would put their leg in the same trousers with him, blatantly refused to hear anything of it. He was a Jehovah witness member. After many years of following Papa to give sacrifices of all sort to the gods of Amadioha, Ani and kalawa he had decided that there was a better 'Chukwu' and worshiping our gods was fetish and barbaric. My mother told him in her bid to convince him to be at the ceremony with her hands pulling her ears 'Peter give Caesar what belongs to Caesar and give God what belongs to God'. Everyone calls him Peter except my grandmother who called him a 'Mad Bushmeat' for saying such nonsense. She would always complain that the white man's civilization was a thief that has stolen the minds of people, teaching them how to be stupid. 'How can they say that there are three persons in one God? Is that not rubbish talk? Is it because we are black and they are white, they feel we can't think? All this is a strategy to control us. I can't believe such nonsense.'
When Uncle Peter was told that as Papa's first son he had to be at the ceremony, he bit his lips and called the elders 'Heathens, who were ignorant of their misdeeds'. They didn't try to convince him any further, they already expected such answer. 'Just know you have sold your birth right to Okenwa'. They told him as a matter of fact.
Okenwa is the person standing close to me now. He holds my hand. I whisper to him that I am scared and he tells me that he is going to die first before he allows anything happen. He is tall, handsome and has eyes to die for. People say he is Papa's doppelganger. Maybe that was why Papa loved him the most. My childish eleven-years-old heart is in love with Okenwa, so is almost every female member of the family. Everyone wants to please him, which isn’t a hard goal to achieve because Okenwa is very easy to please.
It is midnight already. Tiredness is far from my mind. Curiosity burns my soul. I am adamant not to lose sight of anything. I watch as the elders whisper to each other and shake their heads. This night, I think, is going to be a remarkable one. The purpose of the ceremony is for Papa's spirit to be conjured into the body of the person he trusts the most so he can tell who is responsible for his death. The ritual is usually performed for titled chiefs who die mysteriously.
Papa's death was a shock to the whole village. One night he just slept and did not wake. It was an insult to the whole village, a great man cannot just sleep and refuse to wake. It was no way for the greatest man in the land to die. It was simply a taboo. The elders organised a meeting and an agreement was reached; Papa must tell us with his own mouth who killed him.
The place is brightly illuminated by candles, lamps and burning fire in the calabashes that sit at every corner of the 'Nkolo'. Horns and Antlers are littered everywhere, hanged at the entrance of the 'Nkolo' is a skinned bear, Papa's first big game. At the far end of the room is a shrine; Papa's shrine, a red cloth is used to cover the wall of the shrine which has three wooden images of gods decorated with beads. The images look grotesque with oversized eyes, no nose at all and lips that are as wide as the face. I remember Papa used to come to the shrine every morning and pour a tiny quantity of schnapp on the floor of the shrine. He would do it three times for the three gods, hailing them, and praying to them in deep Igbo words I could not understand.
Though it is midnight, nobody seems tired, they are eager to know who killed Papa. Some say it is my Mama because she didn't shed a tear during Papa's burial, she didn’t even mourn him like his other wives. She is a strange woman with strange ways. Some suspect Papa's brothers, Udodi and Obidike connived with some of Papa's wives to kill him so they can inherit some of his property before death comes knocking on their weak doors. Some blame Mama Nkiru because her father is the greatest Dibia in Obi Agu village, and she has easy access to kill anyone she wants. All of the suspects look angry not guilty. They are sure that the spirit isn't going to point at them. This system is unlike the ones I watch on T.V in the city were a man wearing a funny cap with black overall, sits on a high chair away from the audience, banging a wooden stick on the table which is a sign he wants order in the room, could actually acquit a person who is guilty and punish a person who isn't. In this system the guilty is punished and the just liberated. Unlike the white man's system of judgement where one has to rely on evidence they can see, this is a spiritual matter, one that human mind cannot understand and naked eyes cannot behold. One that never makes wrong judgement.
I begin to feel papa's presence, his smell fills the room. The hair on the back of my neck stands. I feel a tingling sensation in my premature breasts. My belly sinks into my dusty shoes and rises to my mouth in an instance, goose bumps ravages my skin. Silence falls on the room, and if a pin drops it can be heard from a distance. The Dibia says in Igbo that Papa has come, that the great lion of Akpulu village is with us. I tremble with fear and excitement. I clench my legs together. It is known that when the spirit is roaming, before it enters the chosen person, if it passes between the legs of a person sitting or standing ajar that person would lose his life.
The Dibia begins to shake hands with all Papa's friends who he feels Papa trusted while he was alive as he makes abscure incantations. Papa doesn’t enter the body of his best friend Uncle Umeadi, it is a sign that he didn't trust uncle Umeadi. The Dibia shakes hands with four of Papa's friends and Papa doesn’t enter any of them. Papa's spirit is getting impatient. It hovers around the 'Nkolo' causing the lights in the calabashes to go off. Then the Dibia dances close to me as though led by the spirits. I am scared out of mind. He stares at me long and hard, as he stretches his hand towards me, my heart skips a beat. I think he wants to grab my hands then he suddenly grabs Okenwa’s hand and Okenwa moves sharply like he is hit by a strong force. The lights in the calabashes come on. I flinch. Okenwa's expression changes, he looks like Papa more than ever. He walks with the same grace Papa used when he knew people were staring at him. He sits on Papa's chair and places his two hands on the arm of the chair, showing of his arm muscles exactly the way Papa did. The Dibia welcomes Papa and asks him how the land of the spirits is. Papa replies that he doesn’t have much time, and he didn’t travel all the way from the lands of the spirits to make petty talks. Okenwa's voice was now Papa's voice. Papa's voice just like I remember fills the room as he scans the place. 'My family, my friends, my people, I left unplanned, I left without saying goodbye. I left before I could hold my first great grand child'. He looks at Adaora's belly. My eldest sister who has just got married. Everyone is surprised, nobody knows that she carries a baby in her, I doubt if she even knows, perhaps he is Papa’s comeback. Papa is now a spirit he sees the things we couldn't see with our physical eyes. He continues 'The god's allowed it. I can't question the gods. But an atrocity was committed against the gods and before I put sand in the eyes of the dog, Obidike, i sold a land to you’ he said pointing a finger at Obidike 'but you have refused to pay or inform my family about it’. Even in death Papa is a man of few words , he continues 'before you step a foot into that land again, you must pay the money to Anyafulugo'. He says looking at Mama's direction. A smile escapes Mama's lips. Even in death, he still puts her first. Everyone notes that Mama is still on his good sides which means that she didn't kill him. Obidike bows his head in shame. Obidike was one of Papa's close friend. Having flogged that issue Papa points to his fourth wife. 'Stand in the middle of my Nkolo' he says to her. She does as she is told, fear gripping her legs as they move wobbly 'If Okpara is my real son, lift my 'Nkporo'. He said, referring to his staff of authority which held a skull at the top.
She doesn't lift it. She doesn't dare to. She is going to die if she did because Okpara wasn't Papa's son. She had been with a man a night before Papa savored her woman hole. She stands there like a snowman; Speechless and motionless. Papa isn't going to waste his spiritual time on her. He knows that after now the 'Ndi Nne' who handled infidelity like this would take care of her. He then goes to the business of the day. 'The pest that consumes the egg plant is within it. After flying the termite would fall to be eaten by the toad.' There is a long silence then he continues 'You cannot bite the hands that feed you. Our elders say that a child that wouldn't let his mother sleep, would lose sleep also. Nothing is hidden under the sun and one can decide to run but can't hide. The flesh makes us ignorant. We don't know more than we know, and the scales of ignorance can only fall off our eyes if pushed away by death. I ate in the house of the one I trusted and he served me the food of pain and death'. Everyone gasps. ' Umeadi my trusted friend put a knife through my heart. It hurt my soul more than it hurt my flesh'. Everyone screams, someone grabs uncle Umeadi by the neck, and restrains himself as he caught Papa staring at him. Uncle Umeadi is shaking like a chicken that has just been dipped into cold water
Papa stands, stretches his hands forward and the lights go off again. He had completed his mission. Silence falls again. The hairs at the back of my neck no longer stands, the goose bumps disappear. The atmosphere is back to normal except for the tension arising from the news we just heard. Papa had left Okenwa's body, and Okenwa lay motionless on the floor. His mother run towards him and places his head on her laps, he twitches and opens his eyes. I am overwhelmed with joy. It is possible that someone whose body was possessed by another spirit could not return because his own spirit might have wandered off and forgotten its way back.
Everyone exists the 'Nkolo' stiffly, shaking there heads, and cursing, men saying 'Aluu e mee', women saying 'Tufiakwa' . It is early morning and the cock had begin to crow. No one looks at Uncle Umeadi or say a word to him. Shock grips them beyond words. Tomorrow is for the thief.
But tomorrow is too late. Uncle Umeadi had hung himself on a tall tree before they could get to him. He is not buried. It is an abomination to soil the land with the body of someone who took his life with his hands. Uncle Umeadi's dead body is mutilated, his hands are caught off and sharp objects are used to make deep wounds on his face and body, so he doesn't come back as an evil child. His body is thrown into the deepest forest in the whole of Ugbenu town were evil spirits dwell.
My mother sits close to my grandmother, earlier she had tried to show some affection but mama eschwed her, mumbling something in Igbo.
Papa was the chief of the community for years before his death. His 'Nkolo' were we now seat was where land disputes were settled, where husbands and wives tore at each other, girls came to report their fellow girls for stealing their suitors. He settled all the community disputes, and those which were trivial he handed to his lower cabinet. Marriages which were not endorsed by Papa were null and void. Papa was not only just respected, he was worshiped. His wisdom was known far and near, from the villages of Apkulu, Ndi uno, Agueke, Obi agu. His words were like the sunset, consistent, true, and beautiful. He spoke proverbs even his peers could not understand. Papa was the greatest hunter of his time. His meats were the best in the whole of Awka North, and his barns over flowed with yam. He had lands here and there. Papa was truly a great man.
Papa was a hero and like all hero's he had a flaw. Papa's penis couldn't stay in his wrapper. He went from having wives to concubines and even at that his eyes would still follow the rhythmic movement of well rounded hips and the rise and fall of arrogant looking breasts.
Papa was a great man, and great men do not show any sort of emotion except anger or defiance. So if Papa scolded you more than necessary, it means that he loves you. Open display of love was a show of weakness and weakness was definitely one feature nobody could attribute to Papa.
'Dike! Agu! Mmuo!' The Dibia hails, he is clad in white wrapper, tattered with red and black pieces of cloth. He is covered with dotted white chalks and a big round circle is made with chalk on his right eye. On his neck hangs a thread of cowries that makes a noise as he moves. Two chicken feathers are tied to his head with a red piece of cloth. He says some incantations as he continues to dance. Almost every member of the family is gathered in Papa's 'Nkolo' except my immediate elder brother, Nnamdi, who wet his pants when he was warned that the rituals wasn't child's play, and he could go mad or even lose his life if he didn't adhere to instructions. Of course, my Uncle Peter who was formerly called Nwafor before he gave a standing order that anyone who dared to call him by that name would put their leg in the same trousers with him, blatantly refused to hear anything of it. He was a Jehovah witness member. After many years of following Papa to give sacrifices of all sort to the gods of Amadioha, Ani and kalawa he had decided that there was a better 'Chukwu' and worshiping our gods was fetish and barbaric. My mother told him in her bid to convince him to be at the ceremony with her hands pulling her ears 'Peter give Caesar what belongs to Caesar and give God what belongs to God'. Everyone calls him Peter except my grandmother who called him a 'Mad Bushmeat' for saying such nonsense. She would always complain that the white man's civilization was a thief that has stolen the minds of people, teaching them how to be stupid. 'How can they say that there are three persons in one God? Is that not rubbish talk? Is it because we are black and they are white, they feel we can't think? All this is a strategy to control us. I can't believe such nonsense.'
When Uncle Peter was told that as Papa's first son he had to be at the ceremony, he bit his lips and called the elders 'Heathens, who were ignorant of their misdeeds'. They didn't try to convince him any further, they already expected such answer. 'Just know you have sold your birth right to Okenwa'. They told him as a matter of fact.
Okenwa is the person standing close to me now. He holds my hand. I whisper to him that I am scared and he tells me that he is going to die first before he allows anything happen. He is tall, handsome and has eyes to die for. People say he is Papa's doppelganger. Maybe that was why Papa loved him the most. My childish eleven-years-old heart is in love with Okenwa, so is almost every female member of the family. Everyone wants to please him, which isn’t a hard goal to achieve because Okenwa is very easy to please.
It is midnight already. Tiredness is far from my mind. Curiosity burns my soul. I am adamant not to lose sight of anything. I watch as the elders whisper to each other and shake their heads. This night, I think, is going to be a remarkable one. The purpose of the ceremony is for Papa's spirit to be conjured into the body of the person he trusts the most so he can tell who is responsible for his death. The ritual is usually performed for titled chiefs who die mysteriously.
Papa's death was a shock to the whole village. One night he just slept and did not wake. It was an insult to the whole village, a great man cannot just sleep and refuse to wake. It was no way for the greatest man in the land to die. It was simply a taboo. The elders organised a meeting and an agreement was reached; Papa must tell us with his own mouth who killed him.
The place is brightly illuminated by candles, lamps and burning fire in the calabashes that sit at every corner of the 'Nkolo'. Horns and Antlers are littered everywhere, hanged at the entrance of the 'Nkolo' is a skinned bear, Papa's first big game. At the far end of the room is a shrine; Papa's shrine, a red cloth is used to cover the wall of the shrine which has three wooden images of gods decorated with beads. The images look grotesque with oversized eyes, no nose at all and lips that are as wide as the face. I remember Papa used to come to the shrine every morning and pour a tiny quantity of schnapp on the floor of the shrine. He would do it three times for the three gods, hailing them, and praying to them in deep Igbo words I could not understand.
Though it is midnight, nobody seems tired, they are eager to know who killed Papa. Some say it is my Mama because she didn't shed a tear during Papa's burial, she didn’t even mourn him like his other wives. She is a strange woman with strange ways. Some suspect Papa's brothers, Udodi and Obidike connived with some of Papa's wives to kill him so they can inherit some of his property before death comes knocking on their weak doors. Some blame Mama Nkiru because her father is the greatest Dibia in Obi Agu village, and she has easy access to kill anyone she wants. All of the suspects look angry not guilty. They are sure that the spirit isn't going to point at them. This system is unlike the ones I watch on T.V in the city were a man wearing a funny cap with black overall, sits on a high chair away from the audience, banging a wooden stick on the table which is a sign he wants order in the room, could actually acquit a person who is guilty and punish a person who isn't. In this system the guilty is punished and the just liberated. Unlike the white man's system of judgement where one has to rely on evidence they can see, this is a spiritual matter, one that human mind cannot understand and naked eyes cannot behold. One that never makes wrong judgement.
I begin to feel papa's presence, his smell fills the room. The hair on the back of my neck stands. I feel a tingling sensation in my premature breasts. My belly sinks into my dusty shoes and rises to my mouth in an instance, goose bumps ravages my skin. Silence falls on the room, and if a pin drops it can be heard from a distance. The Dibia says in Igbo that Papa has come, that the great lion of Akpulu village is with us. I tremble with fear and excitement. I clench my legs together. It is known that when the spirit is roaming, before it enters the chosen person, if it passes between the legs of a person sitting or standing ajar that person would lose his life.
The Dibia begins to shake hands with all Papa's friends who he feels Papa trusted while he was alive as he makes abscure incantations. Papa doesn’t enter the body of his best friend Uncle Umeadi, it is a sign that he didn't trust uncle Umeadi. The Dibia shakes hands with four of Papa's friends and Papa doesn’t enter any of them. Papa's spirit is getting impatient. It hovers around the 'Nkolo' causing the lights in the calabashes to go off. Then the Dibia dances close to me as though led by the spirits. I am scared out of mind. He stares at me long and hard, as he stretches his hand towards me, my heart skips a beat. I think he wants to grab my hands then he suddenly grabs Okenwa’s hand and Okenwa moves sharply like he is hit by a strong force. The lights in the calabashes come on. I flinch. Okenwa's expression changes, he looks like Papa more than ever. He walks with the same grace Papa used when he knew people were staring at him. He sits on Papa's chair and places his two hands on the arm of the chair, showing of his arm muscles exactly the way Papa did. The Dibia welcomes Papa and asks him how the land of the spirits is. Papa replies that he doesn’t have much time, and he didn’t travel all the way from the lands of the spirits to make petty talks. Okenwa's voice was now Papa's voice. Papa's voice just like I remember fills the room as he scans the place. 'My family, my friends, my people, I left unplanned, I left without saying goodbye. I left before I could hold my first great grand child'. He looks at Adaora's belly. My eldest sister who has just got married. Everyone is surprised, nobody knows that she carries a baby in her, I doubt if she even knows, perhaps he is Papa’s comeback. Papa is now a spirit he sees the things we couldn't see with our physical eyes. He continues 'The god's allowed it. I can't question the gods. But an atrocity was committed against the gods and before I put sand in the eyes of the dog, Obidike, i sold a land to you’ he said pointing a finger at Obidike 'but you have refused to pay or inform my family about it’. Even in death Papa is a man of few words , he continues 'before you step a foot into that land again, you must pay the money to Anyafulugo'. He says looking at Mama's direction. A smile escapes Mama's lips. Even in death, he still puts her first. Everyone notes that Mama is still on his good sides which means that she didn't kill him. Obidike bows his head in shame. Obidike was one of Papa's close friend. Having flogged that issue Papa points to his fourth wife. 'Stand in the middle of my Nkolo' he says to her. She does as she is told, fear gripping her legs as they move wobbly 'If Okpara is my real son, lift my 'Nkporo'. He said, referring to his staff of authority which held a skull at the top.
She doesn't lift it. She doesn't dare to. She is going to die if she did because Okpara wasn't Papa's son. She had been with a man a night before Papa savored her woman hole. She stands there like a snowman; Speechless and motionless. Papa isn't going to waste his spiritual time on her. He knows that after now the 'Ndi Nne' who handled infidelity like this would take care of her. He then goes to the business of the day. 'The pest that consumes the egg plant is within it. After flying the termite would fall to be eaten by the toad.' There is a long silence then he continues 'You cannot bite the hands that feed you. Our elders say that a child that wouldn't let his mother sleep, would lose sleep also. Nothing is hidden under the sun and one can decide to run but can't hide. The flesh makes us ignorant. We don't know more than we know, and the scales of ignorance can only fall off our eyes if pushed away by death. I ate in the house of the one I trusted and he served me the food of pain and death'. Everyone gasps. ' Umeadi my trusted friend put a knife through my heart. It hurt my soul more than it hurt my flesh'. Everyone screams, someone grabs uncle Umeadi by the neck, and restrains himself as he caught Papa staring at him. Uncle Umeadi is shaking like a chicken that has just been dipped into cold water
Papa stands, stretches his hands forward and the lights go off again. He had completed his mission. Silence falls again. The hairs at the back of my neck no longer stands, the goose bumps disappear. The atmosphere is back to normal except for the tension arising from the news we just heard. Papa had left Okenwa's body, and Okenwa lay motionless on the floor. His mother run towards him and places his head on her laps, he twitches and opens his eyes. I am overwhelmed with joy. It is possible that someone whose body was possessed by another spirit could not return because his own spirit might have wandered off and forgotten its way back.
Everyone exists the 'Nkolo' stiffly, shaking there heads, and cursing, men saying 'Aluu e mee', women saying 'Tufiakwa' . It is early morning and the cock had begin to crow. No one looks at Uncle Umeadi or say a word to him. Shock grips them beyond words. Tomorrow is for the thief.
But tomorrow is too late. Uncle Umeadi had hung himself on a tall tree before they could get to him. He is not buried. It is an abomination to soil the land with the body of someone who took his life with his hands. Uncle Umeadi's dead body is mutilated, his hands are caught off and sharp objects are used to make deep wounds on his face and body, so he doesn't come back as an evil child. His body is thrown into the deepest forest in the whole of Ugbenu town were evil spirits dwell.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
DEATH PLEASE
She feels the big lump between her legs. Pain sears through her waist to every joint in her body then it ends as a heave in her belly and starts again in the same process. The pain is familiar. She moves from one side of the bed to another. She feels queasy as nausea hits her causing her to hiccup and clench her belly.
Her wrapper soaks the blood that runs down her legs. A sharp pain hits her waist as she tries to stand, and she slumps back on the mud bed, using her hand to rub the back of her waist. She blows air through her mouth and tries to breath through to reduce the pain. She feels pressure on her waist and rushes into the bush at the back of the hut. She squats and pushes it out of her. It falls wobbly on the green grass, accompanied by watery shit and hot urine; a greyish sac that holds her baby at 10weeks, with eyes, mouth and little feet. She examines it closely and uses her finger to poke it. Tears build in her eyes as the pain hits her again. She walks unsteadily to the hut and drinks the concoction 'Agbala Nwanyi' had mixed for her. The pain subsides and she falls into deep sleep.
'Kata Kata Kata' the sound of the rain on the basin outside wakes her. She had known it was going to rain, she had smelt it in the air earlier. It was what she could do best, smell things in the air; smell trouble, smell fear, smell death. When she woke up this morning, alongside the smell of rain was the smell of death. She had just had a miscarriage, and she expected the smell of death to have cleared, but it still hovered in the air, strong as ever. Agbala Nwanyi's concoction had worked just fine as usual. The pain in her waist had changed to a dull throb. She throws the blood stained wrapper into the basin as she sets off for the river to wash it.
'Mama Nnukwu, Big mother daalu' the children playing under the rain greet her, she replies with a weak smile. She takes sluggish steps towards the river. The rain is having its fun with the earth. One minute it pours hard, the next minute it drizzles.
Rain water dramatically rolls from her forehead through the center of her nose and ends like a kiss on her lips. It tastes like salt, like her sweat. Her eyes follow the snakelike shape of the flowing water in a little gully. Every step sends sharp pains to her waist. Her big well rounded buttocks which used to be a center of attraction and a charm to men is now a burden to her.
Trees hung out to form a canopy as she approaches the river. It is empty, the rain has stopped people from coming. She places the wrapper on a dwarf rock on the river bank and fetches some water. The feel of cold water sends chills down her spine. The river is quiet except for the chirping of birds, so she notices the excited splash of a little fish that seems to be thanking the fish god for the rain. Her waist hurts again as she bends to wash her wrapper. 'Ukwudiya' which means ' Husband's buttocks' is a nickname given to her because of her large back size. It is known that through out the seven villages of Ugbenu town no woman can compete with her in that aspect. The sight of the blood stained wrapper, brings tears to her eyes.
She remembers vividly the first time she had a miscarriage, that was in the third year of her marriage. It took three years for her to get pregnant . Which didn't surprise anybody. It was no news that Ukwudiya was an 'Ogbanje'. A curse sent to her family to frustrate and torture them by coming to life and leaving just as fast. When she lost her pregnancy the first time, she almost went bananas. She ran to 'Agadi Nwanyi' the only female dibia in the village. 'My baby is gone' she cried as she flung herself on the floor in Agadi Nwanyi's shrine. The woman stared at her for a while and asked her to hush her mouth in a loud voice. 'You are in the presence of Otokoro, the gods of our fathers, your cries are upsetting him'. She rebuked.
'Yes I want him to be upset' Ukwudiya said 'I want him to be very upset! I want to ask him why mine must be different. Why is my life filled with sickness, torture and frustration?'
'Shut up woman! Otokoro cannot be questioned by a woman. Shut up before I curse you with chicken pox'.
'I am sorry great one, please pardon me. I am...'
Agadi Nwanyi interrupts. 'I know why you are here, you don't have to explain.' She said. 'I told your mother when she came here looking for a child twenty years ago. I told her she shouldn't try to have a child, but she insisted. My child Otokoro can't help you.'
'Why Why' Ukwudiya cried.
'Stop questioning Otokoro, I won't tell you this again woman'
'I am not questioning Otokoro. I am questioning you. What happened to my mother? Was she an Ogbanje like me?'
'Your mother wasn't an Ogbanje but she was destined to birth an Ogbanje, not just an ordinary one but the Queen Mother. I advised her to stop trying to have children but she was strong headed like you. She wanted you and she died getting you'.
Agadi Nwanyi's words stung Ukwudiya. She knew her mother died giving birth to her but she hated being reminded about it.
'So not only am I an Ogbanje, I am also the Queen Mother?'
'Yes my child and you are still alive because I dug up your 'Iyi Uwa' and cut your connection with the other world. It's your destiny never to have a child. Stop trying, your people in the other world would keep trying to force you to come to them by sending you children that won't stay.'
Ukwudiya stared in agony as Agadi Nwanyi continued, 'You were supposed to complete your mission and return on your thirteenth birthday, but I dug up your Iyi Uwa before that time, and so there was no connection, they couldn't take you'.
She had stormed out of the shrine cursing the gods, cursing her chi, cursing her mother for giving birth to her. Twenty years later, she wished she had not tried at all. They usually say what you don't know won't kill you, unfortunately she knows now what it feels like to be a mother. She had felt the warmth of her child's cheek close to hers. She had given birth to her own child and she named her 'Onwubiko'. She hoped the name would pacify death since it meant 'Death Please'.
She prayed every day to her old god 'Otokoro' and her new God, the one they say, has a son who came to earth to die for her sins. It was the new God, that gave her Onwubiko. She had prayed and fasted for one week to Him and he answered her.
When she felt heaviness in her breast, she had rushed to her husband's hut, and knelt down by his side 'My love' she said 'I am with child' . He smiled at her and asked her to sit on his lap. He kissed her stomach and asked if the baby was a boy. 'No my love, she feels like a girl'. He laughed like a drunken man and drew her very close to him. They made love in the hot afternoon.
That was the first time after her four miscarriages that she had told her husband she was with child. She always tried to save herself the embarrassment of explaining to her husband that the baby in her womb was now a big lump of blood that lay somewhere between grasses at the bush in the back of her hut. The man that told her about Jesus had told her to have faith in Him. She asked if she needed to sacrifice a goat. 'This God doesn't need any sacrifice all he needs is for you to believe in him and have faith in him'. She was surprised. Such an easy sacrifice she thought. She did just that and it included telling her husband. Telling him was a confirmation that the baby was going to live.
When for the first time in her life she held a baby she could call her own, she cried. The joy she felt was indescribable. She never let her out of her sight. She guarded her like a mother hen guards its chick. Onwubiko was a very beautiful girl. The village stood in awe of her beauty. She had the loveliest eyes and when she smiled the sun was envious because her smile out shined it.
On her fifth birthday Onwubiko who by then was the only thing her mother loved more than her life came down with 'Iba'. Ukwudiya didn't sleep that night she sat close to Onwubiko who lay on the bed shivering and crying, and prayed all night. She touched her skin with the back of her palm at intervals to monitor her temperature. At a point she felt so tired, she closed her eyes for a few seconds and fell into a deep sleep. She had terrible nightmares. When she woke up, she was holding a corpse in her hands and screaming. Her daughter was dead. She screamed so hard that it almost vibrated the compound. People gathered in her hut. Her husband tried to pacify her but she was implacable. She cursed both her old and new gods. She shook her daughter vigorously, pleading with her to come back. But the corpse was stoic. That was the worst day of her life. Her husband had called 'Agadi Nwanyi' who suggested that her daughter's corpse be mutilated, so she doesn't come back into the family as another child. She had gone bananas on them, threatening thunder and brimstone if anybody does so much as touch her daughter. She cried the whole day without sleep nor food, refusing to let go of her dead daughter. When she finally slept off. Her husband collected the corpse and carried it to Agadi Nwanyi who mutilated the corpse and burnt it to ashes. She never forgave either of them.
She rinses her cloth in the river and places it back in the basin. She sticks her hands into the soil and fills it with mud, on impulse. Raising her hand to the sky. she calls out to her Chi;
'You have cursed me with a childless life, you have made me a frustrated woman. I have lived a life filled with sorrow and pain. In this river I have washed out the blood of my unborn children. Ten times I have been with child. Ten times I have cried for you to save them. Ten times I have been rejected and ten times I have come here with a basin of blood stained wrapper on my head to wash away the blood of my children. What is a woman without a child? People laugh at me wherever I go. My husband no longer wants to see me except to satisfy his sexual urges. He calls me furniture, a useless woman. I have been called a witch that eats her children and in all these I stand innocent. I have never hurt anyone yet all that happens to me are things that hurt me. They call me an 'Ogbanje'. They say I am from a world I know nothing of. Today, I accept my fate. I go with the hope that where I go, there is a better destiny for me'.
She unties her wrapper and steps into the water. Series of thoughts run through her mind. She walks gently, deeper and deeper into the river until her legs can no longer touch the ground, until water covers her head, until her forced breathing forms bubbles on the surface of River Kalawa.
Hundred years later, the River kalawa is renamed 'Mmiri nenyenwa' 'water that gives children'. It is a common belief that any barren woman who visits the river with tears in her eyes is thereafter blessed with a child.
Her wrapper soaks the blood that runs down her legs. A sharp pain hits her waist as she tries to stand, and she slumps back on the mud bed, using her hand to rub the back of her waist. She blows air through her mouth and tries to breath through to reduce the pain. She feels pressure on her waist and rushes into the bush at the back of the hut. She squats and pushes it out of her. It falls wobbly on the green grass, accompanied by watery shit and hot urine; a greyish sac that holds her baby at 10weeks, with eyes, mouth and little feet. She examines it closely and uses her finger to poke it. Tears build in her eyes as the pain hits her again. She walks unsteadily to the hut and drinks the concoction 'Agbala Nwanyi' had mixed for her. The pain subsides and she falls into deep sleep.
'Kata Kata Kata' the sound of the rain on the basin outside wakes her. She had known it was going to rain, she had smelt it in the air earlier. It was what she could do best, smell things in the air; smell trouble, smell fear, smell death. When she woke up this morning, alongside the smell of rain was the smell of death. She had just had a miscarriage, and she expected the smell of death to have cleared, but it still hovered in the air, strong as ever. Agbala Nwanyi's concoction had worked just fine as usual. The pain in her waist had changed to a dull throb. She throws the blood stained wrapper into the basin as she sets off for the river to wash it.
'Mama Nnukwu, Big mother daalu' the children playing under the rain greet her, she replies with a weak smile. She takes sluggish steps towards the river. The rain is having its fun with the earth. One minute it pours hard, the next minute it drizzles.
Rain water dramatically rolls from her forehead through the center of her nose and ends like a kiss on her lips. It tastes like salt, like her sweat. Her eyes follow the snakelike shape of the flowing water in a little gully. Every step sends sharp pains to her waist. Her big well rounded buttocks which used to be a center of attraction and a charm to men is now a burden to her.
Trees hung out to form a canopy as she approaches the river. It is empty, the rain has stopped people from coming. She places the wrapper on a dwarf rock on the river bank and fetches some water. The feel of cold water sends chills down her spine. The river is quiet except for the chirping of birds, so she notices the excited splash of a little fish that seems to be thanking the fish god for the rain. Her waist hurts again as she bends to wash her wrapper. 'Ukwudiya' which means ' Husband's buttocks' is a nickname given to her because of her large back size. It is known that through out the seven villages of Ugbenu town no woman can compete with her in that aspect. The sight of the blood stained wrapper, brings tears to her eyes.
She remembers vividly the first time she had a miscarriage, that was in the third year of her marriage. It took three years for her to get pregnant . Which didn't surprise anybody. It was no news that Ukwudiya was an 'Ogbanje'. A curse sent to her family to frustrate and torture them by coming to life and leaving just as fast. When she lost her pregnancy the first time, she almost went bananas. She ran to 'Agadi Nwanyi' the only female dibia in the village. 'My baby is gone' she cried as she flung herself on the floor in Agadi Nwanyi's shrine. The woman stared at her for a while and asked her to hush her mouth in a loud voice. 'You are in the presence of Otokoro, the gods of our fathers, your cries are upsetting him'. She rebuked.
'Yes I want him to be upset' Ukwudiya said 'I want him to be very upset! I want to ask him why mine must be different. Why is my life filled with sickness, torture and frustration?'
'Shut up woman! Otokoro cannot be questioned by a woman. Shut up before I curse you with chicken pox'.
'I am sorry great one, please pardon me. I am...'
Agadi Nwanyi interrupts. 'I know why you are here, you don't have to explain.' She said. 'I told your mother when she came here looking for a child twenty years ago. I told her she shouldn't try to have a child, but she insisted. My child Otokoro can't help you.'
'Why Why' Ukwudiya cried.
'Stop questioning Otokoro, I won't tell you this again woman'
'I am not questioning Otokoro. I am questioning you. What happened to my mother? Was she an Ogbanje like me?'
'Your mother wasn't an Ogbanje but she was destined to birth an Ogbanje, not just an ordinary one but the Queen Mother. I advised her to stop trying to have children but she was strong headed like you. She wanted you and she died getting you'.
Agadi Nwanyi's words stung Ukwudiya. She knew her mother died giving birth to her but she hated being reminded about it.
'So not only am I an Ogbanje, I am also the Queen Mother?'
'Yes my child and you are still alive because I dug up your 'Iyi Uwa' and cut your connection with the other world. It's your destiny never to have a child. Stop trying, your people in the other world would keep trying to force you to come to them by sending you children that won't stay.'
Ukwudiya stared in agony as Agadi Nwanyi continued, 'You were supposed to complete your mission and return on your thirteenth birthday, but I dug up your Iyi Uwa before that time, and so there was no connection, they couldn't take you'.
She had stormed out of the shrine cursing the gods, cursing her chi, cursing her mother for giving birth to her. Twenty years later, she wished she had not tried at all. They usually say what you don't know won't kill you, unfortunately she knows now what it feels like to be a mother. She had felt the warmth of her child's cheek close to hers. She had given birth to her own child and she named her 'Onwubiko'. She hoped the name would pacify death since it meant 'Death Please'.
She prayed every day to her old god 'Otokoro' and her new God, the one they say, has a son who came to earth to die for her sins. It was the new God, that gave her Onwubiko. She had prayed and fasted for one week to Him and he answered her.
When she felt heaviness in her breast, she had rushed to her husband's hut, and knelt down by his side 'My love' she said 'I am with child' . He smiled at her and asked her to sit on his lap. He kissed her stomach and asked if the baby was a boy. 'No my love, she feels like a girl'. He laughed like a drunken man and drew her very close to him. They made love in the hot afternoon.
That was the first time after her four miscarriages that she had told her husband she was with child. She always tried to save herself the embarrassment of explaining to her husband that the baby in her womb was now a big lump of blood that lay somewhere between grasses at the bush in the back of her hut. The man that told her about Jesus had told her to have faith in Him. She asked if she needed to sacrifice a goat. 'This God doesn't need any sacrifice all he needs is for you to believe in him and have faith in him'. She was surprised. Such an easy sacrifice she thought. She did just that and it included telling her husband. Telling him was a confirmation that the baby was going to live.
When for the first time in her life she held a baby she could call her own, she cried. The joy she felt was indescribable. She never let her out of her sight. She guarded her like a mother hen guards its chick. Onwubiko was a very beautiful girl. The village stood in awe of her beauty. She had the loveliest eyes and when she smiled the sun was envious because her smile out shined it.
On her fifth birthday Onwubiko who by then was the only thing her mother loved more than her life came down with 'Iba'. Ukwudiya didn't sleep that night she sat close to Onwubiko who lay on the bed shivering and crying, and prayed all night. She touched her skin with the back of her palm at intervals to monitor her temperature. At a point she felt so tired, she closed her eyes for a few seconds and fell into a deep sleep. She had terrible nightmares. When she woke up, she was holding a corpse in her hands and screaming. Her daughter was dead. She screamed so hard that it almost vibrated the compound. People gathered in her hut. Her husband tried to pacify her but she was implacable. She cursed both her old and new gods. She shook her daughter vigorously, pleading with her to come back. But the corpse was stoic. That was the worst day of her life. Her husband had called 'Agadi Nwanyi' who suggested that her daughter's corpse be mutilated, so she doesn't come back into the family as another child. She had gone bananas on them, threatening thunder and brimstone if anybody does so much as touch her daughter. She cried the whole day without sleep nor food, refusing to let go of her dead daughter. When she finally slept off. Her husband collected the corpse and carried it to Agadi Nwanyi who mutilated the corpse and burnt it to ashes. She never forgave either of them.
She rinses her cloth in the river and places it back in the basin. She sticks her hands into the soil and fills it with mud, on impulse. Raising her hand to the sky. she calls out to her Chi;
'You have cursed me with a childless life, you have made me a frustrated woman. I have lived a life filled with sorrow and pain. In this river I have washed out the blood of my unborn children. Ten times I have been with child. Ten times I have cried for you to save them. Ten times I have been rejected and ten times I have come here with a basin of blood stained wrapper on my head to wash away the blood of my children. What is a woman without a child? People laugh at me wherever I go. My husband no longer wants to see me except to satisfy his sexual urges. He calls me furniture, a useless woman. I have been called a witch that eats her children and in all these I stand innocent. I have never hurt anyone yet all that happens to me are things that hurt me. They call me an 'Ogbanje'. They say I am from a world I know nothing of. Today, I accept my fate. I go with the hope that where I go, there is a better destiny for me'.
She unties her wrapper and steps into the water. Series of thoughts run through her mind. She walks gently, deeper and deeper into the river until her legs can no longer touch the ground, until water covers her head, until her forced breathing forms bubbles on the surface of River Kalawa.
Hundred years later, the River kalawa is renamed 'Mmiri nenyenwa' 'water that gives children'. It is a common belief that any barren woman who visits the river with tears in her eyes is thereafter blessed with a child.
Friday, October 4, 2013
THE BURIAL
'You can't marry an osu'. My mother had drummed in my ears when I was about getting married to the only man I had ever loved. 'There is more to marriage than love, in short, the fact that you love him this much is enough reason for you to run for your dear life' She said, placing her hands on my shoulders. 'I have been married for years now so you should know that I have a great deal of experience in matters concerning marriage. Marriage is not what you think it is. It is tough. There are times when you contemplate committing suicide, so you can get away from all of it. There are also the good times though, plenty of it, but to add getting married to a man who is considered a sacrifice to the gods, a man who is ostracized from the community, who can't build a house in his village, that's terrible my dear'. She pauses and sips her coffee.
'Mummy, really, I don't know what to say to you. How can you judge a man because of a stupid law some ignorant illiterate dead people made. Okenna didn't do anything. He was just unfortunate to be born into a family that people think is cursed. Mummy you are professor, it's hard to believe that after all your days in Stanford you still can't understand that all this things are superstitions and total bullshit'. My emotions were getting the most of me.
'You know what is bullshit' she asked. 'Your childishness is total bullshit, you have refused to grow up. Don't you think about the children you would have? If you are okay with your husband being an Osu, that's okay. But do you think your children would love it that their father has no identity. Use your head my child, emotion leads one astray. There are issues were you have to jettison your emotion and use your head, this is one of them'.
I had stared at her with so much disgust, that not even the best artist in the world could get the deep mark of my frown.
I went ahead with the marriage.
After ten years of marriage, we had three beautiful children; Ngozi, Jidechukwu and Ndidiamaka. Before Okenna died, no woman could have been happier than I was; with three lovely children and the most caring husband in the world.
Sitted on a stool with one bad leg, mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, all those memories are totally gone. They had become dreams, my reality was right before me. Pinching me, calling me.
'We can't bury him and that is final' Nna anyi Dinta said, his booming voice, defiant.
Tears gathered in my eyes, I couldn't look at him, anger seared through my veins and visual clips of me dashing towards him and strangling him till I see the last of his tongue, raved through my mind.
'That's true' another of the Chiefs seconded ' Your husband was an Osu, you married him and you are now Osu, your children are now Osu. In as much as your husband helped the community, it doesn't make him a less of an Osu than he is. We simply can't offend the gods, an Osu can not be buried in our land.
As I drove down the tiled road, great pain filled me. Okenna built this road with his hard earned money for a village that has refused to bury him. He wanted them to accept him. He wanted to wipe off the taint that he was Osu. Oh! Those greedy things. They accepted his presents with open arms and smiling mouths. That he was Osu didn't matter to them then, that he shouldn't be shaked, hugged, didn't matter to them, since he brought them bags of rice, baskets of tomatoes, gallons of oil, tubers of yam. Okenna spent millions of naira building their roads, their bore holes. He so desperately wanted to belong. While he was alive he was a haunted man. Being rich, famous and intelligent didn't matter to him. He would always say 'A man without a place to call home is no man'. I would cry and plead with Okenna. I would often say 'Okenna look at me, look at this children, we are your home. You don't need a bunch of illiterate village people to call you brother.' He would reply ' Baby, it didn't matter if they accepted me or not until all of you came into my life. What if Ndidiamaka and Ngozi wants to get married? Would their Husbands people bring palm wine to our house in the city? What of Jidechukwu, what will I tell him? That he is not accepted in his village. That he can't buy land and build a house for his wife and children in the village. That is if at all anybody agrees to marry any of our children.'
'You are just like them. So freaking traditional. All those shit don't matter Okenna. Village, land, wine carrying, they don't matter. Love would find our children the way I found you, and Osu or no Osu, love conquereth all things.'
Burying him in this land was his last wish and they have refused, the same Chiefs that strolled in and out of our house asking for favors.
Okenna's body was arriving from the hospital to the village the next day. Since they have refused to bury him, the plausible thing to do is to bury him in Enugu, in the government cemetery like a man with no identity. I made a quick phone call. 'I want him to be brought in quietly, no sirens, no long cars.' I told the mortuary attendant that was escorting the body down from Enugu general hospital were Okenna had died.
'Kenechukwu open the gate' I shouted. The car drives in, a big black jeep that carries the corpse of my husband. I greet the men, and usher them inside. They eat rice and stew with chicken, I offer them beer also. I am so grateful to them, they carried out my instructions perfectly. No one knows my husband's body is in this village. No one except me and Kenechukwu, my younger brother. They leave an hour later, after carrying my husbands corpse into a room I had specially decorated for him; with flowers, beautiful satin materials. They lie his coffin on the bed and they leave. I am alone with Okenna's corpse. I am too scared to open it. I sit beside the coffin and cry. The thought that my bubbly Okenna was inside a coffin, motionless, dead as dead could be was frightening. How would I live without him. Yes, he made a lot of money for me and the kids, but I need what money can't buy, I need Okenna. I cry for a few minutes. I take comfort in knowing that I am going to give him something, after all the love he showered on me. Okenna deserves what I am about to give him.
When I told kenechukwu my plan, he called me a mad woman. I didn't refute, I didn't deny. I was a mad woman for Okenna. I could be anything for Okenna. It's midnight already. I and Kenechukwu drive to the spot. To the spot where he had dug up the day before. Okenna's body is at the back of the car. We drive slowly, carefully. We reach the spot and we gently carry Okenna's corpse out of the car. He is really heavy, but Kenechukwu is strong, I am strong too. We drop the corpse close to the six feet hole, Kenechukwu and some boys had dug. I don't know how he did it. I don't know what he told the boys he was doing with a hole as deep and as wide as this. We try to lower the Coffin into the hole but it is heavy. 'This is crazy' Kenechukwu says with a strong whisper. I ignore him. What does he know? The coffin rolls inside and lands inside the hole and I hear a big thud, I fidget. The coffin is inside the hole, but it has been turned upside down. I don't care, what matters most is that, it isn't open and it is six feet under the ground. I tell Kenechukwu to wait for me. He is scared, it's 1pm in the night and he is with a corpse. He doesn't refuse, though he is scared he would never admit it. I hurry home. Ngozi, Jidechukwu and Ndidiamaka are patiently waiting for me. I had told them of the plan earlier. They hurry into the car with their flowers, candle lights and the papers were they wrote a tribute to their father. In ten minutes we are back with Kenechukwu, he is safe. I officiate the ceremony. We pray in low voices. I pray for my husband's soul, I pray he finds peace where ever he is. I pray that he is praying for us too. Ndidiamaka begins first, she reads her tribute to her father, she ends saying 'Papa, if there is such a thing as a second life, in that second life, I still want to be your first daughter'. I don't know if she is crying, but I am. She loved Okenna. I know she died inside the day Okenna died. Jidechukwu goes next, but he doesn't finish, he begins to cry loudly, I try to pacify him. Then my last daughter reads her tribute, hers is short. 'Daddy I miss you so much, You are my hero, my gem. I think of you everyday. I hope you think of me too. Sleep like an angel daddy, because you are an angel.' Tears flow down my cheeks. It is my turn. I don't have a paper. 'Okenna, Sleep well, You might be dead, but you live on in my heart, in the heart of your children. Your last wish was to be buried in your own land. Osu or no Osu my love, I have given you your last wish.'
We all drop flowers on the coffin. Jidechukwu drops his favorite teddy bear and whispers, 'Daddy, I don't want you to be lonely'. I feel like crying again. We all pick a shovel and begin to throw sand on the coffin, till our hands begin to ache.
'Mummy, really, I don't know what to say to you. How can you judge a man because of a stupid law some ignorant illiterate dead people made. Okenna didn't do anything. He was just unfortunate to be born into a family that people think is cursed. Mummy you are professor, it's hard to believe that after all your days in Stanford you still can't understand that all this things are superstitions and total bullshit'. My emotions were getting the most of me.
'You know what is bullshit' she asked. 'Your childishness is total bullshit, you have refused to grow up. Don't you think about the children you would have? If you are okay with your husband being an Osu, that's okay. But do you think your children would love it that their father has no identity. Use your head my child, emotion leads one astray. There are issues were you have to jettison your emotion and use your head, this is one of them'.
I had stared at her with so much disgust, that not even the best artist in the world could get the deep mark of my frown.
I went ahead with the marriage.
After ten years of marriage, we had three beautiful children; Ngozi, Jidechukwu and Ndidiamaka. Before Okenna died, no woman could have been happier than I was; with three lovely children and the most caring husband in the world.
Sitted on a stool with one bad leg, mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, all those memories are totally gone. They had become dreams, my reality was right before me. Pinching me, calling me.
'We can't bury him and that is final' Nna anyi Dinta said, his booming voice, defiant.
Tears gathered in my eyes, I couldn't look at him, anger seared through my veins and visual clips of me dashing towards him and strangling him till I see the last of his tongue, raved through my mind.
'That's true' another of the Chiefs seconded ' Your husband was an Osu, you married him and you are now Osu, your children are now Osu. In as much as your husband helped the community, it doesn't make him a less of an Osu than he is. We simply can't offend the gods, an Osu can not be buried in our land.
As I drove down the tiled road, great pain filled me. Okenna built this road with his hard earned money for a village that has refused to bury him. He wanted them to accept him. He wanted to wipe off the taint that he was Osu. Oh! Those greedy things. They accepted his presents with open arms and smiling mouths. That he was Osu didn't matter to them then, that he shouldn't be shaked, hugged, didn't matter to them, since he brought them bags of rice, baskets of tomatoes, gallons of oil, tubers of yam. Okenna spent millions of naira building their roads, their bore holes. He so desperately wanted to belong. While he was alive he was a haunted man. Being rich, famous and intelligent didn't matter to him. He would always say 'A man without a place to call home is no man'. I would cry and plead with Okenna. I would often say 'Okenna look at me, look at this children, we are your home. You don't need a bunch of illiterate village people to call you brother.' He would reply ' Baby, it didn't matter if they accepted me or not until all of you came into my life. What if Ndidiamaka and Ngozi wants to get married? Would their Husbands people bring palm wine to our house in the city? What of Jidechukwu, what will I tell him? That he is not accepted in his village. That he can't buy land and build a house for his wife and children in the village. That is if at all anybody agrees to marry any of our children.'
'You are just like them. So freaking traditional. All those shit don't matter Okenna. Village, land, wine carrying, they don't matter. Love would find our children the way I found you, and Osu or no Osu, love conquereth all things.'
Burying him in this land was his last wish and they have refused, the same Chiefs that strolled in and out of our house asking for favors.
Okenna's body was arriving from the hospital to the village the next day. Since they have refused to bury him, the plausible thing to do is to bury him in Enugu, in the government cemetery like a man with no identity. I made a quick phone call. 'I want him to be brought in quietly, no sirens, no long cars.' I told the mortuary attendant that was escorting the body down from Enugu general hospital were Okenna had died.
'Kenechukwu open the gate' I shouted. The car drives in, a big black jeep that carries the corpse of my husband. I greet the men, and usher them inside. They eat rice and stew with chicken, I offer them beer also. I am so grateful to them, they carried out my instructions perfectly. No one knows my husband's body is in this village. No one except me and Kenechukwu, my younger brother. They leave an hour later, after carrying my husbands corpse into a room I had specially decorated for him; with flowers, beautiful satin materials. They lie his coffin on the bed and they leave. I am alone with Okenna's corpse. I am too scared to open it. I sit beside the coffin and cry. The thought that my bubbly Okenna was inside a coffin, motionless, dead as dead could be was frightening. How would I live without him. Yes, he made a lot of money for me and the kids, but I need what money can't buy, I need Okenna. I cry for a few minutes. I take comfort in knowing that I am going to give him something, after all the love he showered on me. Okenna deserves what I am about to give him.
When I told kenechukwu my plan, he called me a mad woman. I didn't refute, I didn't deny. I was a mad woman for Okenna. I could be anything for Okenna. It's midnight already. I and Kenechukwu drive to the spot. To the spot where he had dug up the day before. Okenna's body is at the back of the car. We drive slowly, carefully. We reach the spot and we gently carry Okenna's corpse out of the car. He is really heavy, but Kenechukwu is strong, I am strong too. We drop the corpse close to the six feet hole, Kenechukwu and some boys had dug. I don't know how he did it. I don't know what he told the boys he was doing with a hole as deep and as wide as this. We try to lower the Coffin into the hole but it is heavy. 'This is crazy' Kenechukwu says with a strong whisper. I ignore him. What does he know? The coffin rolls inside and lands inside the hole and I hear a big thud, I fidget. The coffin is inside the hole, but it has been turned upside down. I don't care, what matters most is that, it isn't open and it is six feet under the ground. I tell Kenechukwu to wait for me. He is scared, it's 1pm in the night and he is with a corpse. He doesn't refuse, though he is scared he would never admit it. I hurry home. Ngozi, Jidechukwu and Ndidiamaka are patiently waiting for me. I had told them of the plan earlier. They hurry into the car with their flowers, candle lights and the papers were they wrote a tribute to their father. In ten minutes we are back with Kenechukwu, he is safe. I officiate the ceremony. We pray in low voices. I pray for my husband's soul, I pray he finds peace where ever he is. I pray that he is praying for us too. Ndidiamaka begins first, she reads her tribute to her father, she ends saying 'Papa, if there is such a thing as a second life, in that second life, I still want to be your first daughter'. I don't know if she is crying, but I am. She loved Okenna. I know she died inside the day Okenna died. Jidechukwu goes next, but he doesn't finish, he begins to cry loudly, I try to pacify him. Then my last daughter reads her tribute, hers is short. 'Daddy I miss you so much, You are my hero, my gem. I think of you everyday. I hope you think of me too. Sleep like an angel daddy, because you are an angel.' Tears flow down my cheeks. It is my turn. I don't have a paper. 'Okenna, Sleep well, You might be dead, but you live on in my heart, in the heart of your children. Your last wish was to be buried in your own land. Osu or no Osu my love, I have given you your last wish.'
We all drop flowers on the coffin. Jidechukwu drops his favorite teddy bear and whispers, 'Daddy, I don't want you to be lonely'. I feel like crying again. We all pick a shovel and begin to throw sand on the coffin, till our hands begin to ache.
ESSAY COMPETITION
Hey peeps, below is a link for an essay competition on corruption in Africa 'How to make corruption unattractive in Africa'. Click, try your luck. I wish you success and myself too, because I am trying. Cheers!
http://www.fundsforngos.org/africa/anticorruption-youth-essay-competition-corruption-unattractive-africa/
http://www.fundsforngos.org/africa/anticorruption-youth-essay-competition-corruption-unattractive-africa/
Thursday, October 3, 2013
A TRIBUTE
Our love was like coffee with plenty of cream in it - bitter sweet, but more of sweet - You were something I couldn't do without. You were always there for me, loving me, teaching me, guiding me. You were a bright light in the darkness of my heart, and yet I didn't try to value you.
It's not that I didn't love you. It's just that I didn't realize how much. It's not that I didn't dream of your kiss, your touch...It's just that I didn't value them. I felt you were mine forever. I didn't think for a moment that it could be possible for you to be gone forever...until you left me on that sunny sunday afternoon.
Obim, they said you were a thief, that you were carrying illegal arms and you tried to attack them. How I cried when I heard this lies against you. Obim, you were a masters degree holder. We didn't have too much but we had enough to make us happy; your father left you a good inheritance. You were a christian, a staunch catholic not a thief, not a terrorist. You couldn't hurt a fly. You always cried everytime we watched Titanic. Obim, you had never stolen a thing in your life, yet they called you a thief because you refused to give them #100. Why? What is #100 compared to your life? Why didn't you settle them like thousands of Nigerians do? Obim, I always told you to jettison this your 'save Nigeria' ideology. I told you that you should think of surviving; that's how Nigerians think. I told you that, you alone, can't fight corruption in Nigeria. I told you that people have tried before you, but they faced the same fate. I told you of Dele Giwa, of Ken Saro-wiwa.
What makes my throat sting is that picture of your corpse on the Newspaper; a bullet wound in your head, your handsome face a lagoon of blood, your tongue stuck out like a goats, your eyes bloodshot, deep bruises scattered all over your body. Obim, you were naked in that picture and that Newspaper had a caption above that picture 'POLICE KILLS ARMED ROBBERY SUSPECT'. What should have been written is ' 'POLICE KILLS INNOCENT MAN BECAUSE OF #100'. I couldn't read the whole story because I was shaken. I cried at the injustice meted out on you, the ignorance and incompetence of the journalist that wrote that article. I cried not only because you were gone but because you died an undignified death, a death so painful that it made my brain shrink to think about it.
Even more so, you left without a sign, without a goodbye, without eating the rice and stew I cooked for you that sunday (I added curry leaf because I know you loved curry leaf).
Its been months now, but every time I think of you, my body is invaded by goose bumps, my heart beats faster, and tears flow uncontrollably from my eyes. Writing about you in past tense is hard because I still can't fully accept the fact that you are gone forever, that my dreams of bearing your children will never be reality, that I wasted my imagination thinking of the day you would make me your wife. I don't accept this. I wanted to shout, kick, bite, scream, and even sue the police but, Obim, am sorry that I don't have your spirit to always do what is right. I am sorry that I have joined the crowd of Nigerians who keep quiet when they are stripped off their rights by people who should be upholding them. I am sorry that I am among the bandwagons of Nigerians that bribe the police at every check point. Obim, I am deeply sorry that I can't fight your fight because my mind has been corrupted by the fear of dieing your death. I am sorry that I can't do anything but soak my pillows in tears because I know that even if I speak up nobody would hear me and if unfortunately I talk too much and the wrong people hear me Obim, I might die your death.
I keep beating myself up for all those days I went to bed without telling you how much you mean to me. Regretting all the times I didn't love you enough.
I miss you so much. If you can read this (if it's allowed in heaven) I want to tell you the things I always forgot to tell you while you were alive -I LOVE YOU and I VALUE YOU. Sleep like the baby you are Obim! My love! My heartbeat!
*Dedicated to all those who have lost their innocent loved ones to such barbarism, especially to the recent one (Apo killings by officials of SSS) and the old one five years ago (by the Nigerian policemen). May their souls rest in perfect peace. Amen.
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