We Are Not Cursed #21 (I)

PART TWENTY-ONE (I)

Edited by: Darlene Jones

 

The voice was loud and gruff.

Coming to the realization that his name had been called, Umeh wrenched his gaze from the figure of the juju priest thinning away in the distance and refocused on the presiding officers—the direction where the voice had come from. The three men looked at each other with raised brows, then at him.

“Sorry, I di …” he raised a hand apologetically, unsure if it was sensible to finish what he wanted to say.

On impulse, he scanned the rest of his fellow council members—the men had taken their seats after the exit of the priest. But much to his chagrin, they were also looking back at him, chiefly with expressions that suggested they thought he was confused. And he knew he was.

Atone by forfeiting a member of your family. Like a boat tossed by huge waves, the words of the priest bobbed inside Umeh’s head. Unpleasant as it seemed, handing over one of his family members to the Isiochie people might well be his best opportunity to keep his family and village from being attacked. The snag however remained that this, also, was no guarantee. Could he trust that the two villages would co-exist peacefully after the transfer? Furthermore, could he trust that this member of his family would be kept alive after the transfer, that Isiochie would treat this member of his family humanely?

Tell the council you cannot do as the juju priest had asked. Or better, run. Escape with your family now that you have the chance. You can’t afford to lose another of your loved ones under these terrible circumstances. Sweat broke over Umeh’s brow. He moved his hand to the back of his head, scratching the base as if this would get his brain to focus differently. But there was nothing a mere sensation could do to turn his mind away from worry.

Escape? What if Oluchi and the girls refuse to leave? What if the plan turns out bad? Hopeless, his hand dropped to his side. His stomach wrenched. He could feel the sharp rise of his pulse; his heart knocked hard against his chest.

The youngest of the presiding officers leaned forward and gave him a hard stare. “Are you still with us?”

“Y-yes. Yes.” Thrusting the walking stick an inch forward allowed Umeh to move his legs a bit, hence, balance the blood flow through them.

Igbo Pillars (pic source: nairaland.com)

“It’s a good thing that Okofia was here. Now we all know that he earlier advised you against making such a rash move.”

Silence.

The three officers held a brief whispered conversation. After that, the one in the middle spoke up, “This council deserves to know the truth. Considering your one-sided decision, the actions that were taken as a result, this council deserves to know if you really desire to see your people progress, if you really care about their existence or not. Of course, there is one quick way to find out. Now, in the name of Amadioha, swear that you will adhere to the words of his priest. That you will give up one of your own to in order to prevent this imminent war.”

No man, not even a fool, would want to incur wrath to himself and possibly his lineage by lying in the name of the thunder god. Umeh knew this from childhood. He had seen lightening set people ablaze for lying under oath. However, the complexity surrounding his son’s death now left him with a difficult choice to make: in the name of a god who was either asleep or had turned a deaf ear to his pleas, he had to choose between giving away one of his own and escaping with his loved ones.

An answer; one that backed neither option should be fair enough, he thought. Time to weigh his options was what he needed the most and not a public show of his allegiance to the god. To any supernatural being, in fact. “May Amadioha strike me dead if I fail to do what ought to be done.”

“What ought to be done?” the officer in the middle cocked a brow, unsatisfied. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Uh,” Azuuzu tapped his co-officer on the wrist, “Let’s not stew over such small detail. At his age, I believe he’s fully aware of the consequences of failing.” He rose to his feet. Waving his hand across, he repeatedly hailed the council. “Before this meeting is over, there is one more issue … I believe it’s as important as what Ichie Umeh has brought before this council. The issue I’m about to speak of needs to be resolved. Right here. Right now.” His gaze fell on Umeh. “Recently, someone tried to abduct one of the daughters of this village without cause. I’m talking specifically of Ichie Umeh’s first daughter.”

A gasp of surprise swept across the gathering. Umeh was caught off-guard. Even though he’d considered the action of his friend’s son morally repugnant, he had kept it to himself because he intended to forgive, to grant the young man another chance to live uprightly among Ngwo people. Unfortunately the story of Okuoba’s failed abduction had now been made public. There was no way he could shy away from the issue—he didn’t intend to look any more foolish before the council than he already was, neither did he want to give his fellow noblemen the impression that he would condone evil.

“I wonder if he,” Azuuzu pointed at Umeh, “intends to keep the matter a secret or wants to disclose it at a later date.”

“I … I was hoping … Look, it’s a delicate issue. I pray it doesn’t repeat itself again.”

“Gini? We all have wives! Daughters! What chance does any one of them have if she should come face to face with this assailer?”

“Tell us, who attacked your daughter?” spat the man on Umeh’s right. Then, from all corners, there were loud angry calls for the culprit’s identity to be revealed.

Umeh motioned for calm. But he wasn’t rewarded with complete silence. It wasn’t hard to tell why some of the members rather began conversing quietly, sheer disgust on their faces.

“His name is Ibeabuchi, son of Ichie Amaefuna,” Umeh managed to say.

 “Ifugo nu? Do you see it? A potential rapist in this village?” Still appalled, Azuuzu gesticulated with open arms. “That boy is not an outsider! Who knows? Is Ichie Amaefuna absent from this meeting because he’s ashamed of his son’s sinful act? People of Ngwo, should we close our eyes to such evil?”

 

<<PART 20 (II) || PART 21 (I)

We Are Not Cursed #20 (II)

PART 20 (II)

Edited by: Darlene Jones

 

 

Moments after everyone was seated, Umeh stood up in the midst of the rectangular formation, supporting himself with his walking stick. He jabbed the air. “Ndi Ngwo, kwenu!”

“Yah!” The council unanimously responded to his spirited greeting.

Another jab. “Kwenu!”

“Yah!”

Another jab. “Kwezuonu!”

“Yaaah!”

Looking around, it occurred to Umeh that Amaefuna had yet to arrive for the meeting. Was his fellow nobleman and close friend afraid he would raise the issue of Okuoba’s failed abduction before the council? The penalty, if he chose to do so, would certainly leave a deep scar on their friendship; it would either lead to the stoning to death or irrevocable exile of Amaefuna’s son, Ibeabuchi.  This, he wasn’t prepared for, especially as the attempt to snatch Okuoba had failed. He wanted to forgive his friend and his young son. He wanted them to move on together.

“Ndi Ngwo, I thank you all for coming. Em,” Umeh cleared his throat, his focus now on the presiding officers for the meeting, “one cannot conceal pregnancy by covering the tummy with a basket. It’s also true that the bird that has learned to fly, cannot fly forever; it must perch at some point.”

The council members nodded in agreement.

“My people,” Umeh continued, scanning the men by his sides, his voice now plaintive, “the greatest fear of a father with an only son is watching his boy pass away, living with the sad reality that his child has left this world before him. My son’s gone. He’s dead. But he didn’t die of a natural cause. Cruel hands took him away from me. Slit his throat like an animal. You all saw his corpse at his funeral. Of course, it’s proper that I should have, during my period of mourning, directly or indirectly brought the matter before this council to show my family’s innocence and to prompt you to assist me while also consulting the gods of our ancestors for assistance. But because I thought that with the help of the gods I could effectively handle the situation, I didn’t call on you, the council. Instead I tried to tackle the situation by calling on my brother and a few close friends. This approach I now regret for it has backfired.” Umeh hung his head. “I … I feel terrible. I should’ve consulted the council before now.”

Murmurs went around. Died when one of the three men co-presiding over the meeting raised his hand. The man, several moons younger than Umeh, was likewise the youngest of three presiding officers at the meeting. He rested his folded arm on his thigh and glared up at Umeh, his visage stern and authoritative like a slaver wielding a whip. “Backfired? What exactly do you mean by that?” he asked.

Umeh went on to explain that he’d sent his brother, Eloka, to the house of a wealthy man from Isiochie, who had in the recent past, wished that Okuoba be given in marriage to his son. Eloka’s task was straightforward: to find out if the man and his people were aware of the slaying of the entourage meant to welcome them to Ngwo village, as suitors. Unfortunately, this inquiry didn’t come through; the man and his people refused to respond to questions regarding the death of this entourage. Annoyed as well as suspicious, Eloka lingered. When chance presented the man’s first son, he beheaded the young boy, and upon returning with the head to Ngwo sought more retaliatory action against the man and his people.

“You mean Eloka beheaded the man’s son just because the man and his family failed to co-operate? He took such a major decision without the approval of Okofia, our juju priest, and of this council?”

All eyes migrated to Umeh. Like a flurry of dry sand, the warning words of Okofia came rushing in: “Your brother is a good hunter and warrior. I respect him for that. But he’s quick-tempered and acts foolishly in the heat of his anger. Will you deny that you aren’t aware of this? Consider this: what if the men from Isiochie fail to welcome your brother in a proper manner? What if they claim they are not aware of your son’s death—which, of course, they are entitled to say?”

“This council still awaits your answer, Ichie Umeh.”

In his heart, Umeh ruefully admitted that he was standing before a council that might not be too pleased with his next response. Nervous and uncertain of how his answer would affect his yet-to-be-spoken plea for the council’s assistance, he flexed his fingers around the head of his walking stick. With a nod, he said, “Yes.”

The affirmation provoked the men. Loud voices rang out here and there; those Umeh managed to make sense of weren’t entirely in his favour. It took several shouts of “quiet” from the presiding officers to get the gathering to calm down again.

The next presiding officer raised a questioning eyebrow. “Do you know the gravity of what you and your clique have just done?”

Umeh gave a slow nod.

“Then what do you want the council to do at this point? Help you to solve the matter after you went about it your way? Clearly your actions show you no longer have regard for this council. Perhaps all you see now is your wealth—your big farmlands and many animals. Do you think this wealth of yours will get you everything? Tell us, was your brother’s action inspired by the gods or by his pride?”

The comment hit Umeh’s core like an axe against soft wood. He could sense the mockery and indifference in the man’s tone, accentuated by his half-hearted smile. If he allowed himself to respond angrily to the man’s remark, there was a big chance that the council would be discussing the consequences and due punishment for his negligence rather than offering him much needed help.

All the same, anger still seeped in, causing Umeh’s temperature to rise. “My son’s spirit wanders,” he could feel his voice waver, “and every day after his passing, I feel I’m farther away from learning who his killers are. This doesn’t mean I stand here to justify my decision or my brother’s action.  All I know is that I did what any father would do—any desperate father who won’t get the chance to have a son of his own again.”

Murmurs came alive, but fizzled out soon afterwards.

Azuuzu, the third presiding officer and an old acquaintance of Umeh, spoke up, “My fellow noblemen,” he pointed at him, “let’s not be quick to dismiss the fact that our brother here is still mourning his son. His only son. The matter he’s brought before this council is beyond him. I say so because we, too, are likely to be affected if we fold our arms and do nothing.”

A man beside Umeh harshly spoke up, “Tufiakwa! What’s that supposed to mean? He’s brought trouble on himself and not us!”

“Listen to yourself.” Amadi gesticulated. “Do you think that if we refuse to help Ichie Umeh, such decision will do us any good? Friendship aside, this situation reeks of great danger! I can feel it!”

Bell jingles from the east drew the attention of the noblemen. Approaching the meeting ground was the juju priest, Okofia, barefooted, with patches of antelope skin wrapped around his waist and upper body. He was more bones than flesh, like a man who hadn’t tasted food for more than a full moon. Yet he walked with vigour, his heavily beaded staff stabbing the ground with each step. On his hands were thin white markings with no distinct pattern while the bold shiny black and red rings drawn around his keen dark eyes were enough to evoke fear.

As he stepped into the centre of the meeting, the noblemen rose to their feet; each man bowing his head in greeting.

He sniffed the air. Grimaced. Retrieving some ground gypsum from a leather bag slung from his shoulder, he blew away the fine white dust from his palm in bits—all aimed at the four corners of the gathering. When he balled his hand into a fist and smelled it, he shivered, his eyes all white for a moment as if his body had, at last, come under a convulsive attack. Then, all of a sudden, he regained control of himself.

“An adult doesn’t stay at home and let a she-goat go through labour tethered.” He turned to Umeh, disappointment written all over his face. Through clenched teeth, he asked, “I warned you, didn’t I?”

Umeh lowered his head, remorseful.

The juju priest began to pace around, inspecting the faces of the noblemen as if he was looking for the oddball in their midst. “I can tell there is division among you; some of you for some reason are afraid to speak their minds.” He turned to the presiding officers. “How deep is this trouble?”

“Very deep, I believe.” Azuuzu began to re-narrate what Umeh had just said.

The juju priest walked up to Umeh, his eyes fiercely wider than what they were upon his arrival. “I personally paid you a visit, to warn you before things got out of control. But no, you were recklessly determined on finding answers!” he knocked his staff on the ground. “You’ve just put this village at the risk of war!”

Silence. With it came a sense of great unease; it hung in the air like a terrible stench.

Okofia looked away. “And if we should go to this war, I fear there will be no survivors.”

A concerned voice came from behind, “But you can consult the gods on our behalf. They’ll grant us victory.”

“It’s rumoured that Isiochie has giants who fight beside their fearless warriors. In any case, the gods of our ancestors for reasons best known to them have refused to reveal themselves to me ever since Ichie Umeh lost his son. As it stands, we are on our own.”

“There should another way out. A remedy?” Umeh couldn’t hold back from speaking quickly.

“Atonement.”

“Y-yes. I’ve bulls, goats, cocks, tubers of yam and cassava. I’m willing to offer as much as—”

“Atone by forfeiting a member of your family! That’s your best option, if you care about your family’s future and that of your people.”

Umeh’s mouth gaped wide, his eye filled with dreadful shock.

 

 

Part 20 (I) || Part 20 (II)

We Are Not Cursed #20 (I)

For the previous installments, click HERE

PART 20 (I)

Edited by: Darlene Jones

 

As the sun dipped below the horizon, its heat almost silenced, Umeh, along with his seat carrier and servant, Maduako, arrived at the village square for the meeting with his fellow noblemen which he had earlier called for. Umeh hadn’t envisioned the hunt for his son’s killers taking this long and yet yielding nothing positive. A fool’s errand it increasingly seemed. What continued to torture him in private was the thought that his firstborn would forever wander as a restless soul, if all efforts toward bringing his killers to justice failed.

“Ichie Umeh, Ichie Umeh …” a male voice, from behind, repeated in a hushed tone.

Turning, Umeh said, “Ah! Ichie Amadi …” He inspected his friend’s face. “Is everything all right?”

“Ye—er—no. No. Not quite.” Amadi quickly came up to him, his breath slightly faster than normal. “I was tending to one of my nanny goats in labour when I heard the village crier announce you wanted us, the noblemen, to gather here, around this time, for an urgent meeting. This meeting … it’s about your son, right?”

It took Umeh awhile to evaluate the question, yet the motive remained unclear. Knitting his brows, he said, “Yes. Why do you ask?”

Amadi glanced about, then at the noblemen who were still arriving for the meeting. Like those already seated under the tall historic Ekpu tree in the heart of the busy village square, they were all fully dressed, their wrappers passed under their right armpits and tied over their left shoulders, red beads adorning their wrists, and accompanying them were their seat carriers who were either their sons or servant boys.

He refocused on Umeh, purposefulness still evident in his eyes. “More than three market days ago, when Ichie Amaefuna, your brother, Eloka, and I visited you, we all agreed that as part of our investigation into your son’s death, I’d also notify the council of his murder, requesting their assistance. I admit a counter thought later came up: I wasn’t so sure I could really trust every member of the council. Not that I could point out anyone in connection with his killing, but then … Anyway, I didn’t inform the council.

“Something tells me you can’t wait any longer for me, Ichie Amaefuna, or Eloka, to come up with answers, or at least, a clue as to the identities of your son’s murderers. You now want to ask the entire council to aid you in the search for these men.” Amadi took a moment to catch his breath. “As much as this sounds like a better approach, I have my fears, too. The same fears that stopped me from consulting the council in the first place …”

“Go on.”

“What if his murderers are in attendance? Don’t you think all deliberations made here will eventually work in their favour and not yours? You and I know quite well that no fighter strategizes in the presence of his enemy.”

Umeh blinked. He couldn’t easily dismiss the possibility. But considering the advice of Okofia, the juju priest, which he’d earlier failed to adhere to and the grave mistake Eloka had made afterwards by beheading a young boy in Isiochie, the safety of the rest of his family was now top on his agenda. He thought it best to first save them from a likely retributory attack by the boy’s people before refocusing his energy on the unknown—the murderers of his son.

“What’s he still doing here?” Amadi was referring to Maduako, who was within earshot of their conversation. Before Umeh could respond, Amadi stabbed a finger toward the circle of noblemen under the Ekpu tree. “Ngwa, place your master’s stool over there and join the likes you far behind that tree.”

A style of Igbo stool in pre-colonial Nigeria (pic source: http://www.nairaland.com)

The tall lanky servant jumped at the order. As he made a frantic effort to balance the black wooden stool on his shoulder, Amadi thundered, “Leave us!”

The young servant ran along. Grasses, the straw-gold hues of dryness, dangled from a leather strap tied around his waist.

With the dull end of his walking stick, Umeh gently dispersed some of the small blackish stones in front of him. “I’d be a liar if I said there’s no wisdom in what you’ve just said.” He slowly raised his head. “But I think I’m now standing at the crossroads between letting our people know what’s really going on in my family and trying to brave the ugly situation without their support. Asking the council, at this point, to help me find my son’s killers isn’t just the reason why I’ve called for this meeting. There is more to it.”

Amadi looked perplexed. “More to it … how?”

“It’s about my brother, Eloka. He’s compounded my troubles by bringing home a human head from Isiochie.”

 

 

~~NOTE: “Ichie” is a revered title for elderly men in some parts of Igboland. In Igboland, titles are either conferred on a person after his father’s passing, or by selection~~

PART 19||PART 20

We Are Not Cursed #19

***Warning: Mature Content. Reader Discretion is advised***

PART NINETEEN

Edited by: Darlene Jones

Illustration of a black woman by Frank Morrison (pic source: webneel.com)

He watched Ekwutosilim as she strode up the manicured path, her slender hips swaying seductively in her tattered short piece of goat skin. The girl led a promiscuous life. None of her fellow servants were aware of her secret cowries, the way she earned these precious shells. But he knew. He knew all about her.

He didn’t imagine it would happen—his attraction to her. But here he was, unable to stop himself from watching her, from thinking about her. Of course the first thing he’d noticed about her had been her mahogany skin. It wasn’t quite the same shade as Okuoba’s. Nevertheless, her skin tone obsessed him. For him, it quickly pointed to one thing. A subtle diversion. Fate had rolled a slightly different dice before him, waiting for him to react. Like a sculptor, it had presented him with a young female, whose body reminded him of Okuoba. Or was she a beguiler, working for Okuoba, with the sole intention of distracting him—perhaps, forever?

If Ekwutosilim didn’t live here in Ngwo village, he would open up to her, and during the course of their conversation ask if she and Okuoba knew each other, if she had gone through some bodily transformation just to entice him away from her. But then, posing such questions would make him look stupid.

Watching Ekwutosilim, his gaze focused on the provocative way she walked, his penis grew hard. He shut his eyes and imagined what it would feel like to be inside her. He ran his hand over the front of his loincloth and sighed.

He would have to travel out of Ngwo to meet his diviner. He’d have to inform her about the emergence of Ekwutosilim. He’d have to inform her about his growing hunger to bed Okuoba. The diviner should at least provide him with a solution. He had to ease the ache somehow without bringing his ultimate plan to ruin. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, imagining what Okuoba would taste like if he kissed her, if he sucked her breasts, if he drove his fingers in between her parted thighs. Or was fate being kind to him, letting him take notice of Ekwutosilim, so he could, in the meantime, ease his hunger for Okuoba, with the carnal knowledge of the young servant girl?

Groaning inwardly, he turned around and looked the other way. After taking several deep breaths, he managed to control the raging hunger inside him. But could he really hold out any much longer?

 

PART 18 || PART 19

 

We Are Not Cursed #18

*** Warning: Sexual theme involved. Reader discretion is advised ***

PART EIGHTEEN

Edited by: Darlene Jones

African woman art (pic source: Internet)

Ekwutosilim had arrived at Ngwo village at the height of the rainy season and was working as one of the servants at the house of Ichie Azuuzu in return for refuge. At least, that was her best chance of survival after her village was hit by a plague which left scores of inhabitants dead. Although subservience was required in her new home, accepting more duties and errands for Ichie Azuuzu himself soon became an excuse to avoid his wife. With what she earned from an illicit service to Ichie Azuuzu, she thought she should be able to leave before the next planting season and begin a new life in some other village.

More than anything, she wanted to be far away from home—from the place with haunting memories of the dead. If anyone had told her eight full moons ago that she would have gone from being a teenage girl who just liked to have fun, to a kept woman in Ngwo, she wouldn’t have believed it. But when, at her second period, she had secretly been offered ten cowries to stroke her master’s erection, she hadn’t been able to refuse such precious shells. Sweet-talked into coming close to his side, she had knelt quietly, shy and abashed at the sight his sex—throbbing and veined—until he placed her hand on it. The unfamiliar contact made her pull away instantly, the effect, nonetheless, lingered, bringing her almost to the point of vomit. Yet Ichie Azuuzu didn’t seem to take interest in her reaction; he once more took her hand, wrapping it around him, his lascivious need clearly reflecting in his eyes. She remembered the feeling—how his penis alternated from hardness to softness at the head and back—as she moved up and down on it, the pleasure pouring out from his face as he urged her to go faster. She had not stimulated him for long when his body convulsed and spurts of semen spilled over her hand. Unable to hold back anymore, she shot to her feet and at the corner of his hut, vomited on the floor.

If Ichie Azuuzu’s wife knew the number of times she’d serviced him ever since, she would be surprised. By the gods, she’d be shocked. Ichie Azuuzu, a prominent figure in the village council and a man old enough to be her father, was nothing like his cruel and fault-finding wife. Actually, if she wasn’t terrified of being publicly disgraced and killed, she’d have taunted her master’s wife with the revelation of his illicit association with her.

No, better not go that road, she told herself. Even though Ichie Azuuzu, who had only occasional need for her as of late, now gave her fewer cowries than what she used to receive from him, she knew she couldn’t complain. As a matter of fact, she’d been saving steadily for her big escape, and very soon she’d have a sizable nest egg, enough to live on until fate linked her with right man from the village where she’d resettle. Who knew, could be she’d be accepted by the family of a well-known farmer and she’d bear him many good-looking sons to the shame of her master’s wife, who had two: a dull midget of a first son and the second, about her age or older, whose actions, sometimes, made her wonder if he was born deranged.

“Ekwutosilim, hurry up! You’ve been standing there as if you had just encountered the river goddess,” Funaya, the eldest of Ichie Azuuzu’s four servants, called out to her.

“Oh … right away.”

Ankle deep in the flowing river, Ekwutosilim gently submerged her clay pot in the clear water, waited, then with practiced precision, lifted the water-filled pot; first, onto her bent knee, before placing it atop her head. She hoped Ichie Azuuzu’s wife wouldn’t send her back to the river for the third time today to draw water; otherwise, she would have very little energy left to meet other duties. She suspected that Ichie Azuuzu hardly talked or spent time with his wife because of her incessant nagging. The woman was like a waspish rain that wouldn’t let up.

As she ascended the slope abounding in rocks, she asked her fellow servants who had been waiting for her, “Was I really looking lost?”

The three looked at each other, amused, then flashed her knowing smiles. Turning around, they advanced slowly, their clay pots perched on their heads.

As water dripped down the sides of her pot, Ekwutosilim wiped the drops rolling down onto her face with the back of her hand. When she was almost at the head of the slope, her foot slipped and she fell. The pot shot forward and shattered into bits.

The other servants paused. Turned. They stood rooted, gaping at her, close to panic.

“Are you all right?” Funaya finally asked, glancing down at her, at the bits of clay, and back.

Rising up and dusting her sides, Ekwutosilim nodded. Anger and disappointment crept into her voice. “Now, that woman is going to take a strip off my hide.”

Time slipped by in silence. The river continued to make it lapping call, mingling with the human voices behind them.

“No worries—we’ll figure a way out.”

People, going to and fro, passed them by; some caring to make sympathetic remarks. But none of these words made much sense to Ekwutosilim. For her, life, all of a sudden, looked like a wasteful journey—like the spilled water which she couldn’t retrieve.

The three servants beckoned to her. Together, they agreed that since there were still some empty pots left, Ekwutosolim would present one of them—already filled with water—as her latest contribution to making water available in their home. This would save her from the wrath of Ichie Azuuzu’s wife.

Smiling, Ekwutosilim nodded her thanks to what she believed was an excellent plan.

Side by side, they resumed walking while they gossiped about a variety of issues including the upcoming Mputa Ezi ceremony. Funaya and the other two seized the opportunity to direct their next question to Ekwutosilim: “Our master must be keen on getting pretty maidens for his sons after the ceremony, right?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” Ekwutosilim tried to sidestep the question.

“Ah-ah! You mean he hasn’t discussed the matter with you? Or do you think that we aren’t aware that he now enjoys talking to you?”

Ekwutosilim halted, her mind rapidly clutched by the frightening possibility that her affair also was no longer a secret. She looked desperately at the other servants, contemplating telling them the reason for her ongoing relationship with their master. After that, she’d then hold on to the hope that they wouldn’t turn their backs on her. On second thought, rather than talk too soon without being certain that her affair was already out in the open, she decided to keep quiet about it. But she couldn’t ignore the warning emanating from their comment. For her own safety, she now had no choice but to escape earlier than planned.

With a false sense of innocence, she continued, “We … I mean, he never discussed the issue with me.”

Her fellow servants looked a bit surprised. They seemed to believe her, though.

Funaya lowered her voice, “You see that second son of Ichie Azuuzu … that rascal…”

Ekwutosolim and the others leaned in, keen to hear the rest of what she had to say.

“Only the gods know what misery that young man will bring upon his future wife or wives as the case may be. He’s like a tsetse fly perching on the scrotum: smite it and you kill your manhood, leave it there and it kills your manhood.”

They all convulsed with laughter.

While they proceeded toward home, Ekwutosilim remembered her master’s words about finding a beautiful maiden for his second son after the Mputa Ezi ceremony.

Ichie Azuuzu had mentioned a few names. Out of the few, he spoke highly about one.

He said she was like the pungent beauty of twilight.

But he was also sceptical of the match proceeding.

For some unexplainable reason, he couldn’t vouch for his second son.

PART 17 || PART 18