We Are Not Cursed #9

PART NINE

 Edited by: Darlene Jones

         

After a close look at the roasted gazelles drooping from the ends of the pole across Ibeabuchi’s shoulder, Okuoba said, “They’re big—very big. Our hunters hardly find such during this period. This should make you a proud man and your family will enjoy feasting for some time to come.”

Ibeabuchi shook his head in nervous excitement. “These are not for them. Neither are they for trade.”

He let the meat slide onto the nearby grass.

“You must be joking.”  Okuoba’s brow creased in disbelief. Another look at the roast and she asked, “What do you intend to do with them, then? They’re not rams, goats, or fowls and therefore are not sacrificially acceptable to the gods. Above all, they have already been killed.”

Ibeabuchi clasped his hands and then leaned in with an ear to ear grin. “They’re for you.”

Okuoba’s eyelids fluttered. Such magnanimity toward her was his first. Nevertheless, she placed his large family before herself. “Thank you. But … I think your family needs them more than I do.”

She blinked a sign to the servant girls beside her to continue with her toward her father’s farms.

“Look”—Ibeabuchi stepped in her way—“It’s true I’ve not yet dropped by to offer my condolences to your family. But presenting you with a gift first isn’t entirely a bad approach. Or is it?”

Okuoba heaved a sigh.

The recollection of her loss had just filled her mind with a nostalgic vibe; a yearning to spend time again—even if it was brief—with her protective brother. She let her vision travel in the direction of Dubem and the other servants clearing the field of her father’s largest farmland; dry grasses had been heaped here and there and firewood gradually gathered in bunches. She hoped that with her eyes still averted, this would hint to Ibeabuchi of her lack of interest in what he was offering. By the gods, there were many mouths to feed in his father’s house; it was hard to imagine that they would go from season to season without voicing their discontent at the little they had. Ibeabuchi’s family, unlike hers, didn’t have the luxury of slaughtering an animal for meat every fortnight. To top it all what would her father, a man of inflexible purpose, say to such a gesture especially now that she was full-grown? Her father hadn’t spoken well of Ibeabuchi since she was a child.

Ibeabuchi used his frame as an obstruction to Okuoba’s view again, causing her to look up at him.

“Please…” he said.

“No. I can’t.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You’re angry. I can see that.”

“Angry?” A chuckle escaped Okuoba’s lips. “With you? There is no reason why I should be.”

“Then why do you refuse the gift?”

“I’m…” Okuoba caught herself. She hadn’t expected Ibeabuchi to press further.

She scratched a side of her plait, pretending to sooth an itchy spot on her head while her mind searched quickly for a way to consolidate on the reason behind her refusal.

“Your siblings, half-brothers and sisters … they all need this. How do you think they would feel if I, a wealthy man’s daughter, am the sole beneficiary of such gift from you? Surely you don’t expect news of this kill to be hidden from them forever. You and I know that a hunter’s success—no matter how small—moves so fast around the village like a wind.”

Ibeabuchi tilted his head. A contentious smile spread across his lips as he asked: “And what if I tell you that my family is feasting already on another kill?”

Okuoba didn’t know what else to say; it was clear to her now that she was boxed in. She searched his face desperately for the slightest sign of falsehood, came up empty. His dishevelled look was just another story. The unkemptness of his beard and hair were rather the evidence of a man who had been away from home for sometime, a man who had been so engulfed hunting that he seemed to forget his looks.

“Can’t I still give you something—at least for old time sake?”

A couple of beats passed and her shoulders slumped in acquiescence. She asked the servant girls to take up the meat and head for the largest of her father’s farms. “Ibeabuchi, thank you once again for your immense generosity.”

“No problem.”

Okuoba offered a weak smile. “I’ve to go now. My mo—”

Ibeabuchi restrained her. His grip around her arm was strong, his fingers digging into her flesh. “I’ve something important to tell you. You’ll do well to hear it.”

Surprise soon turned into anxiety for Okuoba. She tried to stay composed on the outside, though. “What is it?”

Ibeabuchi released his grip and gestured with both hands. “Let’s walk.”

Pointing to one of the udala trees standing close to her father’s largest farm, she said, “We can sit over there.”

“No. Someone may be listening.”

 

Part Eight||Part Nine

We Are Not Cursed #8

PART EIGHT

Edited by: Darlene Jones

 

 

 

“Ha! It seems there were more girls in attendance today.”

“The dedication … It’s about to happen soon, right?” The older of the two servant girls moved closer to Okuoba, eliciting an answer from her with a knowing smile.

Not too far in front of them, a shrew darted across the low greenish-brown grass that flanked the footpath. A few more followed shortly, leaving behind trembling blades in the wake of their passage.

More than two market days ago, both servants had accompanied Okuoba to a session where young Ngwo girls on the threshold of womanhood were collectively lectured by the Umuada in the village. On their way back from the village square, Okuoba had happily shared with them the reason for such gathering.

Throughout this last meeting, however, Okuoba sat inattentively while stories and details about Ani, the goddess of fertility, were relayed. What rather preoccupied her mind was the mystery surrounding Nnanna’s death. The more she thought about it, the more unanswered questions sprang up. Questions meant for the deities, especially Ani also known as the Earth goddess.

She wondered why the goddess would let Nnanna’s killers go scot free—at least that was the way she perceived it at this point. Ani was meant to deal with abominable acts against the land; acts that stopped life without proper reason or physically reduced a person to an animal.

Soon, she would be required to stand before the shrine of Ani along with other marriageable maidens. But of what value would it be to take oaths and then formally dedicate herself to a goddess who couldn’t protect her family?

“Do young girls in your village go through the same ritual?” Okuoba said, but quickly reminded herself that the girls were just servants. Their largely unfortunate circumstance, which had subjected them and a few others to servanthood in Ngwo, made her wish she’d not asked the question in the first place.

The older servant, who seemed to ponder over the question, shook her head. “No. I don’t recall being told about any ritual before womanhood.”

“It seems your enthusiasm is waning,” the other servant said, her brows knitting in the middle as she stared at Okuoba. “Surely it must be the anxiety of embracing womanhood, calling a man your husband and someday—perhaps, very soon—carrying his baby inside you.”

Okuoba’s abrupt stop caused the servants to do the same. She placed her hands on her waist. “The dedication is a fortnight from now.” She looked straight ahead at nothing in particular. “I’m not sure I want to be a part of it anymore.”

The servant girls immediately squared off in front of her. The look of surprise on their faces soon turned to worry and it spoke louder than their respectful protest.

“No! I won’t be there. And don’t remind me it’s the tradition of the land.” Okuoba felt her blood beating in her ears as her muscles stiffened in anger. “My brother’s spirit yearns for justice. Justice from gods, who have now turned their backs on us!”

Both servants looked at each other, but didn’t utter a word.

Okuoba resumed walking and soon afterward they closed up with her; one on each side. Together, the trio covered a considerable distance in silence, moving past men and women with hoes and axes who were either heading for their farms or were on their way home; palm wine tappers with calabashes and thick fat ropes slung over their shoulders; naked little children in playful mood trailing behind their older siblings.

The elder servant broke the silence. “Who knows if the locusts and then the strange humming that killed many of our people by sundown were sent by the gods. Had it not been for your family and a few more in Ngwo, we would’ve been dead by now.”

Okuoba eyed her. The implication of those words had landed heavily on her conscience like a stone on an eggshell.

The younger servant gestured. “I’ve realized that it’s not in man’s place to question the gods; rather he ought to show complete reverence at all times. This ritual … what if it’s a gateway to your own happiness as a woman?”

Okuoba had once been told by her mother that Ani had denied some women in Ngwo from giving birth because of their grave crimes.

She was about to speak when the familiar voice of Ibeabuchi, calling her name, yanked her attention to the connecting road leading to her father’s farms.

“Asampete nwaanyi!” Ibeabuchi’s voice rang out like that of a happy man. His smile was all teeth. Across his shoulders was a long stick and drooping from its ends was a roasted kill. “Even a blind man can tell of your beauty with his palms.”

Okuoba wondered where her childhood friend had been since the past two market days.

Ibeabuchi hadn’t even been at her brother’s funeral.

Part Seven||Part Eight

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Translation:

Ani/Ali/Ala — Earth goddess or goddess of fertility is believed to be the wife of the thunder god, Amadioha. “Ani” as a word means “ground.” During the precolonial era in Nigeria, the Igbos attributed this name to the Earth goddess because they believed everything (living or inanimate) had a base.

Umuada/Umu Ada — An association of women who are natives of a community and are also married to men from the same community. This association still exist in Igbo land and is highly respected.

Asampete nwaanyi — Very beautiful woman. In some texts, it’s translated as “handsome woman.”

We Are Not Cursed #7

PS: My apologies  for posting this installment a day late. I had issues with my ISP yesterday. Anyways, enjoy…

PART SEVEN

Edited by: Darlene Jones

 

 

 

Amaefuna stopped his pottery wheel at the sight of his son approaching. With a small keg of palm wine clutched to his hairy chest Ibeabuchi staggered into the workshop, which was a thatched roof on four poles, his head swaying as if it was the burden he was trying to balance. “So Ichie Umeh doesn’t want me to marry his daughter?”

It had been more than two market days since Ibeabuchi, a lone hunter, was last seen. What was once the outline of his round face was gone, leaving behind sharp cheek bones, bloodshot eyes and beard as dark as the wild unkempt hair that covered his skull.

Image Source: learnnc.org

“I don’t remember telling you such a thing.” Amaefuna washed his mud-covered hands in a bowl of water before rising, a mixed feeling of care and concern taking root. “But then, this is not the ideal time to talk about Okuoba. We can’t make a marriage proposal to her family while they are still in mourning.”

“Nonsense!” Ibeabuchi smashed the keg on the floor.

Amaefuna’s eyes popped wide in surprise. Worried that someone else might have heard the resulting thud, he threw a glance at the road. To his chagrin, curious eyes looked back at him. He waved a hand in a dismissive manner to the passers-by who tried to get nosy.

When there was no one else in sight, Ibeabuchi came forward with an angry frown. “My mates are no longer in the care of their fathers. They’re now men with their own children … men who enjoy the warmth of their women whenever they choose.”

Amaefuna couldn’t understand what had gotten into his son’s head. However, he found himself afraid and racing for the right words to say. “I can arrange a quick marriage if you…,” he forced down saliva, “I mean, I can arrange with other friends of mine whose dau—”

Ibeabuchi raised a finger. “Don’t you ever!”

Amaefuna started.

Ibeabuchi inched toward him again.  “So you no longer find me worthy of her?”

Any further move backwards would knock down the earthenware freshly made. Amaefuna looked over his shoulder at his precious creations and then at his son—this time, meeting a set of ominous eyes that dared to eat into his soul. At this horrible point, his fear was so intense he could easily swear that the one who had just cornered him between his earthenware and jars of fresh water wasn’t his son—the first male child of the many children his three wives had born him.

“You … you need to calm down.”

“And watch as she becomes another man’s wife?” Ibeabuchi loomed over him. “I’ll claim what’s mine!”

Frozen with fear, Amaefuna stared at his son as he lumbered away.

“Okuoba, my love,” Ibeabuchi began to say, moving his hands languidly in the air as if caressing her face, “neither the sun nor moon can keep us apart. This fire inside me … it burns because of you.”

When his son was more than three feet away from the workshop, Amaefuna felt his old self return. He retrieved his voice and called out. “Ibe! Ibe, come back here! I say ‘come back here!’”

The human frame thinning away in the distance was his answer.

It was a father’s responsibility to find a marriage partner for his child. This abiding norm had seen Amaefuna choose Okuoba for his son, with the hope that both children would end up someday as a couple. To ensure that this was embraced in time, he’d drummed Okuoba’s name into Ibeabuchi’s head even before the young man hit puberty. To anyone else in the community, this was true parenting, hence one of the ways a man showed regard for the customs of his people. For Amaefuna, it was beyond the prospect of marriage. It was his best chance of keeping his entire family together—he had been wary of the size of his household, especially his many male sons. He’d feared that if he should wake up someday in the afterlife, his would find his male children fighting over his one piece of land. Coaxing his rich friend, Umeh, into allowing his daughter to be a wife to Ibeabuchi would help avert this looming war.

Amaefuna settled down on his low stool again. He wetted some clay and then threw it at the wheel with intent to continue from where he had stopped. But after spinning the wheel, he found himself in lag time. He could no longer find a good rhythm to his work—his heart and head had just gone to war over the possibility that Okuoba would not be a wife to his son. Long before now, Umeh, on three separate instances, had downplayed that their children should end up as a couple.

Amaefuna thought: Could there be another suitor for Okuoba; one who has Umeh’s interest?

The day’s work had to stop. He would have to address his son’s outburst. But first, Umeh had questions to answer.

Picking up his goatskin bag, another wave of thought hit him: Is Ibeabuchi already aware of this suitor? Has that knowledge now driven him to the edge of madness?

Part Six||Part Seven

We Are Not Cursed #6

PART SIX

Edited by: Darlene Jones

 

 

It was unlike Okofia to remain silent. Umeh shifted in his wooden seat, his gaze still fixed on the juju priest. Had all divine consultations proved abortive? Or had the gods finally disclosed the identities of Nnanna’s killers? The latter possibility, if affirmed, would allow him to exact a gratifying revenge. He desperately longed for the time when those evil men would meet their end.

Okofia cleared his throat. He held out his heavily-beaded staff at angle from his side. “If a young man starts too early—before he’s fully grown—to inquire about what happened to his father, the same may happen to him.” He turned around and looked Umeh in the eye. “Where is your brother?”

Okofia’s face was serious, vulpine, and purposeful. His strong tone carried an accusatory undercurrent. And the question itself was perplexing.

“On a journey. I—I sent him to Isiochie.”

“Why?”

“So he can find some answers relating to my son’s death. Is something wrong?”

“You went ahead without the consent of the gods?”

The consent of the gods? Umeh was certain he understood the reason for the questions now and this made his blood boil. He tried to keep his voice at respectful tone, though. “My son’s killers are out there—perhaps, plotting another evil. How much longer will I’ve to wait on the gods?”

“A thick red cloud gathered over your home and from it human blood fell like raindrops. Bodies of men and women—splayed at compromising positions—were scattered here and there.” Okofia slowly stepped forward. “I wouldn’t be here, if I had not seen this. I wouldn’t be here, if I did not care.”

“I’m lost without a good understanding of what you mean.”

“Your brother’s urge to avenge the murder of your son is strong. It’s so strong I can feel it from here. Anger has taken the place of patience and wisdom in him and it won’t guarantee success in this quest for answers. You need to send men now. Let them travel as fast as they can before your brother gets to Isiochie. When they meet your brother, he must return with them. If not, I fear something worse will happen.”

“Worse?” Umeh got up with the aid of his walking stick and walked over to a side of the dwarf mud barrier that enclosed his obi. The warning sounded like a very bad joke. “Lately I barely sleep or eat. I’ve even forgotten the pleasure of a good laugh. An answer—just a simple answer from Isiochie—is all I ask and you want to deny me that as well?”

Okofia’s lips moved as if he were about to say more on the issue, but instead he sighed. “Just do as I said. Send men now.”

As he turned to leave, Umeh blurted, “Care…you call this care? In truth, all you’ve done is add more confusion. Okofia, you give me reasons to believe that the gods are indeed sleeping or have abandoned you!”

Okofia spun around, his face taut with anger. “What folly has roused you to blasphemy?”

Umeh’s eyelids fluttered, his head sank. Fate had not pushed him to edge until now where he had to question the gods. Man, as he was made to understand, was supposed to pay allegiance to the gods in return for favours. But no one talked about turning away from them if they failed to love and protect their worshippers. The clack of dry bones and fangs of carnivores dangling from a leather cord around the waist of the juju priest made Umeh raise his head.

Closing the gap between them again, Okofia placed a hand on Umeh’s shoulder. “Events of life are lessons we should learn from.” He pressed his lips hard, then exhaled. “I was a boy servant in the forest shrine of Amadioha when I heard of the massacre of the inhibitants of  Obokolo — a village far from here.”

Umeh coughed, apologized for the abrupt discharge of phlegm.

“It was caused by one man’s daughter.”

The young woman, Okofia further explained, had a secret lover from Isiochie. Refusing the tradition and marriage rites of her people, she eloped with this young man. Story had it that they settled in Isiochie where she swore to serve his gods and bear many children for him. When her family heard of this, they immediately set out for Isiochie. They asked for their daughter at the gathering of its ruling elders.

“Did that happen?”

“No. The elders denied ever seeing such a woman in their village. In anger, Obokolo abducted two young girls from Isiochie and forced marriage upon them. Five market days after that, blood was spilled. Isiochie warriors—feared for their towering height and extra-ordinary strength—moved into Obokolo under the cover of night. I doubt a soul was left alive in the attack.

“Your brother is a good hunter and warrior. I respect him for that. But he’s quick-tempered and sometimes acts foolishly in the heat of his anger. Or will you deny that you aren’t aware of his weakness? Consider this: what if the men from Isiochie don’t welcome your brother in a proper manner? What if they claim they are not even aware of your son’s death—which, of course, they are entitled to say?”

Umeh flexed his fingers around the head of his walking stick. There was an element of truth in what the juju priest what saying.

“Your intuition isn’t always right. If you care enough for your family, for Ngwo people, send men now to ask your brother to return.”

Umeh looked briefly at the unsmiling face of the juju priest before setting his eyes east, to the place where he and his son used to play oro. “So this vision—dream of yours…you say it’s about me and my family?”

“Yes. Don’t say you have not been warned.”

Okofia turned to leave. This time Umeh didn’t utter a word; neither did he try to stop him.

Was it still right to trust a juju priest? Umeh sat down again, folded his arms across his chest and looked up to the thatched ceiling of his obi as if the answer was docking somewhere in the interstices. With prayers left unanswered how could Okofia come up with a vision about his family being in danger just because his brother, Eloka, was going to Isiochie to find answers? And though Eloka was short-tempered, what was the greatest wrong he could possibly commit in a foreign land?

Umeh called out to Maduako, who came running to meet him. “Ready some dried food for your journey. I want you to head for Isiochie. ”

The tall servant nodded and disappeared from his presence.

But there was no harm trying to get an answer, Umeh thought. Even if the men from Isiochie didn’t respond favourably, he wanted to trust that his brother wouldn’t go as far as doing anything foolish in another man’s land.

“Nnaanyi, I’m ready.” Maduako tied banana leaves around slices of dried cassava, then fastened them around his waist.

“Go back.” Umeh waved dismissively. “I changed my mind.”

 

Part Five||Part Six

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Translation:

Oro — A game played with pebbles, beads, or large seeds on a regularly patterned playing area or board consisting of a number of pits arranged in two or four rows.  Apart from the board, this playing area may actually be holes scooped into sand or even carved into solid rock.

We Are Not Cursed #4

(Part Four)

Edited by: Darlene Jones

 

 

With a knobbed walking stick in hand, Umeh headed for his obi, his steps slow but steady. What greater joy, he thought, could a father have than to see his only son grow?

Now, all he had were the memories.

He remembered the days when Nnanna was still a little boy. Filled with childish innocence, his dear little one ran around his compound naked with a string of milky white beads tied around his waist. He remembered holding him on his lap and telling him of the great heritage waiting for him. And when Nnanna got older with muscles in the right places, he entrusted him with the task of ensuring that his livestock and farmlands were properly taken care of. A true son; Nnanna was ready to impress. And he had felt so blessed because of this—only for a cruel hand to bring about his death.

If this unidentified enemy could take the life of his son without warning, wasn’t there every possibility of a greater strike ahead? This time, perhaps, an intended strike on other members of his family? Umeh paused. He hunched his shoulders and spat down against such horrible fate. It was a bad omen for a child to go into the world beyond before his father; a curse, if a man should watch his entire family go down before him.

A gust of wind stirred Umeh’s wrapper. It moved west, tossing up dead brown leaves and empty clay bowls on its tail. It darted about the huts of his daughters, and then his wife’s before leaving through the dark spaces between them. A fortnight ago, while Umeh was still a happy man, he would’ve wondered if the coldness in the passing air was an early sign of the much awaited rainy season—the first few showers would ready the soil for planting. But none of that mattered now. Life barely made sense without the light of his life.

As Umeh resumed walking, he considered, then rejected the impulse to look at the hut of his son which was the nearest to his obi. Of what good would that be to him?

As he approached his obi, his visitors stood up from their seat made of a large trunk of wood. The three men were fully dressed; their wrappers passed under their right armpits and tied over their left shoulders. Beside them were their goatskin bags that contained their drinking horns and snuff boxes.

Eloka, Umeh’s younger brother, was the first to greet him with an embrace. “Kedu?” he asked, concernedly. He tilted his hawk-like head, his eyes narrowing for inspection.

Umeh nodded “I’m fine” in response. But he gave his brother no chance to scrutinize him by immediately turning his attention to his other two visitors.

“Where is the man born of a woman who dares the sun?” Amadi began to hail. “May my tongue decay in my throat if I should speak ill of you. Ichie Umeh Azugo, I salute you!”

“Ichi zu lu echi zu. Amadi, you’re very welcome.”

To Amaefuna, Umeh said: “It’s good to see you, ichie ibe m.”

Aside from his brother, Umeh considered his two friends present as close allies. Although they were much younger than him, they had continued to show a greater sense of maturity than some of the other members in the council of elders.

Umeh asked that they all be seated again before calling out to his servants who were responsible for serving his guests. Two dark-skinned girls with bare breasts and thick black lines drawn immediately above their wrapper-covered bottoms came into the obi with kegs of palm wine. They stooped and placed the kegs in front of the men. Soon afterwards a male servant stepped in, bowed, and then went down on a knee beside Umeh who then sent him to his hut to fetch his own goatskin bag. Once he had left, Dubem stepped in with a plate of kola nut, placed it beside the kegs and took his position beside his master on his knees. The servant on errand soon returned and was asked to present the plate of kola to Eloka for the blessing rites.

After the breaking of kola and serving of fresh palm wine, Eloka sat up straight. From the sides, he gathered his wrapper above his knees and then began his speech with a proverb: “Our people say that ‘it is the need of the stomach that allows the walking feet no rest.’”

The noblemen along with Umeh, nodded in what was a common understanding of the proverb’s significance.

“What touches an eye indirectly touches the other. My fellow clansmen, you’d agree with me that the attack that led to the death of Nnanna was planned and carried out by the enemy. Our enemy. We must find this enemy before night comes upon us again!”

After a brief but weighty silence, Amaefuna said, “Ichie Azugo, we have to consult the oracle.”

Umeh took a bite of his kola. He rested his hands on his thighs and with very little hope, said, “I’ve done that already.”

The three men shot him a questioning look.

“No answer. The gods have been frustratingly silent.”

Another moment passed without a word spoken.

Eloka brought the tip of his drinking horn to his lips, sipped some of his wine, then positioned his body to face Umeh. “Brother, before Nnanna’s death, you told me that you were sending him and some of your servants as a delegation to welcome a group of men from Isiochie to your house, right?”

“Yes.”

“And on their way, they were attacked?”

Umeh looked at Dubem who reconfirmed the incident with a nod.

“Can you think of anyone or group in this village who could’ve possibly masterminded this evil?”

“No.”

“Since the attack, have those men from Isiochie sent a messenger to you, inquiring what possibly might have gone wrong—why you didn’t send a delegation to formally welcome them as required by the custom that binds both villages?”

Amaefuna cut in. “What are you driving at—I hope you’re not trying to accuse those men of murder?”

Eloka turned to his co-visitor. “Are they free from suspicion? Or can’t you sense the foul play already?”

“That has always been your problem—you’re quick to jump to conclusions.”

Eloka frowned. “It seems you left your brain at home.”

Amadi chimed in. “Amaefuna, such assertion may seem inappropriate considering the circumstance. But let’s not rule out the possibility. Those men could be Nnanna’s killers!”

Umeh watched as his visitors entered into a heated argument which subsequently led to an exchange of words and pointing of fingers.  With the dull bottom of his walking stick, he thudded the hard red-brown floor three times. One by one, his visitors became quiet, each man fixing his eyes angrily on some place of less importance.

Umeh was faced with a rather difficult choice of what to say next.  One of those men from Isiochie wanted Okuoba to be a wife to his son and their proposed visit was only to make this formal. Though such intentions were honourable, how would Amaefuna take it, considering that he had earlier asked the same on behalf of his son?

Umeh glanced at his visitors and then refocused on the floor.

No. There was no point saying so, he concluded. This could throw Amaefuna’s commitment into question, hence complicating the whole situation.

Burdened by this as well as the fear of an alternative outcome, Umeh remarked, “It would cause me an even greater deal of sorrow if those men from Isiochie really carried out the attack.”

“Stop your lament and weeping,” Eloka said. “Now is the time to act!”

Amadi added, “This issue will be brought before the council. But in the meantime, find someone to go on your behalf to Isiochie. We need to ask them questions.”

Turning to his brother, Umeh said, “I need you to go to Isiochie. Take some men with you to the house of Ichie Ugonna. I was supposed to welcome his delegation.”

http://mccoy.lib.siu.edu/jmccall/jones/misc.html: ‘If you wish to show that a stranger visiting your village is your guest and under your protection, you present him with a piece of chalk (local gypsum) which he takes and draws two white lines on his wrist and then returns. Big men have a special bowl (okwa) for this chalk (nzu).’

Part Three||Part Four

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Translations: 

Kedu: How are you

Ichie: a title for an elder in an Igbo community

Ichi zu lu echi zu: you deserve your title

Ichie ibe m: my fellow titled man

obi: a small place for relaxation