We Are Not Cursed #3

(Part Three)

Edited by: Darlene Jones

 

 

 

Umeh leaned by the wooden window of his hut that looked out to the hill in the distance. Although his eyes could see the tall Afara trees with their leafy branches and the verdure that stretched all the way to the top of the hill, he was not aware of the untamed beauty that lay before him for he was lost in thought.

In his dreams, he’d seen himself play several times with his late son, Nnanna. But strangely enough, his son had appeared as a little child in servant clothes. This bothered him. If the gods could fill his nights with dreams about Nnanna, why would they present him as a servant boy instead of the child of a nobleman?

A day after Nnanna’s funeral, he had taken a white ram with him to Okofia, the juju priest on the outskirts of the village. There, a special sacrifice was offered to the gods. If the gods were indeed just, wouldn’t they have revealed the identities of his son’s killers soon afterwards? A growing realization that he no longer had a natural heir to his lands and livestock made him sigh deeply. Now that his son was no more, who then, would bear his name? For sure, age was neither on his side nor his wife’s. Even if he should pick a young woman as his second wife, he wasn’t even certain he could bed her for procreation.

A familiar female voice startled him from behind.

“What is it?” he asked in a cold tone.

“It’s about your brother and your friends from the village council…they’ve come to see you.”

Umeh faced his wife. “Oluchi, didn’t I tell you that am not in the mood to see anyone today?”

Bending a knee slightly as a sign of admission, she said, “You did, Nnaanyi.”

“Good. Now tell them that I’m in no good shape to see them.”

“Please don’t turn them back again. I’m sure they want to find our son’s killers as much as we do. But we can’t achieve this quickly if we don’t work together as—”

“Hold your tongue, woman!” Umeh exploded; the solid black of his eyes very prominent. “What right have you to tell me the steps to take? Perhaps you are indirectly telling me that I’m weak and incapable of finding our enemy. Isn’t that right?”

Oluchi shook her head; her lips pressed hard against themselves.

“Answer me!”

She cowered back, trembling.

Umeh soon realized what his internal tumult was leading him to. His loving wife deserved none of his aggressiveness. Feeling remorseful and at the same time hateful of his situation, he took a few steps away from where he had been standing.

“Where are they now?” he asked, his tone several decibels lower now.

“Inside our compound.”

He regarded his wife, who tactfully avoided eye contact with him. She had been as mournful as any concerned mother could be. Between both of them, he thought she had handled the pain and grief better. Despite their loss, she’d ensured that work still continued on their cassava and cocoyam farms as the planting season was fast approaching.

“Invite them into my obi. I’ll be with them, shortly.”

“Yes, Nnaanyi.” Oluchi nodded and backed out of his hut.

Walking over to the wooden stool beside his bamboo bed, Umeh picked his special tread which his then wore on his ankles. Next, he picked up his hand fan. He was about leave his hut, when he was plagued by the words of the juju priest: “Perhaps the boy who appeared in your dream is not really your son. Perhaps he is your enemy.”

The smiling face of the child from Umeh’s dreams flashed in his mind. The facial features of the child were not different from his son’s. But there was something about his laugh…

It was not Nnanna’s laugh.

Part Two||Part Three

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Translations:

Obi–a small place for relaxation

Nnaanyi–title meant for a married man or master of slaves.

We Are Not Cursed #2

(Part Two)

Edited by: Darlene Jones

Like a gardener, he had watched Okuoba grow. Now, the sight of her stirred him. For more than five full moons, he had suffered this exquisite distress even in his sleep.

The face was the first place people looked to determine whether a woman was beautiful or not before they looked at the other parts of the body to complete their assessment. With those tender curves asserting her cheek bones, short flute-like nose and exotic brown eyes, Okuoba could not just be described as beautiful. She was ravishingly beautiful. Her blatant figure emitted an aura that lifted her right out of the usual line of pretty women and made her sensational.

Today he swore he would further feed his eyes. He was tired of trying to imagine what she looked like without her wrapper on. He wanted to see it all; he wanted to see what she looked like down there. Lucky for him, he’d overheard her talk about having a bath in the stream the day before.

The hour was fairly dark with a few light shades in the sky heralding the rising of the morning sun. Stealthily he followed Okuoba and her servants, keeping a considerable distance yet not losing sight of them. As the women arrived at a secluded part of the stream which was meant for women only, he snuck up to one of the nearby trees in the bush and waited. From that vantage point he could survey the whole area around the stream.

He could hear the servants speak soothingly to Okuoba about her loss. Remembering how he had plotted the death of her brother, Nnanna, made him smile.  Sleep well, fool, he cursed under his breath. Then he switched mental gears: He was present when Dubem returned to Umeh’s compound to break the sad news. However the young servant managed to escape the attack was still a surprise to him because he had instructed the killers not to spare him or any of Nnanna’s servants.

Wrappers falling freely from the bodies of the women slapped him out of his reverie.

As the servants moved around, rubbing light oil on their mistress, the tempo of his heartbeat doubled at the sight of their nakedness. But his eyes focused more on the one who had occupied his many dreams: Her breasts were firm and ripe, large and erect, the nipples jutting and round, telling him that they were black and proud, daring him to come out and touch them.

Perhaps his next line of action would bring Okuoba close to him, so close he would feel the softness of her body rubbing against his. But in the meantime he would only delight in her beauty. He couldn’t afford to pounce foolishly on his meal.

A strident sound quite close to him made the women turn sharply to his direction. He held his breath and didn’t move a muscle. A frog croaked. Blades of grasses crackled. One of the servants muttered something funny and they laughed. Okuoba was the first to turn her back to him again. While they all headed towards the stream, he exhaled. He looked longingly at the controlled rhythm of her delectable behind and the thrust of her long shapely legs. The gods had spent a little more time on her, he concluded.

With their ankles sunk deep in the clear water, the servants began to rub pieces of cloth and soap against their mistress’ body making the soapsuds flow white all the way down into the stream. The way they continued to pay attention to her body fuelled his appetite even further. He held fast to the tree to stop himself from running off into the water and taking hold of her.

Female voices approaching the stream made him swivel to the footpath. As much as he was enjoying what he saw, he knew that his time was up.

He couldn’t afford to get caught.

He followed another route and left the bush.

Part One|| Part Two

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PS I want to express my sincere gratitude to Darlene Jones for editing this installment, likewise the one before it (that is, after I had posted it here). She has also offered to edit the rest of the story.

Jones has written four novels; four books I dearly look forward to reading. She’s also a wonderful photographer. You can find more about to her here.

Masquerades of Inyi

At last he yielded to his daughter’s persistent request. Her hair was shaved before she was dressed up in boy clothes. By sundown the pair left for the village square.

Mmawu (Masquerades)

Music was the breeze that flowed through the oja* and drums of the festival. The masquerades were swift, their dance energetic. While everyone chanted their names, the little girl begged to see more. He obliged, placing her on his shoulder. That was when the music and dancing stopped.

The masquerades could sense a female in the crowd. They drew their shiny daggers and stepped towards the man and his daughter.

Some Igbo musical instruments

 

 

 

Note:

In some parts of Igbo land (before the advent of the Brits) it’s against the tradition for a woman/girl to come anywhere near a masquerade. It’s believed that this woman or girl would “bite” (reveal) the one who wore the mask. Masquerades like Agaba were among the deadliest/most brutal performers who wouldn’t hesitate to kill a woman/girl (offender) on the spot.

 

(*) oja is a small flute which takes a great deal of energy and skill to blow. It makes a wonderful melody.

One Week, One Proverb

a calabash of palm wine (pic courtesy: flickr)

Case 17:

“Come and marry my daughter” usually goes with strings attached.

Insight:

In Igboland, Iku aka is the first step before marriage. It’s the custom for a man to be accompanied by some members of his family (which includes his parents) and respectable elders from his people to the house of the woman he intends to marry. After the exchange of greetings, breaking of kola, and serving of fresh palm wine/up wine, the eldest male from the man’s people discloses to the woman’s family the reason for their visit. If the woman’s father or any other responsible male old enough to stand on his behalf is pleased with their intentions, he would respond by calling out the young women in the house first. He would ask the man seeking for a wife to identify who he would like to marry afterwards. This is usually a very a simple test.

Two weeks later or thereabout, a bride price (dowry) is negotiated. The man returns with his people for the traditional marriage at a fixed date.

Interpretation/Conclusion:

No responsible Igbo father will give away his daughter to a stranger or some passer-by in the name of marriage. Regardless of the money that may be offered aside from the bride price, he will not give in if he suspects or considers his daughter’s suitor as dangerous or promiscuous. But this is not always the case. Some will offer their daughters without following the marriage tradition. This is dangerous and it often leads to a wrecked marriage.

Away from marriage now…this idea of being presented with the carrot of easy outcome is risky, especially when there is/are laid down rule(s) that will not only be to our own benefit, but to that of people around us. Doing what is right pays…every time. I confess that I’ve tried the easy way out in the past. The result was ***! That is, if you know what I mean.

THERE WAS A COUNTRY (Chinua Achebe’s memoir of the Biafran conflict)

 

One of my favorite books as a boy was Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. Not only did my English teacher make quite a number of references to the book, he used it as a platform to talk about the Igbo culture and the Biafran war in particular (of course I was born after the war). Back then, I was so curious to know what happened to my forefathers and how they managed to co-exist with Nigeria after all the bloodshed and destruction. Lucky me, I had my grandparents (God bless their souls) to tell the story. To add, Papa (my father) was a key military officer for the fallen republic. You may argue that whatever they told me was one-sided, biased to some point. Well, I didn’t stop at what they told me, though I must say that their account virtually was the same. As the years passed, I made friends with men and women from other tribes (Hausa and Yoruba in particular). I asked and they told me their side of the story—the war none of us, admittedly, will like to go through again.

Late weekend, over a couple of drinks with some old friends, we talked and talked—from the barbaric (killing of four undergraduates in Aluu) to the happy one (politics in Ondo state). Femi, my very outspoken, no-nonsense padi (pal) delved into the issue of corruption and the condition of the Nigerian state. Then he asked me with unblinking eyes, “Uzo, have you finally acquired a copy of  There Was a Country?” Absolutely not.

That didn’t stop us from hitting the discussion switch once again. Before I leave you with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s wonderful review of the book, I want to share with you a little more about how our conversation panned out. It resulted in a heated debate with two of my Yoruba friends being critical of Achebe’s position on the war. I admit that Femi pointed out something so true, something some of us (Igbos) are ashamed to admit. And that’s the lack of unity and brotherhood amongst us. Yes, we are often regarded as a cunning tribe; men and women who will hardly miss the chance to betray their own for selfish purposes. After the death of Dim Odimegu Ojukwu, men who are no different from clowns are clamoring to fill his shoes. These are big shots and governors (both current and ex) who, if you ask me, are unashamed of the level of decadence and hopelessness in their states. What a pity! Our late brother and charismatic leader, Ojukwu, fought for the Igbos! Are we talking about the way the country has fared up to now? Well, with the current situation of our dear nation, one can only pray that the efforts of our heroes past  shall never be in vain. It’s such a time like this that one has to rethink, perhaps be inclined to read Chinua Achebe’s latest book. This rather sad history and more he brings to light as he tries to point a way forward if we all still believe in one Nigeria.

When the falcon can longer hear the voice of the falconer, things fall apart.

—Chinua Achebe