A SHORT STORY by OKEY ANUEYIAGU
My father Chukwuma had deliberately initiated me into the world of Ndi Igbo. Being an early-riser to the values of being an Igbo man and a pan-Africanist in his days working with Nnamdi Azikiwe, the former President of Nigeria as editor-inchief of many of their revolutionary newspapers, my father entrenched in me those values that ensured my understanding of what it meant to be Igbo and a black person.
Chukwuma, my father began his journey into self-negritude by discarding his English name, Charles, and ensuring that all his children bore only significant Igbo names. He pursued and was one of those who championed the idea of a shared identity among Africans across the world. My father made me aware of my Igboness and at the same time, without ambivalence, the meaning of being black. He urged me to never see my tribe or colour as a category to transcend, or a limitation to overcome, but as a deep inspiration to constantly make a conscious and passionate effort to affirm my Igboness and blackness with pride.
Today, as I write these short stories about our people and their traditions and cultures, I reflect on the lessons of my father and the sermons of my mother. I feel confident that I may have learnt a thing or two, and that my thoughts and feelings deeply represent a pilgrimage to the soil of my father and his ancestors.
When I write these wonderful stories from our ancient Igbo tradition and culture, I become thrilled to tell these tales that are loaded with intrigue and steeped in mysterious moral languages and lessons. Growing up, I was mesmerized by these stories and their deep intrinsic importance to our existence. And I believe that I owe the world a duty to use my little gift of being a storytelling writer, as I sometimes think of myself, to reminiscence about these events. I am very delighted that I have followed, even if in any small measure, in the footsteps of the griots, writers, and orators who have played indispensable roles, rediscovering, molding, retelling and transmitting the Igbo story. This has, no doubt deepened our understanding and appreciation of the complexity and the significance of the Igbo tradition.
THE STORY CONTINUES
As the appointed time for the village meeting began to approach, I started hearing sounds of people chattering from Ezi Nkweanya, the village square which was directly opposite my grandmother’s gate. My grandmother took time to dress up Nkoli in a nice simple abada up-and-down dress with a matching damask headscarf. Nkoli whose parents came visiting earlier, was now looking radiant and glowing under the native powder and otanjele makeup that my grandmother carefully applied to her beautiful face.
Moments ago, Nkoli’s parents came looking for their thieving daughter who had taken refuge at my grandmother’s home. Her mother, Mgbeke looking disheveled and frowzled all over, upon seeing her daughter, fell on the ground and began to roll in the dirt, wailing about the shame that Nkoli brought upon their family. While Mgbeke cried uncontrollably, her husband Nwoshi stood by speechless, just swinging his fat shapeless head from side to side. Hear Mgbeke: “Nkoli, kedu ife anyi melu gi – igbu go anyi, ifele ejugo anyi iru” – Nkoli, what have we done to you – you have killed us, shame has filled our faces. Her voice kept rising above with each word she cried out. With his hands clasped around his undulated head, Nwoshi joined in the admonition of their daughter, castigating and blaming her for the misfortune that awaited their family.
My grandmother jumped in and began to berate Nkoli’s parents. In an uncharacteristic manner, she raised her voice to a decibel that I had never heard from her. She began with Mgbeke: “kpuchie onu ule gi, anu ofia – akwunakwuna dika gi na ekwu okwu” – shut your smelly mouth, bush meat from the forest – a prostitute like you is talking”. My grandmother had lost it and she proceeded to remind Nkoli’s mother of her wayward behavior. “Umu nwoke none dinegolu gi – ina ibugheli ike na uno, na uno, kpuchie onu gi” – How many men have slept with you in this village, you are swinging your big bottom from one home to the other, shut your mouth up”.
And then to Nwoshi, Nkoli’s father my grandmother turned. “Nekwa nu onye ori nkea … Amudo akwugbulu gi mgbe ije zuo anu mgbada na nkpakala mmadu?” – Look at this one that is a thief … Did the Amudo people hang you when you stole another man’s antelope from his trap?”. Nkoli’s parents looking downcast, were ordered out by my grandmother. As they left, my grandmother kept raining abuses at them, holding her palms to her mouth made into an O shape, and letting out a loud yelp that sounded like a booming bullhorn. That shaming sound followed Mgbeke and Nwoshi as they exited through my grandmother’s huge beautiful gate.
My grandmother had dressed up in a regal attire of shining dress made of colourful damask, george, akwete and general wax print – all combined with an ichafu on her head. She adorned her neck and ankles with coral beads, and wore a pair of leather crosswind sandals that my mother had gifted her. She picked up her cane, and headed to the village square. Nkoli, the two servants and I, followed in tow.
At the village square which was beginning to fill up, the men and women sat apart. Underneath the huge and strong udala trees sat the village head and his supporting elders. I took a seat way behind the front row trying to conceal my presence the best that I could.
The meeting was declared open with prayers. First prayer was offered by the local catechist Mr. Abel who said a very simple prayer asking God in the name of Jesus to abide with the deliberations of the day. The next prayers was offered by Nwimo the chief priest of the Ofufe shrine. His prayer was more elaborate and carried very strong incantations and recitals. Nwimo who was an ardent heathen, like most other Igbo believers, followed the Igbo cosmological belief in the absolute existence of a Supreme Being, adopting an approach of accessibility to the various gods through personal or collective mediation. The Amudo chief priest invoking his personal access to his supreme creator, began to pray to the village gathering. His long prayer in which he admonished the enemies of our village and praised the gods for that year’s bountiful harvests received applause with loud ise, ise, ise – amen, rending the air. I did not respond to his prayers, and the man sitting next to me nudged at me and reprimanded me. This man, through his toothless mouth wondered why I was mute at the end of Nwimo’s prayers, but offered a loud amen to the Christian prayers. He said: “Do you think that your white god is more powerful than our gods? That white god you worship,” he continued, “with his empty promises is powerless, and cannot save you today”.
As I was hiding somewhere in the back row, so also was Nkoli hiding behind my grandmother with her head and face covered almost completely with a headscarf called ichafu in Igbo. The meeting proceeded with the village head greeting the gathering and demanding decorum at the meeting. As soon as he was done, a village villain and a sworn enemy of my family who was my father’s cousin, without an invitation to speak, jumped up, and seized the stage. He began to shout out my name demanding that I got up from my hiding place in the back to the front row, where as he claimed, everyone can see my murderous face. I got up and was ushered to a seat in front. This man, an enemy of the family whose name was Mmuo came and stood in front of me. He began to wag his short stumpy fingers right in my face, almost poking me in the eyes. He came as close as a few inches to my face, from where I could smell the acrid irritating stench oozing out of his smelly mouth. They were smells of alcohol, native tobacco, and rotten decayed teeth. I took this assault with quietude. Mmuo was not done. He bent down to the ground and took a position of a goat about to be slaughtered. He began to scream, asking me where I kept my long knives and offering his neck for my sharp blades. There was a complete uproar with many applauding his theatrics and excessive dramatic performance. At that point, the village head called him to order, and asked him back to his seat. He grudgingly returned to his seat, fuming and still pointing at me, insulting and mocking me.
They called up the first case of the day, and it was not mine – it was a more serious matter than the Nkoli and Okechukwu issue. It was a matter that drained my entire being and has remained etched in my inner self forever.
Upon learning about what this first case was all about, I was riveted and completely gutted by the unbending stringency of the matter. The narration of this case struck me as an invocation that challenged the legitimacy of the conventional laws and the legal system, and embraced native and traditional ways of settling and determining cases. This instantly suggested some sort of vexation and cynicism in the duel between constituted authority and native powers. This case for me as a young boy, opened a world of opportunity for exploring and questioning our traditions as it clashed with western civilization. It opened a treasure trove of discovery for me growing up.
In the packed village square, the case between the People of The Amudo Village and Chief Chukwurah was called. During the Christmas festivities that just passed two female worshippers lost their lives on the prayer ground in Chief Chukwurah’s compound. Chief Chukwurah, a very wealthy indigene lived in a far away township, and without fail, returned to Awka to celebrate every Christmas. He was a very kind man and a staunch Christian. He had built a magnificent mansion that had a large expanse of land in the frontage. His house served as a suitable space for hosting and entertaining a very large number of people. On every Christmas eve, he hosted many parties. He would slaughter cows, goats and chickens and cook lavish meals. Musical groups of both traditional and church denominations, played at his functions.