A SHORT STORY by OKEY ANUEYIAGU
THE STORY CONTINUES…
Nwoye broke from his quotes, dipped his right hand in his inner breast pocket and whisked out a silver-coloured flask, twisted the cork open and took a long gulp of substance I reckoned was a local brew of gin known as a eshilieshi. He took a deliberate belch that echoed off the silence of the observant crowd, while stocking back his alcohol pouch in his chest pocket. From his outer breast pocket stuck out his tobacco pipe made of glittering wooden ensemble. He lifted it, and lit it up blowing a wild smoke. The smell of the aromatic erinmore brand of tobacco filled the air. It was a very sweet scented smell that I liked so very much – it made me want to smoke so badly.
The smart Englishman from Awka had captured the attention of the constellated cluster of the Amudo village gathering with his wit and loaded grammar. He strolled nonchalantly like a monarch to the stand where the village head and the elders sat, bowed and tipped his hat, adjusted his bowtie and began to speak in a sonorous and imposing, deep and confident voice. He was not in any hurry with his speech as he picked and chose his words very carefully, giving them very weighty tones and harmonious resonance.
Using an old and archaic English phrase used in speeches to attract public attention, Nwoye began to speak in defence of his friend, Chukwurah: “Hear ye, hear ye, I have come before you my brethren not to inveigh, or to protest with great anger and hostility about the possibility of any sanctions against our brother, because if we take any drastic decisions against him, it would harm our community… when we misstep we must deploy tolerance, inclusivity and understanding amongst ourselves and eschew bitterness, hostility or hatred towards one another. I do not desire to disport or frolic about this serious matter, neither do I wish to hornswoggle you unnecessarily.” Nwoye turned to the rest of the gathering, raising his voice, he continued: “This imbroglio must end… what this complicated situation will serve our people is nothing but intricate conflict leading to a state of confusion and uncertainty that will convolute and perplex our already tangled customs.”
As Nwoye spoke, he kept acknowledging positive nods coming mostly from the village Illiterates who didn’t understand a word he spoke, with reassuring smiles signifying that more high-sounding words were on their way. Sensing a kill, Nwoye’s magniloquence rose, and the villagers responded with loud gasps and shouts with every big words he spoke.
Then the time for Nwoye to lower his boom came: “This anomaly is a calamity with copacetic macabre and demure… we must never abdicate our capricious and evocative duties and extrapolate on frivolous juxtapositions of loquacious inanities… wake up my people, and let us abandon this antiquated and apoplectic bombastic capacious idiocy.” The arena was on fire. He took a deep breath and continued. “This oxymoronic exhilarations and cacophonies must stop… are we going forward, or embellishing the dark ages of our past? He asked with a cynical twist to his now agitated voice. The villagers stood on their feet cheering every big words he released. Nwoye glanced around them, and bowed, tipping his hat and smiling widely. He then took another drink of his strange brew and shook his head in a sign that showed appreciation of his performance, and of the crowd’s response.
The gathering began to chant loudly: “Supu oyibo, gboba inglis ka nli ewu” – blow the Whiteman’s grammar, vomit it like goat’s regurgitation. Nwoye raised his fists and bowed several times. He was now drunk and intoxicated by both the strong alcohol, and the crowd’s accolades. He could not stop now. “We must display equanimity in the face of this fiasco – where is our mental and emotional stability in this peat bog, slough, pocosin and complete disaster? …we must confluence, brainstorm and act with ambivalence to resolve this conundrum in efficacious and perspicacious ways… failure will be dangerously pernicious… pestiferous, deleterious, noxious, mimical to us all.” He rounded off his tutorial in big grammar to the villagers, and staggered back to his seat to a standing ovation.
Basking in the euphoria of his strong manifesto to the villagers, Nwoye did not anticipate the tragedy that awaited his return home. His father Mr. Nweke as he was walking away from his son’s theatrics, clutching his walking stick and gingerly walking home, looked back a few times at the villagers cheering his wayward son on, wiped away tears, and began sobbing quietly. He returned home, laid out on his bed, took his last breath and died. Nweke died with sadness and sorrow in his heart. He could not phantom that he had produced a child who had become a village clown and jester. He wandered why his gods punished him with such a misfortune in a wayward, itinerant and irresponsible son. He had to lay his weary head to rest hoping to find peace when he was gone.
The early morning wailings heralded the announcement of Mr. Nweke’s death. His long body was laid naked except for a flowery loin cloth that covered his lower body. His long big nose stood out on his bald and very dark head. His body laid stiff and was surrounded by close relatives. The wide contour of his naked chest stood out strong, and in the temple of his chest, was placed an extraordinarily large egg of a vulture. This egg, it was explained, was an old Awka traditional way of assuaging the anger of the dead. This was to ensure that they didn’t come back to haunt the living.
As the villagers gathered and were preparing the grave site, singing and performing native rites, Nweke’s son Nwoye sat in a corner in his father’s compound, dressed in a black long-tail English suit and armed with a harmonica and a beagle in his hands. He took turns playing both instruments with melodious old English funeral rhymes. Intermittently, he would stop to wipe away tears from his eyes, while allowing the village musicians to play their uli and ekwe solos of beautiful traditional Awka renditions. If those Nwoye’s tears were tears of regrets and contrition for his shameful treatment of his father, and were remorseful and penitent enough, it was difficult to ascertain. But what was certain, was that Nwoye’s heart was heavy with something, at the very least.
Perhaps, Nwoye’s tears at his father’s funeral came from his remembrance of his long-lost wasted years in England which his old-English tunes brought back with melancholic sadness.
Engrossed in the joyous effusions and sincerity that followed Chief Chukwurah’s perfect delivery, and other activities, I almost forgot my impending problem. As my name was called to appear before the village gathering, I jumped off my seat in half-panic. I carefully began to rehearse all that I had memorized and stored in my brain for my Amudo brethren. Suddenly overcome with fear, excitement and anxiety, I greeted the gathering in an unadulterated Awka dialect. “Amudo kwenu, muo nu, kacha nu…” – Amudo cheer up, procreate, and be the greatest. I received very scattered response. I began my defence after the village orator laid-out my case, and like a prosecutor, a jury or a judge that he wasn’t, concluded that my actions deserved very severe punishment.
I cleared my throat and began to pace up and down the square and directly before the elders without uttering a word. Being a fan of old court tv shows like “Perry Mason Show, Judgment at Nuremberg” and others, I had acquired the mannerism of those lawyers in the courtrooms. I intended to use these tactics to create some illusions about me and my case. Whether I succeeded or not with my antics can be a subject of personal conviction. But I surely captured the attention of the gathering as there was absolute silence as they eagerly waited to hear what I had to say. And I had a lot to say. I began my defence with what I now, with the benefit of hindsight consider to be arrant impudence. I did not apologize. There was a loud gasp in the gathering when I accused the villagers of practicing archaic and unlawful tradition – practices that were against the laws of the land and the laws of God. It took several minutes to quell the uproar that followed my outburst. I stood my ground and continued to point out to the now very agitated crowd that there were no basis in law and in religion that permitted the treatment they meted to Nkoli.