by Odafe Atogun
We concentrated on our work, to prevent him from intruding on our lives. But he was not a man to be dissuaded, and he soon brought his horse to rest on the edge of our farm. ‘Keep working, don’t look up,’ I whispered to Noah.
For a few moments, we pretended that the Chief and his horse were not there. He coughed loudly to draw our attention. Getting no response, he raised his voice to announce his presence. ‘The Chief is present on this ground,’ he said.
He was a powerful Chief, even if he was now almost a bent old man. His subjects were expected to accord him respect. I knew that the consequences for not doing so could be grave.
I straightened up. ‘Long live the Chief,’ I said in greeting, with a curtsey.
Noah took a cue from me. He prostrated and said, ‘Good morning, Chief.’
The Chief was dressed in customary style, a long robe of many colours with a rope around his waist, which I had always found very funny, but not on that morning. He nodded at us and, without bothering to respond to our greeting, beckoned us with the red horsetail in his hand, the emblem of his office. Then he waved it in the air to chase away the flies that clamoured around his face. The horse neighed and reared in protest, apparently disturbed by the flies too. The Chief kicked it to silence it. In the distance, a handful of kids had gathered.
‘It’s well over five months since the passing of your husband,’ the Chief announced. ‘I’m sure you know what tradition requires of you.’
I felt at a loss. ‘What might that be, oh Chief?’ I queried respectfully.
‘You should know,’ the Chief responded. ‘You’re a widow now. You’re expected to know as a widow.’
‘No, Chief, I don’t,’ I replied with a frown.
He permitted himself a faint smile. ‘A meeting will be convened at the palace in a few days. An invitation will be extended to you. You’re expected to attend. Your rights and obligations as a widow will be spelled out to you then.’
He flicked the horsetail in the air. And then he rode away.
We watched horse and rider disappear into the distance, several kids running and screaming after them. And then the whole world became still. I was too shocked by the sudden visit to think properly. I asked myself what it was that tradition required of me. How could I not know it? I could not think of any answer.
‘What does he want?’ Noah asked, breaking the silence that had enveloped us. ‘Why did he come?’
I turned to him and managed a smile.
He pressed close to me. ‘Why did he come?’ he asked again.
‘I don’t know, but it’s nothing to worry about,’ I replied, running my hand through his hair.
We returned to work without another word.
*
The invitation came two days later, delivered by a ragged palace guard with no shoes. Across his shoulders, he carried a short stick – his staff of office. I thought he looked more like a herdsman than a royal guard.
Noah and I were working on the farm when he came. Like his master, he did not bother to observe any social niceties. ‘You’re expected to be at the palace by noon tomorrow,’ he announced crisply, then abruptly turned and left.
The next day, I arrived at the palace, as directed, accompanied by Noah. The palace was a rambling compound comprising several large huts built of red clay. The wall around the compound was tall, and one could see the thatched roofs of the huts jutting into the sky. The main hut overlooked the street, with the wall framing it on either side, and it had an elevated balcony from which the Chief often addressed the villagers. A large crowd had already gathered when we got there. Commotion swelled. Thick dust rose in the air. Everyone was chattering away, and I wondered what it was they were so excited about. I stayed on the fringe of the crowd, holding Noah by the hand. I did not put myself forward or attempt to announce my arrival. I had been told only to attend, not to announce my presence on arrival. So I waited.
About twenty minutes later, a gong sounded, and absolute quiet fell. The atmosphere became heavy with anticipation as all eyes focused on the balcony. And then the Chief appeared, waving the red horsetail lazily in the air.
‘The Chief is now present,’ a royal guard announced.
‘Long live the Chief,’ the crowd roared in greeting, jostling with frantic energy, causing the dust in the air to thicken.
The Chief climbed gingerly onto a tall handsomely-carved stool, from where he looked upon the crowd. His robe was more colourful than anything he had ever worn, and his belly folded over the rope around his waist. Behind him were the royal guards, and on either side of him stood a number of lesser chiefs wearing colourful beads around their necks.
‘This great meeting was convened by the Chief,’ the guard continued, ‘to read out the rights and obligations of Ese, who lost her husband months ago. She has become a widow.’ He paused. ‘And now the Chief will speak.’
‘Long live the Chief,’ the crowd chorused again.
The Chief cleared his throat. He did not bother to enquire if I was in the gathering. He did not bother to summon me forward. He spoke from high up, going directly to the purpose of the meeting.
‘People of our great village,’ he began, ‘Ese is now a widow, and, in our tradition, a widow must remarry within six months or lose custody of her children.’ He paused. ‘In Ese’s case, she has only one child, a boy. So if she fails to remarry as prescribed by our laws, she will lose custody of the boy to his eldest paternal uncle.’ Again he paused, and he cleared his throat.
I clutched Noah’s hand. I was finding it difficult to breathe. I felt as if I was in a bad dream. I wanted to scream in protest, but I was too stunned by the proceedings to utter a word.
The Chief continued.
‘Ese’s duty is to remarry as prescribed by our laws. If she fails to do so, she must give up the boy. This is the purpose for which I convened this meeting. I thank you all for coming.’
The meeting was over.
The Chief climbed down from the stool, brandishing the horsetail. The crowd began to disperse. I tried to push through to the front, to make my case before the Chief. But it was as if I was swimming against the tide; my effort was useless. Fearing that Noah would be crushed, I began to retreat with the crowd and decided that I would visit the palace at another, more opportune, time, to lay my case before the Chief.
‘It is very simple,’ I told myself. First, Noah was my son and there was no way anyone would take him away from me. Second, I could not remarry when I had not fallen in love with any man. Moreover, I was not aware of any such law instructing me to remarry within a specific time and never had I seen it enforced before. This was the case I would make before the Chief.
*
We walked away hurriedly, isolated from everyone by a wall of dust. On getting home, I checked the calendar in our living room, which was roughly marked with charcoal, and I realised that Tanto had been gone for five months and two weeks. I had only two weeks left to comply with the law, or else my son would be taken into the custody of Jaja, his eldest paternal uncle. Jaja was a very mean man. A shiver ran through me at the thought of losing Noah to him.
‘Mother, are they going to take me away from you?’ Noah asked. ‘Are you going to marry another man?’
I turned away from the calendar and held out my hand to him. ‘No one will ever take you away from me, and I will not marry another man,’ I reassured him.
‘Yesterday I saw four boys,’ he said, shuffling his feet.
‘Where did you see them?’ I was curious.
‘On the outskirts of the village.’
I released his hand and I bent down and glared into his face. ‘Have I not warned you never to go that far?’ I asked. ‘Have I not?’
‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ he said, squeezing his face into a frown.
‘You’re sorry? Tell me, why did you go there?’
‘My friends said we should go there to pick mangos.’
‘Have mangos become food for you? Don’t I feed you well enoug
h?’
He gazed up at me with imploring eyes, saying nothing.
‘Answer me!’ I snapped. Then I sighed and softened my voice. ‘Look, I’ve warned you before; it’s not safe for you to go that far. Stop allowing your friends to tell you where to go and what to do. You should have a mind of your own.’
He pouted. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, I won’t do it again,’ he said and took my hand.
‘I will be very angry with you next time, you know that?’
He nodded. ‘I know, Mother, I will not make you angry.’
‘So what boys did you see?’ I asked, pulling a stool over to sit down.
He sat next to me. ‘The boys who live in the abandoned building on the outskirts. They told me they have no parents. One of them is about my age, the others are a bit older. Mother, how come they don’t have parents?’
‘They’re orphans. Their parents are dead,’ I replied warily.
‘And how come they live on the outskirts and not in the village?’
‘Well, it’s either that they ran away from the homes of their relatives or that they were thrown out.’
‘Why? Why would they run away from home or get thrown out to live in an abandoned building?’ he asked in a sad voice.
I knew that the answer to his question would sadden him more. So I rose and pulled him up. ‘Please stop worrying about the orphans,’ I said. ‘Let’s go to the kitchen, I will make us something to eat.’
In the kitchen, busying myself noisily to discourage him from asking more questions, my mind became preoccupied with the Chief’s words. I imagined that he must have been drunk when he spoke at the gathering. How could he ever think of taking my son away from me or forcing me into marriage? A quiet, bitter laugh escaped me.
*
Noah pressed further after we had eaten. ‘Mother, tell me more about the orphans,’ he said to me.
I remained silent for a moment, and then I decided to tell him all that he needed to know. ‘What is it you want to know about them?’
We were seated by the lantern. A moth circled, disappeared from view and then flickered back again.
‘I want to know why they ran away from home,’ he said, then reached out to slap the moth away.
‘Don’t worry about the moth,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s playing with fire.’
A brief smiled passed across his face. He knew the consequences of playing with fire. When he was five he had stuck his finger in the lantern when I was not looking. He had screamed in pain, causing me to jump in fear. He never tried it again.
‘Why did they run away from home?’ he asked, looking expectantly at me.
I leaned back and fixed my eyes on the lantern. ‘In the tradition of our village,’ I began, ‘young orphans are believed to be evil children responsible for their parents’ deaths. By tradition, they’re taken into care by their maternal family and are treated as taboo. They cannot eat with or play with other children, and they’re made to work as slaves for their own family. Because they’re treated very badly, some run away from home. In other instances, if the family they are living with suffer any misfortune, the orphans are blamed for it and can be tortured and thrown out. Whatever the reason for their leaving, they end up in the abandoned building on the outskirts.’
‘Will they live there for ever?’ he asked.
‘They’d probably live there until they’re a bit older, then go away and not come back. At one point or another, every orphan either runs away from home or gets thrown out. The abandoned building is the halfway house, from where they travel to distant destinations. To remain there is to live with rejection for life.’
‘But those boys don’t look evil to me,’ he said, a frown on his face.
‘As I said, tradition labelled them so. They’re innocent children, merely unfortunate enough to have lost both parents at a tender age.’
‘So they’re not evil?’
‘No, they’re not evil. They’re victims of an evil tradition. It has been like that for as long as anyone can remember.’ A sigh escaped me.
He stayed silent with his hands in his lap. I could tell in his eyes that the revelations deeply saddened him, but they were truths he had to know.
Suddenly, the moth hugged the lantern, flapping its wings in a vain struggle as it was singed to death. Noah sighed. I sighed too. After he had gone to bed, I remained by the lantern for a long time, thinking.
*
The next day, I walked through the village, hoping to find someone with whom I could discuss my plight. The sun burned fiercely; the thatched roofs could be heard cracking, as if on fire. The women and young girls were plaiting each other’s hair in the shade of trees, enervated by the heat and talking in low voices. Only a handful of children could be seen playing, and they did so without passion. The men and older children who had gone to the farms, the rivers and the forests to work were not yet back. As soon as they returned, the village would be stirred awake by a frenzy of activity, and thick smoke would go up into the sky as the women prepared dinner.
Hostile faces glanced at me. I wondered if any of them might soften their hearts if I approached them, but I could not muster the courage to do so. I slowed my pace, hoping that someone would give me a kind smile, a sign to encourage me to talk to them. None did, so I trudged on.
I came to Main Street. It was not market-day, so it was empty, and the sound of silence echoed around me. The stalls looked abandoned, the entire market desolate; not even the incandescent sun could brighten my mood. I reached the stall that used to be mine. I lingered in front of it. Somehow, it looked isolated from the others, and I suspected that the new owner must have shut it down. For a while I was overcome by memories of the time, not long ago, when so many merchants came to our village to buy and sell. I shook my head. I wondered which market the merchants had moved on to.
I avoided the palace, sprawling in the distance. I could see some royal guards strolling lazily around its vicinity. The old Chief was probably in his inner chamber, resting in the company of one or more of his pretty young wives. And the horse was probably resting, too, inside the compound of the palace, waiting to take its master to pursue and acquire the next poor girl.
I took a long detour, scrutinising the houses that I passed. They were all built of red mud and had tall thatched roofs, yet each one looked so different from the others. Soon I could see my parents’ house – still as I used to know it – one of the few houses, like mine, that had a wall around it. There was no one nearby, no one visible within. I stood at a distance to see if someone would come out. No one did. I moved on after a while, a deep loneliness weighing on my heart.
*
At about noon, the same barefooted guard who had visited to summon me to the palace came to deliver a message from the Chief. This time he came without his stick. Instead, he carried a red cockerel, whose feet were bound together with a white rope. I was in the living room with Noah when he came. Unlike the last time, he greeted me politely, but I did not bother to respond.
‘What is it you want now? What is it?’ I asked petulantly. ‘Can’t you just leave us in peace?’
‘It’s in peace I come with a message from our Chief,’ he said with a bow.
‘And what message?’ I asked without interest.
‘The great Chief asked me to present this cockerel to you as an indication of his desire to make you one of his wives. By that, you will no longer be called a widow, and you will not lose custody of your son.’
For a moment I was too dumbfounded to say a word. Beside me, Noah sat quietly. I could feel his heart racing.
‘You will go back to the Chief and tell him that he has two legs of his own, or maybe the four hooves of his horse, and I will not receive such an important message from a guard.’
‘The Chief cannot deliver the message himself.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because you are a common widow!’ he cried. ‘Tradition forbids the Chief to deliver a message like this to you himself. He is
doing you a favour, you see.’
‘Now go back to the Chief, and tell him that I don’t need his favour.’
The guard shook his head. ‘I cannot deliver such a message to the Chief. You’re expected to accept the Chief’s proposal and go back with me to the palace to formalise marriage arrangements.’
I clapped my hands and shook my head in disbelief. A quiet laughter escaped me. ‘Now I must ask you to leave my house,’ I said in a warning tone.
‘You’re expected to come with me to the palace,’ the guard insisted.
‘Okay, wait for me.’
The guard smiled.
I went to the backyard, Noah hot on my heels. ‘What are you going to do, Mother?’ he asked repeatedly. Getting no response from me, he began to cry.
I found a large stick, and I returned with it to the living room.
‘I demand that you leave my house now!’ I shouted at the guard.
‘No, I cannot! You have to come with me,’ he protested, taken aback.
I attacked him, jabbing him in the stomach with the stick. ‘I say leave my house!’
He ran out, stumbling as he did so. And he fled as fast as his legs would carry him, glancing over his shoulder and struggling to hold on to the red cockerel.
To my surprise, Noah stopped crying and began to laugh. I laughed too. I drew him to me and wiped his tearstained face with my palm. I tried not to show the fear that had gripped me, knowing there would be consequences for my action.
*
Not long after, a town crier could be heard sounding a gong and repeating a short announcement. ‘The great Chief requests that the whole village converge at the palace in three hours’ time for a meeting,’ he said. Other messengers went swiftly to the farms to announce it to the farmers; to the forests to notify the hunters; and to the rivers to inform the fishermen.
Just like the first time, a large crowd had already gathered by the time I arrived at the palace, and I stayed on the fringe, holding Noah by the hand.
Soon, the Chief came out to the balcony, and he took his seat on the tall stool. His guards and lesser chiefs took up position. He wasted no time getting to the point of the meeting. ‘People of our great village,’ he began, ‘not only is Ese a widow now, she has also become a thug.’ He spoke the words with venom, and he paused to survey the crowd. ‘Today, I sent one of my guards to deliver a message to her, and she attacked him with a dangerous weapon.’
