by Okey Ndibe
The same year Nigeria made a transition to what is generally called a “nascent democracy,” I accepted an invitation to contribute a weekly column to one of Nigeria’s major daily newspapers. I have sustained the column, even though I have had to move it to different newspapers. Each week, I fashion a column that lacerates some of the scoundrels masked as Nigerian leaders. I pour scorn on the poseurs who dug, or dig, graves for Nigerians’ hopes. I envision myself as a scourge of the mindless, debauched fools who have aborted or discounted the considerable promise of Nigeria.
An African Folktale,
a Wall Street Lesson
For several years during my childhood, I had the great fortune of being in a household without a television set. My parents simply couldn’t afford a TV.
Of course, I did not know at the time how fortunate I was. Instead, I wallowed in self-pity. And, of course, I envied any friend whose parents had bought some black-and-white TV. My parents were dead set against allowing their children that idle time that fertilized dawdling, any form of dissipation. Even so, every chance I had, I sneaked away to some friend’s home where I could watch the magical contraption.
As we had no TV, our parents and other adults frequently told us folktales. Many nights, just after dinner, my siblings, cousins, and I would sit on the floor, forming a semicircle around one of my parents, an aunt, or an uncle, who sat on a stool or chair to tell us a story.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but the storytelling sessions were a marvelous postprandial treat. The folktales featured both human and animal characters, but mostly the latter. They were also of different kinds. Some were meant to foster moral acumen in children; these often dramatized the consequences of making ill-advised choices. Some were calculated to answer quasi-biological or mythic questions: Why don’t women grow beards? or Why does a Tortoise have a broken shell? or Why did God leave the world to make a home in the sky? or How did Lion become king of all animals? or Why do people eat chicken most of all the animals? Some of the folktales were for old-fashioned fun, sheer delectation.
In many of them, Tortoise was a recurrent character. In folktale after Igbo folktale, Tortoise starred in one role or another. He was sometimes a protagonist, at other times an antagonist. He could feature as a villain in one, a wit in another, a self-destructive smart-aleck or an unlikely hero in yet another. Often, Tortoise was all these personae rolled into one: self-ruining fool and riddle-solving redeemer.
Each storytelling session had an opening formula. The storyteller would say, “E nwelu mu akuko nga akolu unu.” (I have a story to tell you). We, his audience, would respond, “Kolu anyi, ka odi uto. Anyi ga ege nti n’ulu ife I ga ekwu.” (Tell us the story. May it be delightful. We will listen to what you have to say.) Then the narrator would start: “Olulu ofu oge afu . . .” (Once upon a time . . .)
Sometimes, we would hear the same story retold by different storytellers on different nights. But each brought a peculiar stamp, some inflection of voice or other inventive quirk, that transformed the story, making it seem new and wonderfully unfamiliar.
Years later, in America, I began to tell these stories remembered from my childhood to my own children. Even though the TV was there as competition, they were transported by these folktales. I was so impressed by how my children cleaved to these stories that I decided to take the folktales, as it were, on the road. I approached my kids’ elementary-school teachers and offered to come in and share African folktales.
My performances became a hit. One teacher would tell another how spellbound her students were, and I would receive invitations to bring my stories to yet another classroom.
One day, Deirdre Falla, whose son, Ethan, was my older son’s best friend, invited me to share a folktale or two with her second-grade class in New Britain, Connecticut.
I told the students the first story would be about Tortoise and a feast in the sky. Since there was too little time to teach them the opening formula in Igbo, I told the class that I would begin by exclaiming, “Story time!” They were to echo my words at the top of their lungs—to signal their attentiveness, their readiness to hear my story.
“Story time!” I shouted.
“Story tiiime!” the students shouted back.
I began.
Once upon a time, a terrible famine ensued in the land of animals. The famine was caused by a great quarrel between Earth and Sky. Since the feud could not be settled, Sky withheld rain for several years. Plants and crops shriveled and died. The earth became too hard and dusty, so that nothing could be planted—and what was cultivated had no chance of surviving. The animals faced untold suffering. They all looked feeble, emaciated, and sad.
The only animals that looked robust, healthy, and happy were birds. And they were fortunate because they had friends who lived up in the sky. Each week, these high-up friends treated all the birds to a sumptuous feast.
One day, as the birds gathered to hold a meeting prior to flying off to a feast in the sky, Tortoise waddled up to them.
“Friends,” he said. “I admire the spirit of friendship between all you birds. Pray, what business has brought all of you together?”
The birds explained that they were holding their usual meeting prior to flying off to the sky for a feast.
“Oh, how I wish you would take me along with you,” Tortoise cried. “You won’t believe how much I admire you birds and wish to be in your company.”
The birds knew Tortoise’s reputation for wiliness. He was a master at manipulating others. And he was always on the lookout for opportunities to swindle the gullible and take advantage of those who let their guard down. Some of the birds warned that they should have nothing to do with Tortoise. They wanted to tell him off straightaway, to ask him to ply his deceptive arts elsewhere. But other birds were already smitten, swayed by Tortoise’s genteel manner and sweet, flattering talk. These birds were opposed to dealing with Tortoise in a curt, insensitive, and dismissive way. At any rate, they pointed out to their hawkish fellows that there was nothing to lose. Tortoise had no feathers and was incapable of flying.
“We would have welcomed your making the trip with us,” the birds’ representative told Tortoise. “Sadly, you cannot fly.”
Tortoise smiled, for he saw that his charm was already working on some of the birds. “Well, friends,” he said. “It’s true that I cannot fly because I have no feathers. But that can change, I assure you. You’re all very kind, which is why I always sing the praises of birds everywhere I go. Let me tell you: if each of you would lend me a feather, why, I should be able to fly just like the best of you.”
The birds quickly considered the idea. Tortoise’s sweet words had gone into their heads. With its beak, each bird pulled out a feather and gave it to Tortoise. Soon, there was pile of feathers. Tortoise glued the feathers to his shell. He flapped and flapped and lifted up into the air. The whole tribe of birds cheered, amazed at Tortoise’s new flair for flight—and proud of themselves for making it possible.
The birds and Tortoise flew off, headed for the feast in the sky. Soon, they hovered over the great iroko, the tallest tree in the firmament.
“Friends, let us perch on the iroko tree for a moment,” Tortoise implored the birds. “I just remembered an urgent matter I must share with you.”
The birds were puzzled and a bit suspicious, but they had already fallen under Tortoise’s powers of persuasion. As soon as they perched on the tree, Tortoise addressed them.
“I meant to tell you about a wonderful new game that some of the wisest people in the world recently invented. The game demands that each person take a flamboyant or funny new name. Before we continue on our journey, we must take new names. When we get to the sky, we will introduce ourselves with the new names we have chosen. Our hosts will be entertained to hear our new names.”
Again, the birds were uneasy about Tortoise’s proposal, but they decided to go along. They be
gan to take new flashy names. “I’ll henceforth be called Conqueror of the Sky,” one bird proclaimed. Tortoise cheered. “Me, my new name is Celestial Acrobat,” another bird proclaimed, again drawing Tortoise’s applause. Other birds took equally boastful names: the Zipper, Faster-than-Bullet, Straight Shooter, Beaked Comet, Dazzling Wind, Ferocious Wings, Winged Meteor. At last, the birds turned to Tortoise with great anticipation.
“My name is All of You,” Tortoise disclosed.
The birds were amused. What a neat name, some of them chirped. Their anxiety had disappeared. In fact, they gave effusive thanks to Tortoise for introducing the innovation of new names. They congratulated themselves on bringing along such a well-traveled, wise man. “We are so lucky to have you with us,” the birds’ representative professed to Tortoise. “Henceforth, we will not go to the feast in the sky without you.”
They flew off again and soon arrived in the sky. They duly introduced themselves with their new names to their hosts. Their hosts busied themselves, bringing in a wide selection of some of the most delicious meals. In a moment, the meals were spread before the birds and their new friend, Tortoise.
Famished, the birds took their positions, ready to start eating.
“My friends, let us not be so rude to start eating without asking one essential question,” Tortoise said to the birds in a stern voice. Then he cast a mischievous eye in the direction of the hosts. “Tell me, for whom have you prepared all this feast?” he asked.
“It’s for all of you, of course,” the people of the sky answered.
“I thought so,” Tortoise cried triumphantly. Then fixing the birds with a grave stare, he said, “Remember, friends, that my name is All of You. You all just heard our hosts themselves say all the food is for me. I order you, then, to step back. I want to eat in peace.”
He began to gorge alone on the impressive spread of food. Between mouthfuls of food, he would throw crumbs down on the floor. The desperate, angry birds scurried and fought for the miserable crumbs. When Tortoise had eaten his fill, he pulled a massive bag from underneath his shell. He began to pack up the remaining food, indifferent to the glares and grumbles of the birds maddened by hunger.
It came time to travel back to the earth. The birds were indignant. They went to the treacherous Tortoise and angrily demanded their feathers back.
“Friends, I beg you not to act in a rash manner,” Tortoise pleaded. “Be patient for a while. Once we get back to land, I’ll gladly return your feathers.” He gave a wide, sunny smile, as if he were the most gracious being. But the birds knew better than to allow Tortoise to beguile them. Each used its beak to pull out the feather it had earlier lent to Tortoise.
As the birds flew off, the denuded Tortoise let out a loud, heartrending cry for help. Most of the birds ignored him. But two of the birds turned around and flew to him.
“Please, could you give an urgent message to my wife,” the helpless Tortoise pleaded.
“Why should we do you any more favors when you have been so malicious?” the birds asked.
“Because you’re very kind. And, trust me, I’m a changed man. I’m so sorry for offending you and the other birds.”
To Tortoise’s surprise, the two birds reluctantly agreed to take a message to his wife.
“Tell her I asked that she gather all the soft things she can find. She must build a squishy mound outside my compound. She is to build me a platform made of leaves, pieces of cloth, and all the bouncy things she finds. Tell my wife I’m stuck up in the sky and must jump. I want to land on a soft mound.”
The birds flew away, promising to do Tortoise one last good turn, even though they told him he was undeserving.
Once back home, they went to Tortoise’s home and found his wife in an anxious state, wondering why her husband had not arrived home.
“We have an important message from your husband,” the birds announced. Then they told Mrs. Tortoise that her husband wanted her to fetch all the hard things she could find and pile them outside his compound. “Look for rocks, stones, steel, wood—and make a pile of them. That’s the message from your dear husband.”
Tortoise’s wife went earnestly to work. She soon built a mound, with all the hard things she could find.
Gazing down from the dizzying heights of the sky, Tortoise shouted to his wife, “Have you done what I asked you to do?”
His voice was faint, but she heard the substance of the question. “Yes!” she shrieked. Her voice was even fainter, but Tortoise could capture her answer.
He jumped. For a while, he kept falling and falling and tumbling. And then, bam, he crashed into the hard things placed outside his compound. A loud gasp escaped from his lips at the moment of the impact. His shell was smashed into tiny little pieces. He lay groaning, near death.
His wife sent to a distant land for a healer who came and used a special glue to stitch Tortoise’s shell together again.
“Story time!” I shouted again. Mrs. Falla’s students echoed my words.
“That’s the end of the story,” I announced.
Next, I asked the students what they had learned from the story.
Many hands went up. One said it was not good to be greedy. Another answered that we should not trust anybody who liked to cheat others. Another responded that Tortoise was mean, and meanness was bad.
A particular student caught my attention. There was remarkable eagerness on his face, as if he had some answer that would sum up the moral meaning of the whole story. He not only raised his hand again and again, he seemed to be attempting to levitate from his seat. I could not help pointing to him.
He smiled and composed himself. Then he said, “Next time, Tortoise should go up there with a parachute.”
The response took my breath away. “Wow! Wow!” was all I could say.
The kid had sidestepped all the ethical considerations and gone straight for strategy. It struck me as a neo-Machiavellian answer, revealing a precocious corporatist sensibility.
Someday, I mused to myself, that kid is going to find himself on Wall Street. Or in some other corner of the world where men and women with Tortoise’s mind-set head for gruel fests with all manner of armor, including parachutes—in case there’s a modern-day feast high up in the sky.
A Dying Father,
Dreams of Burma and England
During a visit to my native Nigeria in January 1993, I saw signs that some dreadful illness had crept into my father. His spare body had filled out in a way that did not spell well-being. His face had become rounder, paler, a little sadder. When he hugged me, I missed the sinewy strength I remembered from his arms. He used to walk briskly, but his gait had slowed to the cautious pace of a man plagued by aches. His clear ringing voice was all but gone. His speech sounded unaccustomedly enfeebled. Before me was a father physically transformed, his body no longer able to support the generousness of his spirits.
In June, I received news that he had been diagnosed with renal disease. Thus began my version of a son’s worst nightmare. The most graceful man I knew was beginning his final somber dance. In my adolescent days, I had often looked upon my father, first as stronger than everybody else’s father; then as simply immortal.
Christopher Chidebe Ndibe was a genial man of noble bearing, and quietly brave. His own father’s fame lay in a few simple facts. He was apparently a remarkable marksman, a hunter whose gun was the envy of others in the hunting guild. On one occasion, a huge monkey had established itself atop a tall tree in Amawbia. For hours, different hunters gathered and fired at the mammoth thing, which gazed down at them with something of imperturbable scorn. Finally, my grandfather showed up. He took a look at the other hunters and said, with playful derision, “You’re proposing to get down that beast with those fragile guns of yours?” He then climbed the branch of a smaller, nearby tree, took aim, and fired one shot. There was a deafening report. The pellets from his gu
n stunned the animal, sent it tumbling to the ground.
Grandfather, whose name was Ndibe Ekweozo, was also a palm wine tapper. In his day, certain kinds of men were feared for being diabolical to the point of sometimes targeting children. Parents would often warn their children against accepting palm wine from tappers. But many an elder from Amawbia recalled their parents making an exception in the case of my grandfather. He was trusted as a man who harbored no ill or evil. He was a young-hearted man who relished spoiling children with palm wine and stories.
In his day, my grandfather had also been an invincible traditional wrestler, one of the best in Amawbia, his hometown in the Igbo heartland. Those who knew him told stories of his wrestling exploits, with special fondness for a comical incident that happened during one communal festival. In those days, a wrestler could walk up to another wrestler and call him out to a duel.
Cowed by my grandfather’s wrestling prowess, one opponent had lost his nerve and pleaded, “May we wrestle tomorrow instead?” To which my grandfather responded, “What then shall we do about today?” Till my father’s death, villagers saluted him with the statement “Kaodiechi,” or “May it be tomorrow,” a shortened paraphrase of those plaintive words spoken by his father’s opponent.
My grandfather’s other claim to fame had to do with white men. When the first white men appeared in Amawbia, my grandfather had been one of the few young men adventurous enough to go away with them. He and his fellows seemed drawn by the economic possibilities promised by the nascent white world, complete with a new cash nexus. Grandfather had hired himself out to the British merchants as a hewer of timber near Warri, in Nigeria’s deltaic region, some 150 miles from his village.
