JUDE 1:7
Even as Sodom and Gomorrah, and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example, suffering the vengeance of eternal fire.
REVELATION 21:8
But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.
(Here, she double-underlined the words “the abominable” for me.)
After reading aloud the contents of the posterboard, Mama said, “You really must understand that that kind of behavior between you and that girl is the influence of demonic spirits. I ne ghe nti? Are you listening?”
I nodded.
“Satan finds a way to influence us all the way from hell,” she said. “But I will continue to pray for you, and you must continue to pray for yourself. There’s nothing that can’t be conquered when we receive Jesus as our Lord and our Savior.”
By the end of all those lessons, all that praying, if anyone had asked how I felt, I would have told them that I was exhausted. Not angry, not confused, not even penitent. Just exhausted.
A week before I was to leave to board at the secondary school, two or three days after that last Bible study session, Mama turned to me again and asked, “Do you still think of her in that way?”
I looked into her eyes, knowing better than to tell the truth, but I could not get myself to speak the lie. I shook my head. I forced myself to shake it with authority, making sure not to blink. It was the first time that I had lied to Mama. I comforted myself with the thought that at least I had not spoken the lie.
Mama smiled, patted me on the shoulder. “Very good, my child. Very, very good.” She sighed, then she said, “The power of God! The wonderful power of our glorious and Almighty God!”
PART III
20
IT TURNS OUT that I became the businesswoman Mama thought I might, seeing that I wound up taking over the business end of things for her. Of course, I didn’t go to any special schooling for it beyond secondary school, so maybe it also turns out that all that talk by Mama about eating protein and using my brain actually was valid, schooling or not.
In any case, sometimes as I’m going about my life outside of working with Mama at the store, my eyes land on something that causes me to think back to those days at the grammar school teacher’s. A heap of sand, for instance. Or the deep brown seeds of an udala fruit. Sometimes just seeing a pail of dirty laundry reminds me of those days. Doesn’t matter the kind of clothes in the pail. Doesn’t matter that they are nothing like the grammar school teacher’s or his wife’s. Suddenly my mind is back there, and I can’t help recalling all those years ago: the rat-tap-tapping of the grammar school teacher’s knocks on my hovel’s door, the flame of the kerosene lantern flickering on the desk. Amina and I cowering from fear.
The day I met Amina, it was still my first month at the grammar school teacher’s, and we had run out of kerosene. A heavy rain had fallen that morning. The sky was gray. Then morning turned to afternoon and the sun came out. I finished my morning chores and set off to fetch the kerosene just as the sun was starting to shine.
That whole first month at the grammar school teacher’s place, it was as if we were always running in and out of the bunker. Even on my way back from the market, I would hear the bombers appear above and would have to run and hide in the bushes. There was usually no way to tell if they were enemy planes or not, so we all hid in the bushes to be safe. We stayed there until we could no longer hear the bombers up above.
Once, I had been so turned around after hiding in the bushes that the sun was beginning to set by the time I got back to the grammar school teacher’s. This was the latest that I had ever returned. He and his wife had been so upset that he threatened to flog me, thirteen strokes to my backside—because I was almost thirteen years old—to teach me a lesson on not ever coming back late again.
When I went to fetch the kerosene that day, I ran at first, not wanting to risk being late. The roads were muddy from the morning rain, with puddles like creeks accumulating intermittently throughout. Even so, I ran. I could not have been running very long when I got winded. I stopped to catch my breath.
Just past a grove of withering palm trees some puppies lay in crescent-shaped mounds, fetal-like, nipping at the dusty earth as if to bury themselves within. Not too far from the dogs were several kwashiorkor children, carrying their begging bowls.
In a field right next to the road, a policeman was moving through a row of corpses, using a long cane to prod them or mark them as he went. He was a stone-faced officer, with a crinkly sort of nose and a mouth that appeared permanently upturned so that his lips seemed to cover his nostrils. Perhaps he carried his face this way deliberately, owing to the odor that the job required him to endure.
Maybe he was counting the bodies, or maybe he was inspecting them for something. I watched as he went about prodding them one by one.
Up till now, I had seen so many images of death—Papa’s corpse, for one. For another, all those decapitated bodies that Mama and I had seen flanking the road on our way to Nnewi. Death was all over the place. But in this moment I observed its opposite.
More people had gathered near the field: A singlet-wearing, shoeless man in khaki trousers, who seemed unable to stop scratching his head. A stick-thin woman holding a small girl’s hand. A boy who looked to have been not much older than me, carrying another, smaller, wounded boy on his back. A gray-haired old woman with a tree branch walking stick, breathing hard.
They all stood watching as a body—a boy’s, naked—proceeded to rise from the field of corpses, like a resurrection. As the boy rose, all the people around me gasped, one perfectly synchronized, collective intake of breath.
The boy wore a startled expression. Perhaps he had fallen asleep among the corpses, or perhaps somehow he had been stunned into imagining himself dead. The policeman, who had jumped back as the boy rose, quickly recovered from his shock, raised his cane, and began whipping it into the air like a warning. The boy recoiled, taking backward steps, tripping over the corpses among which he had been sleeping. The policeman raised his cane over and over again, using both of his hands, raising the whip and bringing it down with such force that it made a sound like the shot of a gun, and as it did, the boy ran off into the distance, naked as the day he was born.
Okeke was a tall man whose wiry thin face drooped on one side, as if half his face was always sad. The rest of his body was like his face: altogether wiry thin and a little sad-looking.
Everyone knew him by that name, and everyone called him by it: Okeke. It made no difference if it was a child or an adult referring to him. They all called him Okeke.
I also had begun referring to him as Okeke, but never to his face. It was a thing I had been trained not to do as far back as I could remember, never to refer to an adult by his or her first name. Each time I went to Okeke, I simply called him “Sir.”
Everyone must have been out of kerosene that day, because the line was long, circling out of the doorway of the small cement-walled shop and meandering out onto the tip of the main road. After over an hour of waiting, I finally neared the front of the line, third in line. The kerosene was stored in large translucent plastic jerry cans through which the liquid line was visible. From where I stood, I could see that all of the large jerry cans holding the kerosene behind where Okeke stood were empty, no liquid to speak of. He had different sizes of funnels that he used to transfer the kerosene from the larger jerry cans into his customers’ containers. Now he was gathering all the funnels together, as if to pack them up.
Another tall wiry man at the head of the line called out, “Brother, abeg-o! Make say we get kerosene-o!”
Okeke continued to pack up the funnels. Not bothering to respond to the man, he set the funnels on the countertop near where the jerry cans sat.
“Nawa-o! E don finish?” a woman behind me asked. The way she said “finish,” it was as if she were saying “dead,” as if she were lamenting the death of a family member. “What am I to do now?” she asked. “How am I to cook my food? How am I to light my lanterns?”
A sliver of panic blossomed in me. What was I also to do now? I could go back home and report to the grammar school teacher and his wife that there was no kerosene, but it meant that there would be at least one more day without any real food to eat, not having any oil with which to light up the cooking fire. There was garri, which we could soak in cold water and eat, but not much of anything else, not even some groundnuts to mix into the garri. At this point there was not even bread.
The man who was first in line raised his hands in the air, in a gesture of both frustration and resignation, then turned to leave. The second man turned and left as well.
I looked behind me. All the people who had been standing behind me were now leaving. Okeke was moving the empty jerry cans, taking them one at a time through the door at the rear of the shed. After the second trip outside, he came back and simply regarded the open area of the shop. There was no one left but me. He looked at me.
My hands were clenched in tight fists. I was holding, crinkled up in my palms, the Biafran pounds that the grammar school teacher had given to me to buy the kerosene.
“Still standing here,” Okeke said to me, not quite a question.
Papa used to say, whenever I began pleading or whining or complaining about something, that the hunter who makes too much noise goes home empty-handed. And anyway, I already knew, just from the experience of being a child, that the children who got what they wanted were, more often than not, the ones who were quiet and behaved the best. I remained silent and tried to be on my best behavior, which wasn’t very hard to do, seeing as how there was not much else I could have done.
The last time I had come, about two weeks earlier, I had been sent for bread and a can of Titus sardines, along with kerosene. I had not come with enough money for the sardines, and yet Okeke had given me the sardines anyway. “On credit,” he had said. “Next time you come, just bring me the sardine money.”
I realized that I had forgotten about the owed money. In fact, not only had I forgotten to bring it, I had even forgotten to mention it to the grammar school teacher in the first place, those two weeks ago. Perhaps it was just as well, then, I thought to myself, that the kerosene had run out, because what money would I have used for the kerosene after paying back the sardine money?
Okeke looked at me as if inspecting me. His eyes went down to the empty bottle in my hand.
I knew by now, from snippets of talk between the grammar school teacher and his wife, as well as from talk around the village, that Okeke had a family of his own—a wife, three daughters, a son. The son, Dubem, had, some months ago, joined the Biafran army. There were whispers that he might not make it back home, that Okeke might soon find himself without a son.
Somehow it occurred to me to tell him about the scene I had just witnessed, the one of the dead boy rising. The whole thing was still fresh in my mind.
I would have told it to him to give him hope about his son. To say that perhaps his son would be like that one boy, the one resurrected boy in a field of dead people. Because maybe this was what war was about: the dying of the masses in exchange for the resurrection of one.
Before I could open my mouth to speak, my mind began to wander. Inside my head it was as if a grasshopper were hopping about, this way and that, not knowing where it wanted to land. Or maybe as if my mind was playing hopscotch in the sand, the ground all marked up with a stick, deep depressions forming boxes, each numbered from one to ten. My mind was hopping from one box to the next, trying to make it to the ten.
I’m not sure if it ever made it to the ten, and even if it did, I’m not sure what that ten would have been, but where it finally landed was on the story of Ogbuogu, one of the old folktales Papa used to tell me. Perhaps that was the ten.
Once upon a time, two neighboring villages were at war with each other in a relentless struggle over land. The first village had an army of mighty warriors, intimidating warriors, all equipped with fancy spears and with fancy bows and arrows. The second village had none of the mighty warriors; neither did it have any of the fancy weapons. What it did have was a boy by the name of Ogbuogu, whom the gods had endowed with mighty powers so that he always knew the best way to organize his people in order to win every battle that came their way. The neighboring villagers knew this, and it aggravated them to no end to have this boy as their obstacle, in the face of whom they would surely lose all battles.
Whenever the opponents were about to come battle Ogbuogu’s village, the town crier went around announcing that ndi iro abiawana, that the enemies were coming. He blew his opi in that specific way that was Ogbuogu’s signal to report for battle. Along with the blowing of his flute, the town crier sang:
Ogbuogu nwa, Ogbuogu nwa,
Anyi agbarana ogu oso
Ogbuogu nwa, Ogbuogu nwa,
Anyi agbarana ogu oso
Ima na ofu nwa n’egbu ora nine!
Anyi agbarana ogu oso.
Fighting child, Fighting child,
Let’s not run away from fighting
Fighting child, Fighting child,
Let’s not run away from fighting
Imagine, one child can kill an entire village!
Let’s not run away from fighting.
One day, as Ogbuogu’s village was nearing the point of securing all the land belonging to them, the opposing village found out the secret of the town crier’s call. They brought their own opi and blew it in the same fashion as Ogbuogu’s village’s town crier. Of course, Ogbuogu responded.
He came out, prepared with his bow and arrow, not knowing that it was the opponent playing a trick on him. He arrived at the battlefield only to find that none of his fellow warriors were there with him. Rather, he was all alone on the battlefield surrounded by the enemy warriors.
The battle began. Ogbuogu fought, and he fought. One would hardly have believed that he was one single man on that field. One would hardly have known just how outnumbered he was. But eventually he grew exhausted. It was too late by the time his fellow warriors got wind of what had happened. They arrived at the battlefield only to see that Ogbuogu was dead. There was nothing they could do but carry Ogbuogu’s body back to the village. And as they did, they wailed and shed tears. Not only had they lost a kinsman, but this particular loss, they knew, would leave them vulnerable to attack. This particular loss might even lead to the end of their village as they knew it, because the conquering village might go so far as to force them off their land.
They were still in the middle of mourning Ogbuogu when the town crier announced that the neighboring village was approaching for another battle. This news sent them into a panic, of course. How could they possibly fight any battle without Ogbuogu? What hope did they have of making it out alive?
They held a quick meeting where they considered their options. When the time of battle arrived, they gathered themselves and prepared, bows and arrows in place. As luck or cleverness would have it, they came up with the idea of tying Ogbuogu’s body on a horse. They set a plank of wood at his back, to hold him up so that it looked as if he was alive and sitting on the horse. They put a small colony of ants in his mouth so that from a distance it appeared that his mouth sometimes moved, that he was the one doing the moving, the way the living do.
They arrived at the battlefield that way, with Ogbuogu in their midst, riding high and looking very proud on his horse.
Upon seeing Ogbuogu on the horse, the enemies fell into disarray, scattering about, exclaiming that here was Ogbuogu’s spirit returning to deal with them. Surely, they said, if they were to so much as attempt to do battle with him, as with any member of the spirit world, there was a good chance that they themselves would soon die and be sent to the most terrible part of the spirit world.
&nbs
p; So it was that Ogbuogu’s village remained undefeated.
The sound of my stomach growling snapped me out of my thoughts. That morning, I had been so busy with chores, trying to finish them early, that I had completely missed breakfast. And, the night before, I had eaten only a piece of bread for supper—the last remaining bread, a very small piece, almost a morsel, hardly enough to fill an ant.
I felt the stabbing ache of hunger in my stomach. Reflexively, I brought my hand to my belly, as if to assuage the pain that way.
Okeke’s eyes followed my hand, settling with it on my belly. Then his eyes traveled back up to my face.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asked.
“Yesterday, Sir,” I replied. “We have no kerosene to cook.”
“What about bread?”
“I ate the last piece of bread last night, Sir,” I said.
There appeared a frown on his face, but it was hard to tell if it was really there or just the effect of the drooping half.
He looked at the container in my hand, the glass one that I had come to fill. “Hand me your bottle,” he said.
I did as I was told.
He took the bottle, headed to the cabinet beneath the countertop on which he had set the funnels. He took out a small container of what must have been his personal stock of kerosene and set it on the counter near the funnels. He chose the smallest funnel, stuck it into my bottle, and began pouring the kerosene from his container into mine.
When he was finished, he brought the filled-up bottle to me.
Under the Udala Trees Page 9
