by Okezie Nwoka
“Yes, I would like something to eat,” said Chinwe. “What is it that you would like to give me?”
Ijeọma quickly took Chinwe’s open right hand and led her to Ọfọdile’s orange tree. She plucked one of those golden spheres and handed it to Chinwe, and watched her tear the orange peels with her teeth—letting the juices wash through her mouth and chin—consuming it voraciously—while the plump goats ate the dirt-covered peelings—as they bleated—in uneven tempos.
Chinwe recoiled when a goat whipped its black tongue against her feet, the wet on her skin thicker than mucus, sticky like peeled okra.
“Go from here! and leave!” Chinwe said, as she reached toward the dust—to dry her feet—and her gaze met two skinny legs—walking in her direction.
“Nnamdị!” Chinwe said, as she began standing, seeing Nnamdị walking toward her in the middle of the compound, thinking him to be ill. But when she looked more carefully, she saw that his body was just as she remembered; it was his limp which had fooled her into distorting his sprightly chi. So she turned from his gait, and began calling his name again, this time in the tune of song, seeing Nnamdị smiling at her as he walked slowly toward the orange tree.
“How are you, Chinwe?” Nnamdị said, his left hip curving away from his body’s center.
“It is well,” Chinwe said. “Ijeọma has been feeding me your father’s oranges.”
“That is beautiful … These oranges are the best in Ichulu!”
All of them began laughing as Nnamdị reached for fruit of his own, stretching his curved body as far as he could stretch it. He plucked the orange and tossed it between his hands, then began peeling it and staring at Chinwe frankly—curiously.
“Do you think that Jekwu is ugly?” Nnamdị said. “I heard a man say his teeth made him ugly. He said they looked like those of a crocodile.”
Ijeọma glared at Nnamdị, but he ignored Ijeọma and continued asking his questions.
“What do you think? Do you think that it is true?”
“How can it be true, Nnamdị? If Chukwu saved Jekwu, how can he be ugly?”
“But how can it be true that Chukwu is better than Anị? Look at how beautiful the earth is. Who can even see Chukwu?”
“Truth is not something you see at one time. You cannot pour it into a single cup and say, ‘It is my own.’ What we see … and do not see, from yesterday until tomorrow, they are not greater than the Most Supreme.”
“Nnamdị! Are you disturbing Ijeọma!” Nnenna said from inside her red-clay home.
“No, mama of mine, I am not!”
“Ehhh-ehh … come here! I want you to fetch some water for me.”
Ijeọma watched Nnamdị as he went—watching him limp forcefully toward Nnenna’s home, then watching him leave the compound with a clay pot on his head. Her heart pulled open within her chest, relieved and happy and thankful that both she and Chinwe were with themselves, and would not be bothered by the meddling of their families. She glanced at Chinwe and smiled a bit, afraid that yesterday’s loves would no longer be continued—and saw that Chinwe had been smiling, too, and now, wrapped her hands around hers.
They pulled their arms—together, and forward—and began speaking of new things, new songs, new dances, new growths that sprung through their plaited hair, pondering on Idemili and his river, Igwe and his sky, pondering on the marriages of three men, and the chieftaincies of four women, and the little girls whom no one knew had tapped wine from a palm tree. They talked—until the sky was less bright—talking until they began chasing each other around the compound—dashing within the dust—forming clouds beneath their feet—running to the rhythms of circles and other patterns—along the paths—that the chickens etched upon the ground; everyone in the compound could hear the noise of their steps and the wonder of their laughter; and after many moments—they collapsed on the earth—drenched in sweat and thanksgiving.
“I love you, my friend,” Chinwe said.
Ijeọma pointed to her eye while smiling.
“Who taught you how to play so well … What has made it so that you are not wording words? Tell me, who taught you?”
Ijeọma raised her hands to her head and began ruffling them through her hair.
“Have you not seen him since the festival?”
Ijeọma nodded her head twice.
“That is terrible! You cannot see your own kin because of a curse! Why can they not break the curse on Ụzọdị and return him to this village?”
Ijeọma could not say; and she thought of Ụzọdị quietly, morosely, remembering her love for him, a love which she thought greater than that obliged by family—since they loved each other—with her tearing eyes, she began weeping—wanting him returned to their village, praying that somehow the gods would offer their mercy—and that Ụzọdị would forgive her for her influence in his banishment—professing all her prayers, as sunlight gave her long tears shine.
“Ijeọma, it is enough. It is enough. You ought not cry.”
Her weeping continued despite Chinwe’s words. She sat motionless, not signing any signs, not looking to her friend. Then, quicker than Amadiọha—her tears gathered heat—blood, rushing—heartbeats clapping like rain— violently, violently—thinking of the men exiling Ụzọdị, and Igbokwe sending Ụzọdị to Amalike—and the village, doubting every sign that Chukwu had given—every sign Chukwu had sent; Anị had died, and flowers still grew; Igwe was still offering his rain; children were saved; children are saved, but still they doubt—Ijeọma screamed.
“Ijeọma! Ijeọma!”
Ijeọma screamed again—the breath passing through her, emptying into the air—leaving her with biting sorrow.
“Let us see him. Let us go and visit Ụzọdị.”
Ijeọma signed nothing, not believing Chinwe’s words.
“Ijeọma, let us go and visit your kin. We will go at a time when no one will see us … in the darkness of nighttime … You will do it?”
Ijeọma nodded three times—wondering what spirit had given Chinwe courage.
“Yes, this will be simple. We will leave our beds when Ichulu is most quiet, and the moon is not too bright; then we will meet under that giant tree, beside the river, and walk to the place where the osu stay.”
Ijeọma nodded two times.
“What is wrong with my words?”
Ijeọma pointed to the sun.
“You want to go in the morning?”
Ijeọma nodded three times.
“That is beautiful. We can tell our mothers that we are going to fetch water, but we will go and see Ụzọdị instead. Let us travel tomorrow.”
We will travel tomorrow—Ijeọma signed—before leaving Chinwe—with an embrace.
4.
IJEỌMA THOUGHT THE MORNING WAS bright—bright enough to hide the moon forever, bright enough to burn any residues of fear dwelling within her chi. She rose that morning longing to see the one called her kin. And after clearing her mat from Nnenna’s dark floor and cleaning her mouth with a frayed chewing stick, she told the one called her mother a borrowed lie: that she was going to Idemili to fetch water for the compound. And when Nnenna said, “Go, and return well,” Ijeọma rushed to her pot—and hurried off into the morning, justifying her dishonesty by remembering Ụzọdị—who taught her that one’s word must always be good—even in the smallest affairs. So, she planned to return—with water from Idemili—but not as quickly as Nnenna assumed. She lifted the blue water pot atop her head—balancing it—then walking in the northeast direction, along the orange paths, and toward the market square, meeting Chinwe by the large tree next to Idemili, greeting her above the ebbing waters, wrestling with the wind.
“Are you prepared to travel,” Chinwe said.
Ijeọma nodded three times.
“Then let us fill our pots with water, so that we can offer it to Ụzọdị.”
Ijeọma nodded three times, and the two quickly began filling their pots with the gift of Idemili.
They squatted beside those vessels and lifted them atop their heads once those vessels were full. Their necks were firm, and their hips were swaying to the rhythms of the oscillating water shifting inside their clay pots—both looking like thin cashew trees pivoting before a storm. They moved quietly and cautiously, trying to avoid being seen. But it was terribly difficult, nearly impossible, because Ichulu was unabashed in its ways. One could be sought for a greeting or for gossip even if one’s path were covered by trees.
“Ijeọma! What are you doing at the market, without your mother,” said Adaọra, biting on a chewing stick beneath her shed.
“We are taking a longer path to my father’s compound,” Chinwe said.
“Is madness within you? Why are you carrying these heavy pots on a longer path?”
Ijeọma did not know how to respond, and glanced at Chinwe, whose mouth had fallen open.
“Our mother … the water is not heavy,” Chinwe said. “We are very strong!”
“Chei! Children born in these days! Continue with your journey home, and be certain to greet your mothers for me.”
The girls promised to do so, and turned and left Adaọra, releasing anxiety from their breaths. And when they believed that no eyes were watching them, they rushed into a nearby shed and made it their place for hiding. They placed their water pots atop the earth, and gave their journey the benefit of strategy—regarding the different possibilities of finding Ụzọdị. They knew the Place of Osu was east of the village and also knew of two ways through which a sojourner could arrive. One was a wide path filled with many people, a path where the young composed songs for new occasions and created dances for the village’s festivities. The other was not a path at all, but a thick forest of linking trees, bearing dry and stony earth.
“We must travel it.”
How, Ijeọma signed.
Chinwe put her hands on her waist while thinking of making a path in the Forest of Nta. She looked back at Adaọra, who was sitting in her shed, and watched as she bit on her chewing stick and sorted through her greens. Chinwe saw that a machete lay in the corner of her shed.
Chinwe tapped on Ijeọma’s shoulder, then pointed. They both said nothing. It was against Ichulu’s moral code to steal, forbidden by every measure. Children were told stories of ill fate befalling thieves. The elders declared proverbs warning of taking what was not one’s own, and Ijeọma and Chinwe were waiting for the other to sign a name from one of those stories, or share the wisdom of those many proverbs to remind the other in their hiding place of keeping the good word. But they did not: Chinwe did not want to be considered a coward; Ijeọma did not want to lose a friend.
They waited patiently for Adaọra to visit the shed of another market woman. They knew they would not wait long, since the women were still preparing their sheds for the beginning of the market day; and once Adaọra had left, they rushed into her shed and stole her machete, then hurried into their hiding place, praying for forgiveness, asking every god to not combat their immorality; then lifting their water pots atop their heads, they continued with their journey—swaying past the market women and their babies, quickly and casually—before entering the pathless forest with the women to their backs.
It became dark after they pushed beyond the forest’s thick barrier. Its intertwined trees blocked any sunlight from resting atop the earth, waning the rules of the ordinary as though in a foreign world, as the tree branches did not spread outward—but curved inward, toward themselves—nearly caging the forest’s visitors—and caging the beast rumored to be living there. Ijeọma and Chinwe remembered that Nta had eaten children who did not know their boundaries—curious children—who were too stubborn to obey the wisdom of their elders. They were told it was fiercer than any wild animal, with teeth as long as a tall man’s arms—possessing the power—and the strength—of one hundred—crazed bulls.
Ijeọma began falling as she thought of Nta—fearing what the beast might do, how it could devour her body with its fearsome teeth, dragging her ruthlessly into the caged forest; it was hidden behind the trees, she knew, moving swiftly like a lion, waiting to pounce on her chest and break open her skull, waiting to consume her fully in its jaws. But if she smiled at it, she thought, or sang to it, giving it kindness, it might show her mercy, and spare her from dying. She searched for fear on Chinwe’s face as she began standing and adjusting her pot, but Chinwe’s face was unwavering; her eyes were determined; and Ijeọma could not understand: they could both be found; they could lose their direction; they could both be eaten by the vicious Nta; and her water pot felt heavier; heavy enough to force her through the stony ground, even if she continued walking and praying to her chi, while following the path that Chinwe was making.
“Ijeọma, does your father like my father?” Chinwe asked, cutting through the trees with the machete, then turning around.
Ijeọma quickly nodded three times; Ijeọma nodded yes.
“He does not like my father, Ijeọma. I could see it in his face when we last visited his compound.”
Ijeọma’s eyes began fluttering as she recalled what Chinwe had recalled—knowing within herself that Ọfọdile disliked Nwagụ, but also knowing that the one called her father despised her more than anything in the village. It was her flying that gave Jekwu an opportunity to live while threatening each of Ọfọdile’s traditions. It was she who made Ọfọdile the unluckiest man in Ichulu—believing that if Ọfọdile disliked Nwagụ it was not because of anything Nwagụ had done; it was because of her: his firstborn daughter, the one called his Ada.
My father respects your father, Ijeọma signed by tapping her head, then her chest, then her head again.
“I know he respects him. All Ichulu men are to respect one another. Does he like my father?”
Yes, Ijeọma nodded, but it was a lie; and though she attempted to find solace in it, little thoughts stole her ease: a common beast had her fearing the end of their friendship, because Nwagu and Ọfọdile were not men who danced the same dance, or sang the same songs; and she believed that very soon, Ọfọdile would forbid her from being Chinwe’s friend; the thought of it brought tussling to her heart—not wanting to be separated from the one whom she loved—knowing from the prickling atop her right arm that she was to speak the good word, placing that arm beneath her rappa to enlarge her stomach, and seeing that Chinwe immediately understood.
“Pregnancy. Pregnant woman. Baby!” said Chinwe.
Ijeọma nodded three times. Then she pointed to Chinwe and again at her stomach.
“Do you mean Jekwu?”
Ijeọma nodded three times.
“What happened to him? What of Jekwu?”
Ijeọma spread her arms about her, then touched the trees and the ground, lifting the dirt then letting it fall through her fingers.
“Dust? Anị?”
Ijeọma nodded twice.
“What is it that you are saying?”
Ijeọma kept pointing at the interlocking trees and spreading her arms about her while hearing Chinwe say “air,” “leaf,” guessing incorrectly until she placed Chinwe’s hand atop a tree.
“Forest. Do you mean forest?”
Ijeọma nodded three times.
“Jekwu and forest … Jekwu … Do you want to tell me of when Jekwu was in the Evil Forest?”
Ijeọma nodded three times, then pointed to herself, directing her fingers toward her mouth and beginning to chew.
“Eat … eating food …”
Ijeọma nodded twice, then emphasized her fingers, pointing toward her mouth.
“Feed.”
Ijeọma nodded three times, then pointed to herself, lowering her head, knowing that Chinwe would soon know what was true.
“You fed Jekwu … do you mean that you fed Jekwu in the Evil Forest?”
Ijeọma could not look toward her face, shame and discomfort both rising within her.
“You defied the gods to save him?”
Ijeọma kept silent, and heard C
hinwe’s breath moving closer and closer, keeping her face low—hearing Chinwe moving closer, then feeling her hand—the squeeze coming forth growing tighter and tighter as if both their fingers would shatter, as though the entire earth would quake—and its warmth made shame flee—from Ijeọma’s body—as she raised her head—smiling, and taking Chinwe’s other hand—hearing Chinwe scream as they both held each other and looked at the strip of sun, shining through the trees—both thanking the Most Supreme for what they were each given.
And Chinwe began—to sing—and scream—and sing: The one who flies, the one who Ichulu does not hear, the one who I can hear, the one who saved Jekwu, the one who freed Jekwu. Freedom! Freedom! Praise Idemili! Praise Idemili! Praise Idemili!—and she thanked the god of the river; and thanked, too, the Most Supreme, and through a trembling voice thanked her friend with screams of jubilation.
“I love you! Ijeọma! Ijeọma, I love you!”
Ijeọma began to smile, wanting to tell her friend that she loved her also. So she pointed to her eye, hoping Chinwe would understand the fullness of her speech—and when she saw her smiling, too, watching her face brighten with the sincere and guileless, brighten with the honesties that love requires, she knew it was accepted; and she believed those words which Chinwe blessed her with, as the two put their water pots down and fully embraced.
And when they released their arms, they lifted their pots and began swaying their hips as if drummers were playing beneath the stony ground, as if the ancestors were whispering within the leaning trees, laughing together and walking quickly to reach their destination with timeliness, cutting new paths with the blade of the machete, laughing together as they burrowed through the dark forest of Nta.
* * *
AND SUDDENLY THERE WAS MORE LIGHT. Ijeọma and Chinwe had reached the end of the forest and the beginning of the Place of Osu. They could both see them—in wild hair, and tattered clothes—as they each felt their stomachs quivering slightly, but keeping it unacknowledged, reminding themselves that the ones called osu were people, too, remembering through pointed signs, that they were each somebody, that they were all somebody. Do not fear, Ijeọma signed to Chinwe; and they both began nodding their agreement, even though the stories of Ichulu had them judging the osu: the madness of weak gods reflected on their wild hair, the disgust of hopeless poverty written on their tattered clothing; but there was nothing to be feared, they said over and again, now smelling the sour scent of ụkwa carried by the wind—believing that there were women cooking appetizing food—women who most likely birthed the children before them, playing calmly with old tree branches.
