by Okezie Nwoka
“These ones are the ones with whom we grow. All of you,” Chika said, kneeling beside the four little ones, “whenever you see these girls—welcome them. They are beautiful just as you are beautiful. Have you heard?”
“We have heard,” the four little ones said.
“And this fowl … we sent it away for you, with our machete. We use our tools to send the animals away, when the waters begin speaking their names. This one is Iro. It is for you.”
“Thank you,” Chinwe said, “but we cannot—”
“Know that you have died,” said the youngest of the four little ones. “Anyone who resides in the Place of Osu has died.”
Chika saw through the black of their youngest child’s eyes before standing and hugging Ijeọma and Chinwe—keeping the fowl named Iro, and praying for Ijeọma and Chinwe’s protection. And they watched the girls continue toward Ụzọdị, as more people greeted and welcomed them on the path to Ụzọdị’s home, having learned who the girls were; the girls now recognized that the people now looking at them looked with no maliciousness, receiving smiles sent brightly toward them—filling them with a peace they had denied themselves when first visiting the Place of Osu.
And when they finally arrived, Ijeọma and Chinwe saw Ụzọdị and Nwabụeze sitting in front of Ụzọdị’s clay home; and they soon saw Ụzọdị stand then greet them with an embrace—as Nwabụeze scoffed at the sight of them, hearing him wish they had not come.
“Ụzọdị, I must go. I do not want to mingle with these freeborn children.”
“Nwabụeze, friend of mine, dance the dance of the Place of Osu. Why not stay?”
“Stay for what?”
“Friend of mine, do you not know that these girls have visited your grandmother?”
Nwabụeze turned to Ijeọma.
“Is it true?” he asked.
Ijeọma nodded three times.
“How is Mgbeke?”
“She can remember things from long ago,” said Chinwe, “but she cannot remember the things of today.”
Nwabụeze fell silent, his eyes wandering toward the earth, his legs weakly leading him inside Ụzọdị’s clay home.
“Have you eaten?” Ụzọdị asked Ijeọma.
Ijeọma nodded twice. Ijeọma nodded no.
“Then you must eat with me.”
Ụzọdị led the girls into his clay home. Then he lifted a bushel of yellow garden eggs and a bowl of water resting on an iron table. After washing his hands and sharing the bowl with the girls, they began eating the eggs—chewing them quietly.
“Ụzọdị … I want to question you with a question,” Chinwe said.
“What is the question?”
“When you went to Amalike, to ask them to lift the curses, how did you speak to them?”
Ijeọma flashed her eyes toward Chinwe—wanting her to quickly close her mouth.
“What are you saying,” said Ụzọdị.
“Someone told me that the people of Amalike do not speak like the people of Ichulu. I wanted to know the difference, but they did not tell me.”
Ijeọma’s eyes grew more severe, and she began signing for Chinwe to stop speaking when Ụzọdị waved his hand.
“There is no trouble, Ijeọma. Amalike has given me many nightmares, but I can still speak of it … I spoke to them kindly, Chinwe. They spoke Igbo like us … except for the obi’s gateman. I had to speak to him in English.”
“Engurrish?”
“English. You know it. It is the language they have told us never to speak again.”
Chinwe nodded, as did Ijeọma, who now believed Ụzọdị was unbothered by the question, so began pointing to her mouth and ear, then to her left eye.
“How do they call it?” asked Ụzọdị.
Ijeọma nodded three times.
“They call it eye.”
Eye … eye … It was a sound that she had not heard before. Eye, she thought, what is a word that is like it? Ijeọma could think of none.
“How did you learn English?”
“My father taught me, and his father taught him. When the white man came to Ichulu, our grandfather learned English in their schools before the Igbokwe of that time destroyed—”
“My grandmother is dying!” Nwabụeze said, tears falling flatly from his eyes. “My grandmother is dying and I am in exile! And these wicked, foolish men of Ichulu are preventing me from seeing her?”
They are afraid, Ijeọma quickly signed, then heard as Ụzọdị began interpreting her words to Nwabụeze.
“What are you saying,” Nwabụeze said.
“Igbokwe is afraid of Amalike,” Ụzọdị said in translation.
“Why?” said Nwabụeze.
“Igbokwe does not know how Amalike overpowered the medicine used for Ichulu’s protection.”
“Coward!” said Nwabụeze, “Igbokwe is a coward!”
“He is a coward,” Ụzọdị said as he turned his gaze to Ijeọma. “When you return to Ichulu, tell Igbokwe that I will curse him. I no longer care for his power. My chi has power it has learned.”
Ijeọma fell silent at the threat—knowing Ụzọdị held his words with high conviction, leaving the Place of Osu carrying their weight—feeling them shift her faith in Igbokwe’s wisdom. Her journey back to Ichulu was a silent one. No signs were signed to Chinwe to say anything of Ụzọdị’s words or of returning to the Place of Osu when Nkwọ morning came again. She was afraid, fearing the audacity of it—carrying a threat for the great dịbịa of Ichulu, a threat that came from the one called her kin. And she feared, too, the response Igbokwe would give, praying to her chi to cleanse her memory of Ụzọdị’s words—entering Ọfọdile’s compound so unsettled by it all, she did not know Nnenna had been waiting.
“Ijeọma … I do not know where you have been. And I do not care to know. I see now that you are becoming a woman. You have become bold, you are keeping secrets … I will not ask where you have been, even though I know that you were not with Mgbeke. And I will not fight it. Ijeọma, I will not fight. You are no longer the daughter of yesterday. You are becoming a woman, a woman who even Chukwu has taken.”
Ijeọma kept silent, looking at Nnenna as Nnenna looked through the black of her eyes.
“Be certain that your father does not see you.”
Nnenna entered her home to tend to Chelụchi, and Ijeọma was left with her chi in the open compound, bearing the shame of being exposed—wishing she could tell Nnenna that her accusations were unfounded, yet suppressing a delight in the admittance to her knowing things of which Nnenna did not know.
Four days passed, and Nkwọ came again. Four consultations passed, and Ijeọma could not tell Igbokwe that Ụzọdị would curse him. She only informed the dịbịa, over and again, that she wanted Ụzọdị and Nwabụeze returned to Ichulu; and when her imploring was denied, she, too, felt the temptation to accuse Igbokwe of cowardice.
She met with Chinwe, and after cutting through the Forest of Nta once more—hearing whispers in the wind, which they thought were masquerades—the girls found themselves in the Place of Osu. And when they arrived, they were greeted fondly by those gathering around them—hearing, “How are you, you daughters of Chukwu,” as each one of them erupted with laughter and with smiles, sharing a brightness that made the sun seem small; holding community; bearing one another; as nobody was left unwelcomed.
And after eating the pounded yam and ọgbọnọ soup that they had cooked throughout the day, and drinking small cups of palms wine, night fell; and Ijeọma and Chinwe laid atop the open earth—resting with the children with whom they had eaten as the moon glowed more thoroughly than the smoke from a sacrifice.
“Do you want to hear a story,” Ụzọdị said.
The children immediately lifted themselves, screaming, “Yes! Yes!” as Ijeọma nodded excitedly, remembering how much she loved Ụzọdị’s tales.
“Then I will tell you a story of how Tortoise received its shell.
”
They suddenly fell silent, and waited for Ụzọdị to begin.
“When Chineke, the God of Creation, was creating the animals of the earth,” Ụzọdị began, “Chineke did not know how they should look and what kind of bodies they should be given. Chineke sat for many days asking, ‘How should these animals appear to the world? What should their bodily forms be?’ One day, Chineke decided to call upon the spirit of each animal to question it and to let its answer determine the kind of body it would have. Chineke first called the spirit of Lion. The formless spirit appeared and Chineke asked it, ‘Lion, who do you think that I am?’ And Lion said, ‘You are Lion, the most powerful being in the world, for you created me.’ And Chineke acknowledged Lion’s answer … and gave Lion a body that wielded much power. Lion’s teeth were large and sharp, and Lion’s strength was mightier than one hundred wrestlers. Then Chineke summoned the spirit of Snake. The spirit appeared, and Chineke asked … ‘Snake, who do you think that I am?’ And Snake said, ‘You are Snake, the most ambitious being in the world, for you created me.’ And Chineke acknowledged Snake’s answer, and gave Snake a body that could satisfy its ambitious eyes … the kind of body which could consume animals larger than Snake by one hundredfold. Chineke continued summoning each animal’s spirit, and used their answers to fashion their bodies, but the God of Creation remained dissatisfied. After creating quieter things, like trees and stones, Chineke returned to creating the animals … and finally Chineke called upon the spirit of Tortoise. Chineke asked Tortoise, ‘Tortoise, who do you think that I am?’ And Tortoise paused … and Tortoise thought of the question very carefully. Tortoise was thinking and thinking, and believed that it could not truly know who this being was, because the being was the one who created it. So Tortoise cried out, and said, ‘You are the one that stands beside me! You are my creator, and I am the created thing!’ And Chineke smiled and said, ‘Because you have answered well, I will give you a special body. The power of Lion will not overcome it, and the ambitions of Snake will not subdue it. I will give you this shell so that your body will be protected. I will make you shrewd so that your thinking will be clear. And I will give you this memory, so that you will not forget that I, Chineke, created you.’ And Chineke gave Tortoise its body, and Tortoise descended upon the earth.
“After living upon the earth for many years, all of the animals built many villages and towns. They had chiefs, elders, even a market square. And after many more years, the animals began asking themselves, ‘Who should be our Obi?’ Every animal said that they wanted to be Obi, except Tortoise, who was the only one among them who remembered that Chineke was their creator and ruler. Tortoise said, ‘None of you can rule me, because Chineke is my creator.’ The animals became angry and began threatening Tortoise. But Tortoise, who was very shrewd, knew that the insults were the beginning of violence, and immediately drew its body into its shell. Lion boasted, ‘I am the most powerful animal in the land! I will break the shell of Tortoise open!’ Lion used its paws, its arms, and its large teeth to try and break the shell, but all of those failed. Finally, Lion decided to use its large head to open the shell—but when Lion hit its head against the shell … its own head split open and it died. Snake then said, ‘I am the most ambitious animal in the land, surely I will be able to destroy Tortoise.’ Snake then opened its mouth, as wide as it was able, and attempted to swallow Tortoise. But Tortoise’s shell was so strong that it broke the jaw of Snake, and Snake, too, fell over and died. All the animals who were foolish, by not learning from the errors of Lion and Snake, perished in trying to destroy Tortoise. The wiser animals saw Tortoise with its chi and noticed that its once-smooth shell had become jagged from the attacks of the other animals. And they told Tortoise, ‘Tortoise, come out and see what they have done to your shell!’ And Tortoise came out; and when Tortoise saw its shell, Tortoise laughed and laughed and said, ‘I do not mind these damages, but the rest of you will repay this debt.’ The other animals became confused and asked each other, and then asked Tortoise, ‘How will we repay you?’ But Tortoise laughed … Tortoise laughed and laughed, then put its head into its jagged shell.”
The children laughed aloud, as did Ijeọma, who began patting her hands against the dark earth and smiling at the wonder of Tortoise’s wisdom. She wondered who taught Ụzọdị the story; and so she moved closer to the one called her kin, asking for an answer—then saw him looking through the black of her eyes, saying, “It was my father.”
His name was Olisa, and he was a man who had won all the titles a man in Ichulu could win, with the entire village calling him the Great Eagle. Then a time came when he could not stand from his sleeping mat: sickness had entered his legs. For many weeks, he would watch Ezinne—the one called his only wife—enter his obi to feed him and to clean him, even after Igbokwe’s bleak pronouncements. She was possessed by their love, was what the people of Ichulu would say, because nobody could understand why Ezinne would enter Olisa’s home—cleaning him and feeding him, even when the pink lesions appeared—and the large bumps covered his face and lips, and shut and then sealed his eyes. Nobody could understand their love. And when it was time for the men of Ichulu to fulfill their decision and take their leper chief into the Evil Forest, nobody could understand why Ezinne covered him in her nakedness—swearing upon it, daring any man to touch the Great Eagle—while her breasts pressed against his body. The women were called to peel her from the one called her husband; and the women stayed, too, to shave her head as was done to every new widow. And Olisa was taken into the Evil Forest, and died there six days later.
While the child Ụzọdị lived in Olisa’s compound after Ọfọdile had become its steward and had secretly claimed the compound as his own, he would tell Ijeọma that Ichulu should not have treated its Great Eagle like an animal. And now that Ijeọma was reacquainted with the wisdom of Tortoise, amid the exile of the one called her kin, she understood more fully the goodness of Ụzọdị’s words; and as it began to rain, she saw beyond the little children removing their clothes and bathing themselves with the falling rain; as she felt Ụzọdị—snatch her—into his arms—then lead her into the refuge of his pale-clay home.
6.
ỌFỌDILE WAS IN THE NORTHERN FOREST, where the hunters go to find their prey, where the village begins its end and Ụmụka speaks its boundary. He was checking his traps when he saw the long—thick chord—emerging from his trap—to his foot, nearly denying that he had caught a python, feeling his stomach turn and fall. He moved closer to examine his trap and found that this one did not have any bitter kola seeds to repel the sacred snake; and he nearly howled—recounting that he was to report this to Igbokwe so that the dịbịa could remove his abomination from the village.
“I, will … bury … it,” he said.
And as he spoke, he did. He raised his machete—and cut the long python into many pieces; then began opening the earth with his machete, and with his hands, to bury the mutilated snake.
“Cheeeeeeeiii! Come and see it! Come and see it!”
Ọfọdile did not move. He heard the scream coming from the mouth of the forest—from the path next to the Stone of Anị. He quickly buried the python, and left the forest and his secret, to rush to where the screams were originating from. It was Ngọzi, and she was surrounded by almost all the women of Ichulu—all of them moving toward the market square, singing, over and again:
Ngọzi you are so beautiful, mgbo, mgbo
Ngọzi you are so beautiful, mgbo, mgbo
Whoever chi has appointed, let them rule
You are so beautiful, mgbo, mgbo
Whoever chi has appointed, let them rule
You are so beautiful, mgbo, mgbo
Ọfọdile could see Ngọzi—dancing as if a spirit had taken her, seeing her through the forest’s trees—as she held onto the knot of her rappa, not letting it fall onto the earth—not holding any groundnut in her hands. He moved closer, closer, before the crowd had grown larger, seeing then what h
ad caused her joy, seeing her stand from her low, undulating dance to reveal that she was pregnant. And he heard Ichulu break into chant and song; the woman who had not conceived a child carried a stomach larger than a whole melon; the woman who had sacrificed to Anị until she had reached her own impoverishment was now pregnant; the woman who had hidden a secret no longer hid her growing babies.
And Ọfọdile smiled—almost forgetting the abomination he had committed—believing that Ngọzi’s pregnancy provided goodness to the word that Anị was dead in the village. He did not know how else to explain the pregnancy of a barren woman when the goddess of earth and fertility was dead; esteem might return to his household, he thought, and his reputation in the village might improve; shame might depart from him; he smiled, and he hoped; though both quickly left him when he saw Ijeọma walking toward the crowd from the east, with the Forest of Nta to her back. He quickly moved to her path—moving through the growing crowd, then standing before a girl whose shifting eyes revealed that she was holding secrets. He grabbed her arm—and pulled her body through the crowd—and through the market square—and down the orange paths—into his empty compound.
“Where were you coming from!”
Ijeọma signed nothing.
“Where were you coming from! Answer me!”
She did not sign one thing while looking past his face and into the sky above.
Ọfọdile slapped her. He slapped her, over and again, until her face turned hot and her body began to shiver.
“Lie down,” Ọfọdile said, not caring if she obeyed, leaving then returning with a thick branch from his orange tree. He flogged the air—testing the cane’s pliability, then flogged the air once more—firmly, assuredly, quickly beginning the same on the back of Ijeọma, beating her, as if it were the cure he was after, beating her as if the blood he saw popping through her skin, healed his anxieties—relishing it—feeling the cane—fit well in his hand, letting the flexing of his arm and chest give him ease. His heart thumped; his mind became excitable, lost in its aggression; he entered into it wildly, readily, with nothing to pull him out—no gasps, no screams—and when the branch from the orange tree cracked—then broke, his rage did also; and he left Ijeọma, in the middle of the compound—still and red as an old rose.
