by Okezie Nwoka
“Why is that so?” Ikemba said.
“Because Paganism is said to be a dark religion, and Christianity is said to be a religion full of the light of Jesus.”
“You are wrong!” Ikemba said.
“Ikemba, you have started with this again. Keep quiet before the pastor comes.”
“I will not!”
Phyllipa moved to the table where her small cane lay, and continued moving to where Ikemba was sitting.
“Let me see your hand,” Phyllipa said, before slapping Ikemba’s open palm with the cane; and when she saw him looking through her eyes plainly, she told him not to speak for the remainder of the class, for his own sake—and the sake of the other children—and continued with the lesson, teaching the children many other words considered to be opposing.
And Ijeọma wondered what Ikemba had said to be touched as though he were a goat. She looked at him while he was struck and saw that his face remained undisturbed by the stroke, believing that it was his plan for that night that made him so defiant—and made any punishment seem irrelevant. And Ijeọma believed the same of herself, and so did not give Phyllipa her attention when it was time for her private lessons; neither did she notice the English words she was beginning to write—bitterly turning her eyes from: cat, dog, north, and south, written on her notebook’s paper, believing that she would never use the language called English once she left Amalike; Igbo, signs and sounds, would be enough, she thought, and Phyllipa, who had beaten a boy as beautiful as Ikemba, could never teach anyone anything useful, or give anyone any wisdom for honoring their life.
And when she returned to the cells after the evening meal, her thoughts had gathered to Ichulu. She would return home to the village, even if Ọfọdile did not consent, since nothing except Chukwu would prevent her from touching the orange earth; and bathing upon Idemili’s clear skin; and rolling down steep hills, playing with Chinwe in the market square. It would come soon, she knew, and as the hours passed, she did not grow tired at all, but stood by the window of the cell, eagerly waiting for Ikemba’s arrival—not thinking of the bars or her defecation bucket, but the movement of the westward sun resting softly above her village.
The sky was purple and black when she suddenly heard the lock on the cell door rattle. She knew it was Ikemba, but felt somehow that the attendants had learned of their plan; and began doubting as the lock was rattling, and continued doubting as it rattled even more—believing that she would be beaten, and die—all of the children—beaten and killed—and buried in a cursed forest—hidden in Amalike; but those doubts fell apart, once the cell door was opened and she saw Ikemba’s face appear more fully, his lips asking her, “Are you ready …” as she nodded her head three times. She moved toward the door with him—watching as Ikemba opened the cells of the other children—before gathering with the others in the long, dark corridor—unable to see their faces, but feeling the excitement passing through her toes.
“Crawl to the main door. Make sure that you are quiet. Don’t make a single sound.”
They obeyed Ikemba, and followed him silently toward the main door. They would have walked, if not for the attendant sleeping at a desk near the door, one who was snoring loudly, letting the children know her sleep was of the heavy kind. They crept past her, one child behind another, knowing that the snoring woman would not awake; and she did not, allowing the children to crawl out of the main doors and onto the gravel path which lay outside.
And as Ijeọma felt the night to be warm, and saw the moon to be bright, she thanked Ikemba for leading them out of the cells, clutching his palms and holding his wrists, clasping her palms, then presenting them to Ikemba, seeing the gravel path running to the gate of the church—and moving toward it—returning to Ichulu—thanking Chukwu for Ikemba—praying that he be blessed for unlocking the cell doors—then feeling a descent, from the piercing scream—shattering her heart.
“I don’t want to go! I don’t want to go!”
One of the children began crying and screaming at Ikemba, even as the others began hushing him, and whispering, “CLOSE YOUR MOUTH!”
“Are you stupid?” Ikemba said. “You will wake up all the attendants!”
“But I don’t want to go! I don’t want to go! Pastor is my home!”
The boy began screaming, until the children were surrounded by seven attendants in pink-checkered uniforms, who were surprised to see the children out of the cells and quickly grabbed each child and threw them into the cells, while pulling out their canes—beating those who did not obey, watching some of the children run down the gravel path, toward the iron gate—hunting them, and throwing them, too, into the cells; and the children were all thrown into the cells at the hands of those seven attendants.
And Ijeọma could not understand why that boy had destroyed their plan; and wanted to beat him for what he had done, for crying out and denying her a reunion with home; Nnenna was home, and she was not there; Nnamdị was in Ichulu, and here she was, close to home, near home, angry at the world for not giving her what she wanted—angry at her chi for not guiding the children out of Amalike—because the foolish boy could not be silent, chi … chi, where did you go, how many times … give me hope and take it, love, and take it … you are needed, chi … but you give sadness, only sadness, are you not from Chineke, and is Chineke not from Chukwu, and is the Most Supreme not good?
She could not sleep in her cell, not when her thoughts troubled her and troubled her memories of home; not when those memories were becoming fainter and fainter, each sense of comfort blurring against the other. She barely remembered the aroma of Nnenna’s soup, or the games she played with Chinwe, or the taste of Idemili’s river water; and she could not sleep that night, raising herself many hours before the morning bell was rung; not signing any signs during bathing, or prayer, or the morning meal; not wanting to remind herself of the tragedies from the night before; not wanting to hear a single word—until Pastor Nwosu entered the dining hall, and placed a bucket and a pair of rubber gloves on a wooden table.
BAM-BAM! BAM BAM BAM!
“Good morning, Pastor!” said the children as they rose.
“Good morning … S-Sit down, all of you,” said Pastor Nwosu, watching each child obey.
“This morning I was informed by my assistant that there was an escape attempt last night by the children of the Manifestation Quarters. I was told that the devil has found his way into my church … Apparently you all have started growing wings. When I flog you with my cane, it is not enough for you to learn your lesson. But I am not worried. Today I have come with a better punishment. Stand up, and form a line.”
The children all stood from their seats and formed a line along a wall, closing their eyes as they faced the pastor; wondering if he would still punish them, and wishing for the attendants to stop raising their wooden canes.
“Ikemba, you foolish boy. I know that you were the leader of this nonsense.”
“You are correct, Mr. Man of God!” said Ikemba, looking through the black of the pastor’s eyes.
“I don’t know how you opened the cells, but you especially will be punished this morning. Quickly! Come to the front.”
Ikemba moved closer to the pastor, keeping his eyes on the pastor’s lowered gaze as he went to receive whatever punishment awaited him.
“Tie him,” said the pastor to the attendants.
Two attendants obeyed, hurrying to a back room to “get the rope; once they had returned with it, they tied it tightly around Ikemba’s wrists and ankles.
“Open his mouth,” said Pastor Nwosu.
The two attendants grabbed Ikemba’s jaw and held it open.
“G-G-Give me a metal cup.”
A cup was given to the pastor as he put on the rubber gloves and dipped the cup into the bucket’s fluid. He did not have to tell his attendants the fluid’s name once they saw how it burned Ikemba’s tongue as it passed through him, watching him wince, then scream and shake with pain, some looking away as the bloo
d, dripping from the corners of his mouth, fell into the cup of acid held beneath his chin.
And the other children were punished in the same way, bound by rope and forced to consume the acid; and when it was done to Ijeọma, she prayed for the pain to be swift and easy; but the pain could not be, as the acid in her mouth began scratching the back of her throat, like the beginnings of a cold, quickly eating her insides, sharp beaks of vultures gathering, and cutting the delicate pink turning white; she could not breathe as the acid lifted layers of skin, taking it, slicing it narrowly, as she screamed a scream, screaming over and again, until the attendants heard the pastor’s command and let go of her shaking jaw. And when she fell atop the floor, shivering like an animal decapitated, she was forced onto her feet to be seated like the others.
Their mouths were open. It was too painful to keep them closed. Some of them were crying, and others who wanted to cry could not find the strength. Ijeọma sat in her seat quietly, praying that Chukwu would remove the pain, praying that Chukwu would allow her to fly to Ichulu, away from Pastor Nwosu. And when she looked to Ikemba, thinking that he would speak, thinking that he would challenge the pastor as he had typically done, he was silent; not looking at anything, or anyone inside the dining hall; not looking like the person he had been before consuming the acid; but pressing his eyes closed; wailing from the sorrows of his heart.
DIARY ENTRY #960 DATE UNKNOWN
you put me in a godless world and I am alone. why did you do that Chukwu nobody is supposed to struggle like I have struggled nobody is meant to live as a fatherless child and a prisoner and a mute. did you give me a friend chukwu did you give me a sister did you give me anyone who could talk like me or fly like me i am not ungrateful but I am not a fool cheluchi was my sister from the same mother and the same father but how can an infant understand this even chinwe, who befriended those girls who hated me, the ones who scoffed at me and mocked me in my face i should have told her, that day in Nta that she had killed my spirit, since it was those girls who chinwe had befriended. and Uzodi,not even ikemba understands they do not know who I am, and maybe it’s because they are godless too. if they believed in you the way i believe in you, wouldn’t they have flown to the sky with me? but they did not, and i am isolated in every way a person can be isolated every song was in vain every wise proverb that the elders used was wise only for that moment because nobody truly knows or cares and nobody truly believes in the most supreme chukwu, if you made it so that i would be alone forever take me to a place where loneliness is a beautiful thing if you made it so that i would be alone forever, kill me quickly, mercifully.
i did not think correctly, when you carried me to Igwe up to the sky i did not know and I am sorry. i am disgraceful see the things coming out of me. i know you smell them since you’re most supreme my bucket is full and i’ve not cleaned my body. i did not think correctly this place has made me see it, i am a fool, and I am sorry who am i chukwu who am I my skin smells more bitter than the dying smell me how dirty i am you see it chukwu you see it i know that I am worthless i know it. don’t look at me. even those children have done more, at least they speak too when they are hungry and when they are angry
who am I, even to write the most supreme i know that i am useless they hate me look at what they say, all of them even ikemba even uzodi and chinwe they did not come. i did not see them we have spoken of their pain i carried it in my heart they will not come i know that i am worthless: who comes to see me in this prison? when I hear them unlock the door i think it will be uzodi running to take me, or i think it will be you chukwu coming from your Obi to take me home again, that you will never do it i am sorry please i am sorry i wrote to you i am sorry i prayed to you i am sorry. i called your name and i am sorry. please i beg you i beg you please please i am sorry i was born a mute i am sorry i did not remain fully muted i made a mistake chukwu ofodile i made a mistake nnenna I made a mistake please forgive me. who am I please i will go i won’t bother any of you again please please forgive me
PART III
MERCY
1.
NOBODY IN ICHULU KNEW THAT Ijeọma had been sent to Amalike without any intention of returning. No freeborn person had been known to leave Ichulu without stating when they would return. Such stories could not be recalled; they bore no song, no dance, no memory. It was a reason why every farewell was assured, and every departure was no departure at all—not even the one of death. The elders often said, “Nza, nza, nza can fly through the wide bowels of Igwe, but it has only one nest to which it returns.” And those were words that Ichulu honored—words which the village could not deny, believing them when the ancestors rose as masked spirits; and believing them still when it learned Ijeọma had been moved from the village, believing that the one called their daughter would soon return, and that Chukwu would not punish them if any affliction befell her. She had not been living in Ichulu, but the village awaited her return—casually, patiently—knowing within themselves that her return was inevitable.
Though nobody in Ichulu understood why Ọfọdile had removed Ijeọma. After the announcement of Ngọzi’s pregnancy, there was little doubt that Chukwu had won the war against Anị. The goddess of the earth was now dead—and the village had turned from her orange breasts, and looked toward the magnificence of the heavens, as if they, too, would someday fly—or at least have visions of what lay above the clouds.
They said among themselves, “The Supreme Being has always been Most Supreme,” while no longer whispering their gossip concerning Ọfọdile and his compound, but rather praising the man who gave life to Ijeọma: the girl who saved them from sacrificing the innocent among them, the one who refined their senses to what truly was, the one for whom their hearts were refusing reticence, as even the bearded Okoye confessed that Ichulu was changing by the divine, no longer trekking to the Stone of Anị to cut its unruly grass but abandoning the once-sacred stone, believing Chukwu to be Ichulu’s sustainer—professing his enemy’s child to be wondrous and holy.
But Ọfọdile did not know these things before dismissing Ijeọma. Notice is seldom given to a reputation revived. And unlike the rest of Ichulu, Ọfọdile could neither trust nor forgive the Supreme Being—cursing the Most Supreme, while snorting from many containers of snuff—Chukwu had mocked his family, a family that he had labored in making presentable to the village—allowing enemies to make Ijeọma a mute, creating a spectacle by causing her to fly, taking Nnamdị’s ability to properly walk, causing his family to disrupt a village with well-preserved traditions, causing him to be a titleless man; what future could be expected from the one called Most Supreme; what light could there be in tomorrow’s tomorrow, after receiving no honors or titles from Ichulu, after enduring the gossip of this judgmental village, one that would curse his name once it met with any hardship—the outbreak of disease, another flood, a gruesome famine—it would blame him and his household for all its calamities; and he would be angered, and mocked, and shamed. So he sent Ijeọma out of Ichulu—demanding that she never, on any day, be returned.
He made his decision, believing it to be true, reasoning that Ijeọma was an aberration, and was his greatest opposite. He who was normal—had endured the most abnormal of things, white cloth and palm oil—the two could not mix; the two were irreconcilable; the two were at war. So he dismissed her from Ichulu to become the headache of another man, carrying with him a belief of which he was certain: as long as Chukwu existed, Ijeọma would fly; and as long as Ijeọma flew, she would destroy his father’s name.
Yet only he in his household accepted such reasoning. Nnamdị ran after Ijeọma and the metal ram the morning they had hurried away, limping as he went, not understanding why Ijeọma was leaving, pleading for Ọfọdile’s reconsideration. And when he heard Ọfọdile’s harshly spoken “No,” he began limping into Nnenna’s red-clay home and seeing Chelụchi crying on her raffia mat. He looked at her and wondered if she knew that Ijeọma had been removed from the village, then placed h
er in his arms—soothing her with old songs composed in the market square, wanting, too, to cry or scream or engage in the most cathartic of things—wanting to openly mourn the departure of Ijeọma. But he did not mourn. He did not indulge in his own emotions, because he was the one soothing a crying child.
He held her along the curves of his arms until evening came, leaning against the inner walls of the red clay home—rubbing the back of her infant neck, slowly succumbing to the weight of his drowsiness, closing his eyes, closing his eyes, until he heard the loud cries of the one called his mother, demanding Ijeọma’s appearance. How is it that she does not know, he thought, as he placed Chelụchi on her sleeping mat, soon running to meet Nnenna outside.
“Mama of mine, why is it that are you calling for Ijeọma?”
“Nnamdị, have you seen her?”
“Yes. She was taken by a man on a metal ram, but I do not know where they have traveled …”
Nnamdị had not seen Nnenna this way before—with sweat gathering on her face, with quivering lips, with worry taking her eyes; and he could not recognize her without her strength, as a being so small and ordinary. He watched her turn and leave him, then enter Ọfọdile’s obi—and he immediately heard shouting, the shrill and authoritative voice of the one called his mother consuming the entire compound. And he could not tolerate what soon became the harsh sounds of the ones called his mother and father—so he ran into Nnenna’s red-clay home, covering Chelụchi’s ears with his shaking hands—thanking the gods that she was sleeping, and praying—that she would not then tussle—or awake.
And within a moment, Nnenna joined him—entering her home in silence. He could see the many bruises on her face—the prominent one on her right cheek—and knew that they were causing her pain, yet caused her face to reveal not a thing except fury; and he wanted to ask questions concerning her face, and her pain; but knew he was too young to be told the truth of such things. So he exhaled and lay on his sleeping mat, waiting through dreams, for the morning to come.
