by Okezie Nwoka
And as he heard the chirping of nza birds, and the bleating of the compound’s goats, he opened his eyes and saw that Nnenna was not there, and believed she had been reconciled with Ọfọdile. So he lifted himself with the strength of his heart—thinking of his many responsibilities as he took his frayed chewing stick—while moving toward Idemili to take his morning bath. And while on the path to the river—he heard a woman’s screams coming from the market square, and began running toward it—running toward the market square—to listen to the words hidden beneath those screams—to hear the words—to which the one called his mother wanted Ichulu to bear witness.
“Cheeeeeeeiii! Chei! Chei!”
Nnamdị saw Nnenna entering the market square—screaming to the village unclothed, her breasts oval and flat, her rappa flaying about in her left hand, her pubic hairs as dark as the bruises that colored her face.
“Cheeeeeeeiii! Chei! Chei! Come and see what he has done! Mind your ears and listen to what he has done!”
Nnamdị and the market square listened to the words of Nnenna—seeing her nakedness, and preparing themselves for the person’s name, readied to watch another’s destruction through the power of vengeful words.
“That man whom you call Ekwueme. That man whom I used to call my husband—that wicked man, he has taken my daughter from me. He has taken my Ada—stolen her! And now she is with our enemies in Amalike.” Nnenna fell to her knees, and the people at the market square gathered around her.
“Last night he was telling me that my Ada is not returning to Ichulu, that my Ada is not returning! I asked that fool of a man, I asked him to return my daughter to me, and he said I will never see my Ada again. He said that he has dismissed her, never to return to Ichulu. He, Ekwueme, this fool of a man, told the mother of his children that she would never see the child whom she carried for nine months—the child whom I birthed with my own blood.”
“If we knew Ijeọma was going to Amalike, we would have quickly removed her from that vehicle!” said many men who were present when Ijeọma left the village.
“So what did I do?” Nnenna said, not looking at the men who had spoken. “I went to his home and I took his machete, and I held it to his neck—I held his machete to his neck, to kill him the way he has killed my Ada. He lifted himself and his hand caught the blade of his machete. I prepared to strike again, but he seized the machete from me and beat me—beat me like a wild animal. Ichulu, come and hear what he has done. Come and listen to what Ekwueme has done. He has taken my Ada from me. Me! The mother of his children. I swear it on my nakedness, I swear it. Ọfọdile, the son of Nwankwọ, will lose his peace and his chi will drown in Idemili. I said his chi will drown in Idemili! I swear it on my nakedness.”
Nnenna began weeping against her knees, and all of the market square became uneasy. How could Chukwu’s vessel be exiled from the village, they asked, knowing within themselves that it would anger the Supreme Being—believing that punishment would befall all of Ichulu. They gathered around Nnenna—lifting their voices and hands, begging the Supreme Being to have mercy on them and punish the culprit and his chi for their deeds.
“Ọfọdile was the man responsible for removing Ijeọma,” they said, “let him eat all of Chukwu’s wrath!”
“Let him burn as a sacrifice!” a girl said.
“How can a man be so foolish?” asked a man.
“I will pray to my chi that Ọfọdile never knows peace!”
“Let his compound burn with the rage of the gods,” the boys whispered among themselves.
And Nnenna continued cursing the name of Ọfọdile—her voice trembling as she heard the sympathies of Ichulu. And it pleased her that she had gained the support of her village—but she grieved still, knowing that nobody could retrieve Ijeọma from Amalike—remembering that those who last crossed the town’s boundary returned as outcasts; and that six did not return—not even as masquerades. Who would sacrifice their life and their eternity, she thought, who would fight a war without their opponent’s kind of gun? And she believed that there was nothing to be done to retrieve Ijeọma, except destroy—with much haste—the name of Ọfọdile.
And Ichulu looked upon her bruised body; mourning with her, pitying her; and when all became somewhat settled, the bearded Okoye ran toward Nnenna and took her rappa from her hands, before using it to conceal her body and watching as Nnenna’s face turned to his.
“Thank you, Okoye.”
“It is nothing,” Okoye said.
“What will I do, Okoye? What will I do?”
“You will come and live with me. Bring your remaining children and come and live with me.”
And Nnenna returned to her knees weeping, not resisting when Okoye knelt beside her and held her the way he did many harvests ago. And she let the feeling of his heat consume her—staying in his arms atop the orange earth; until Anyanwụ began moving again—and the breeze began shifting Igwe’s clouds; and after many moments, the people dispersed; and Okoye accompanied Nnenna to her red-clay home.
And once they arrived, they gathered all they could gather, collecting pans and water pots and the wooden masks decorating Nnenna’s walls, with Nnenna carrying every rappa she owned and Okoye using her bright blue one to tie Chelụchi against the curve of Nnenna’s back. And they both told Nnamdị to walk beside them as they prepared to leave; watching the young boy remain quiet and obey, as the four of them walked onward; toward the sight of Ọfọdile emerging from his obi.
“Where are you going?” Ọfọdile said.
But nobody responded, even as he looked about them, watching Chelụchi suck her thumb; quickly glancing at the darkness surrounding Nnenna’s cheek, seeing the one called his son looking at him in silence; discretely ignoring Okoye’s cruel eyes.
“Will you not answer me? I said where are you going?”
“Will you close your mouth!” Okoye said. “After sending your holy daughter to our enemies in Amalike and beating your wife now beside me, you think we should now answer your questions? Eat shit!”
Ọfọdile kept silent; even as he wanted to strike Okoye’s face, he did not. He was unprepared to fight Okoye again, desperate in his silence for anyone to answer his question.
“Ọfọdile, I am leaving—I have been too patient with you. I have watched you hate our Ada since she lost the gift of speech, and now you have taken her from me. You have stolen my child—and will never be forgiven. I am leaving the compound of your father, so that you alone will be punished for your theft.”
“Then go!” Ọfọdile said, wanting to bruise her other cheek; but turning to enter his obi, as he heard the voice of the one called his son.
“Father of mine … fasten yourself to power.”
But he did not turn to the voice of Nnamdị, but entered his obi—supplicating to the ones called his ancestors, and the ones called his gods—to kill his enemies for destroying the goodness of his home. And he did not know that all in Ichulu had learned that he had exiled Ijeọma until he saw children running into his compound and excreting heaps of shit around his red-clay obi; and watching women throw snaps of disdain at him as he fetched along Idemili, feeling some spitting on him; feeling some hurting him with their slaps, as he dared not speak to the other men, fearing their threatening eyes; believing that if he spoke to any of them, they would kill him quickly—without remorse.
The anger of Ichulu had landed on Ọfọdile’s head, and he carried it with his chi in his quiet compound. No longer were there sounds of anyone calling him family, or the sight of anyone calling his home good; there were no visitors; there were no consultations; so he sat with himself in the company of his misfortune, drinking palm wine; then gulping it, snorting snuff, then shoving it against the walls of his nose; not eating hefty meals, as there was nobody there to cook the animals he had hunted or the yams he had uprooted; but plucking oranges from his compound’s trees, until there were no more oranges to be plucked; he had not learned to cook because he was told it was an a
ct of women, and as his stomach pain pushed him near the memories of Nnenna’s pounded yam; he savored his saliva, and began praying for his stomach to be merciful.
And still, his thoughts wandered to the memory of the one called his brother: Olisa—The Eagle of Ichulu—the leper—the one for whom he did not speak when illness had appeared on his body. “The man is an abomination” was what Ọfọdile had said when he learned that Olisa developed leprosy. “He must leave the village; I am his only brother, so I promise to care for his only son, Ụzọdị. But as tradition states, the man must leave the village.” It was Ọfọdile’s words that made it less difficult for the elders to banish Olisa to the Evil Forest. “If his brother honors the tradition,” they said, “who are we to contest it”—and now as he sat with his chi in his obi, drunk from palm wine and filled with snuff—he believed that he could hear the voice of Olisa asking, “Which tradition taught you to hate your brother”; he believed that he could hear him—his voice, firm and plain—but said it was the wind—saying it was only air—until he found more snuff, and put it inside his nose.
He was with his chi, fully abandoned by his family—exposed to the ridicule resounding throughout Ichulu; there was no more will to make what was said, an act to be done, to make an incredible dream, a thing to be touched, and heard, and seen; he had broken his vow—the one which he had made when his brother became ill, the vow that said he would never again be ashamed—the one that he renewed when Ijeọma was born; and as he sat in his obi, he was growing more fearful—finding little solace in his memories—who taught you to hate your brother, who taught you to hate me—firm and plain—who taught you, Ọfọdile, that a title was greater than one’s home, that hearsay was greater than one’s own daughter, that wealth reaching Igwe’s sky is greater than your obi, do you envy me, do you envy Ijeọma because Ichulu praises her—was I to love a leper was I to love a leper—and yet you left your compound to reside in mine, the compound of a leper, and called my obi your own, was my home not good without many houses, was Ezinne not smiling, did Ụzọdị not laugh—YOU WERE AN ABOMINATION AND YOU HAD TO DIE AND DID I NOT RAISE YOUR SON AS I PROMISED YOU BEFORE YOUR DEATH DID I NOT DEFEND YOUR SON BEFORE ICHULU’S MEN ỤZỌDỊ WAS OUR HOPE ỤZỌDỊ WAS OUR HOPE ỤZỌDỊ WAS TO MARRY WOMEN AND WIN TITLES THE BLAME IS FOR YOU AND YOUR GODS AND YOUR CHI NO MAN IS TO LOVE A LEPER EVEN IF THE LEPER IS HIS BROTHER GET OUT OF THIS OBI BEFORE I SEND MY CHI TO BURN YOUR SPIRIT AND BURN THE GROUND THAT YOU HAVE MADE YOUR HOME WHY ARE THEY LAUGHING AT ME IS THAT IJEỌMA, IJEỌMA WHY ARE YOU HERE IT IS YOU WHO HAS CAUSED ALL OF THIS YOU AND YOUR ABOMINATIONS WHAT MAN CAN LOVE AN ABOMINATION FLYING LIKE AN ANIMAL SILENT LIKE AN ANIMAL THEY NO LONGER RESPECT MY NAME LEAVE MY OBI BEFORE I SEND MY CHI TO PUNISH YOU IJEỌMA WHY ARE YOU DANCING IJEỌMA WHERE HAVE YOU ESCAPED TO OLISA I HAVE TOLD YOU I WAS NOT TO LOVE A LEPER I AM EKWUEME TRADITIONS MUST BE HONORED YOU WERE AN ABOMINATION IJEỌMA WHY ARE YOU SMILING WHY HAVE YOUR EYES GROWN NARROW AND THIN—
He was knocking; he was knocking his fists against the floor of Olisa’s obi, attempting to expel the many spirits, over and again, knowing it was time to leave the vexing obi; wanting to visit Idemili to cleanse his body, cursing the name of Ijeọma once more as he drank his palm wine; and snorted his snuff, calling for the gods to end her life.
And when he lifted himself—he fell down; fear and wine had toppled him—with his gourd empty as he was now thirsty—he left his obi when the night was as black as Ijeọma’s eyes, and began trekking to Idemili, where he would drink from the river water—and it would heal him—and it would make every pain flee, beyond and away, that was what he knew—as he walked haphazardly along the path—balancing himself on nearby trees, the voice of Olisa following him—the face of Ijeọma pursuing him—alongside the gossip of Ichulu, as he became fearful—while hoping for beyond and away.
But Idemili was still when Ọfọdile arrived, as if unwilling to heal him; and he saw himself in the river; the moon’s light had made it so. He had become thin, and his red rappa wrapped across his legs as if swaddling a baby. He could no longer hear the voice of the one called his brother, or see the face of the one called his daughter, or feel the gossip of Ichulu; and he was happy—happy to the point of abandonment, removing his rappa—and with the moon so bright, seeing his full self—his arms rising from his sides—his back bending downward, swaying, as his hips were shifting—gliding with his feet lifting upward, patting the ground the way drummer hands pat drums—his knees bending with grace and jubilation—unlocking themselves to the happy and blithe—his back curving, curving, like potent river waves—no longer hearing those voices—but dancing like in his youth, slowly, then quickly—then violently—dancing like in his youth again—beginning to smile, beginning to dance more violently, as if pursuing a dream.
And the following morning, when the people went to Idemili to fetch and to bathe, they found Ọfọdile’s red rappa and feared that he had committed suicide. And once they saw Ezinne—the one called mother of the osu—they gave her the cloth, and began asking if she knew where he was.
“I have not seen him since I left his compound many weeks ago.”
“But he is missing!” said the people gathered, thinking of Nnenna’s curse.
“Then let it be,” Ezinne said—rubbing the entirety of her bald scalp—then leaving the people gathered to themselves.
The word of Ọfọdile’s disappearance quickly entered the ears of the village, and soon it resided upon the eyes of Igbokwe. He sent four very young men to look for his body in Idemili, though after many days of swimming to its depths they did not find his corpse. So the dịbịa, not knowing whether Ọfọdile was dead or alive, threw his sacred cowrie shells to determine an answer—but saw that no answer was given by the gods, and decided that if Ọfọdile did not appear in four days, he would pronounce him dead throughout the village. Igbokwe quickly thought of the fate of Ichulu and the uncertainty made from the gods not answering his cowrie shells—wondering if Ọfọdile’s disappearance was the beginning of Ichulu’s demise, wondering, too, if it was a sign of Chukwu’s anger because Ijeọma was no longer living in Ichulu. He could not answer these questions, not with his cowrie shells; he wanted Ijeọma’s body, but it was no longer available to him. So he prayed to Chukwu, praying for mercy on his village—and after four days had passed—praying for mercy on Ọfọdile’s corpse, even as he was unsure that Ọfọdile had truly committed suicide—pronouncing him dead to a spiteful village, one that was grateful for the death of Ekwueme.
Nnenna, too, was grateful when she was told of Igbokwe’s pronouncement. She smiled a smile believing that she would no longer see Ọfọdile—not when she went to Idemili, not when she visited the market square. She had told the ones called her children that Ọfọdile was nothing to them, nothing more than evil—that he neither cared for them nor loved them, that he used them only as instruments to boast before the village; that he was selfish—and when Nnamdị and Cheluchi seemed to disagree, she reminded them that they had a new father, a good father, one who loved them as they were. And on the day of Igbokwe’s pronouncement, she swept that father’s compound while awaiting Igbokwe’s visit, preparing herself to be a widow receiving the news of a husband’s death, staying in Okoye’s compound to make herself available, cleaning its earth, cooking large meals, then hearing soft ringing coming from the bells of Igbokwe’s staff.
“Igbokwe, welcome,” Nnenna said.
“My daughter, how are you?”
“I am well … What will I give the great dịbịa of Ichulu?”
“My daughter, I will drink the water of Idemili.”
“It is no problem. Nnamdị, Nnamdị! Go and get water from Okoye’s obi!”
Nnenna and Igbokwe both heard Nnamdị’s faint yes—and watched him appearing from the back of the compound, then into Okoye’s obi—then watched as he gave Igbokwe a cup of river water.
“Nnamdị, thank you,” said Igbokwe, as he began sipping from the cup, a
s Nnamdị nodded in his direction, before turning to move away.
“Do not leave, my child. I have news that concerns this entire household.”
“Igbokwe, what is it?” said Nnenna.
“Where is Okoye?” Igbokwe asked.
“He is hunting,” Nnenna said.
“That is fine. I will say what I must say, and tell Okoye another time.” Igbokwe lifted the cup and took another sip of water.
“It is Ọfọdile. He has died.”
“What,” Nnamdị said.
Igbokwe turned to Nnamdị—and watched terror seize him.
“Great dịbịa, what do you mean? What do you mean … my father has died?”
“Ọfọdile is dead!” said Nnenna. “Are your ears not working?
But Nnamdị did not answer, quickly turning to the one called his mother.
“Igbokwe, thank you for giving me this word … but are you surprised? That man was a useless man. What did he do for this village—nothing. What did he do except cause problems? He was an abomination! We should have exiled him years ago or taken him to the Evil Forest, we should ha—What is this … Nna … is madness within you!”
And Nnenna wiped the saliva that Nnamdị put on her face, looking at the one called her son, not knowing why he had defiled her. She lifted herself to strike him, but Igbokwe held her waist; and she sat down, watching Nnamdị moving away—seeing Igbokwe not looking at her at all, but hearing the dịbịa’s assured farewell—then hearing nothing, for many moments—until the CLINK, CLINK sound of someone sharpening their machete—pierced through the air, as she felt the sticky residue on her face, and felt the anger still, then the grief, not from loss, but from realizing she had been—for a very long time—what she hated most in the world; and she ran toward the sound, quickly, quickly, quick—running as if death stood behind her neck—running to her neighbor, and seizing his machete—and using its blade to cut off her hair—running it through each lock—cutting through each bundled strand, while asking the startled neighbor for a knife—and when one was given, she moved it through her scalp—shaving her hair low, toward skin and blooms of blood; praying to the gods, to the ancestors, for atonement, for wisdom, for the spirit of Ọfọdile, the handsome face of Ọfọdile, the one whom Ijeọma resembles, their children, their baby Chelụchi, Nnamdị and his crass reminder that she would soon return, that she would soon come home come home come home: sweet Ada of mine.
