by Okezie Nwoka
And Igbokwe, too, prayed for Ijeọma to come home, praying for the return of Ichulu’s daughter, their only vessel to the Most Supreme. He sensed the emergence of a thought: to send some very young men to Amalike, to return her to the village; but he immediately recoiled, remembering the murders of the eastern town and their wicked divination; the lives of Ichulu’s people would not be risked a second time; but Chukwu will destroy this village if Ijeọma is not within it; and the thought came again, over and again; sending men, fields and fields of very young men, who would be strong and protected; but the divination is failing, since the holy stones had not protected Ichulu; and the cowrie shells were not being answered; what of making sacrifices to the Supreme Being, a sacrifice of one thousand chickens, one hundred goats and rams, and fifty cows, and if Chukwu is not satisfied a child could appease the hunger of the one Most Supreme; Igbokwe does not make sacrifices to Chukwu: the Most Supreme is Most Supreme—but which Igbokwe has seen the gods at war, and a girl who flies, and a child delivered from the Evil Forest, no Igbokwe has communed with Chukwu through the flesh. And as the dịbịa sat in his red-clay obi, lifting his goat-horn cup to divine which sacrificial name the cowrie shells would reveal, he heard commotion building near the path to the market square.
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
And then he heard sounds that astonished him, the cries of many little babies at once; and he hurried to the path of the market square, and bore witness to the reason the people had been singing their song—seeing Ngọzi—and seeing that she had given birth to four children: two carried in the folds of her cradled arms, two carried in the arms of the one called her husband—as all were dancing, and dancing—to the melody of the singing, as the people began shouting the names of the infant children: Chukwuka the first child, Chukwuzatam the second child, Chukwudịmma the third child, and the fourth, the only female child, they named Ijeọma. And Igbokwe believed that Chukwu was alive and was not angry with the village, as he felt his ease return with his reason, as he began weeping among Ichulu’s jubilation, accepting the good word that the sacrifices would never occur again.
2.
IJEỌMA SAT IN THE BACK of the classroom, leaning on her desk with her red notebook to her side—attending to very little of what was being taught. Her thoughts had been lingering in the past: to when the pastor had said, “Now that I have punished you wizards, you will turn your wretched backs from evil,” hearing the pastor saying, “You children will receive the Lord, and it is me and my church who will give Him to you”—seeing him holding his cane, and adjusting his spectacles—smiling as they raised their cries—feeling her own back tightening and aching, remembering, with the pastor screaming, “YOU MUST STUDY THE BIBLE! AND KNOW THE WORD OF GOD! UNTIL EVERYTHING IN YOUR MEMORY IS WIPED!”; and Ijeọma sat in the back of the classroom shivering—moving her tongue across her eroded mouth, not listening to Phyllipa talk of Precious Words Ministries, not listening to her say that they were made in God’s image and likeness and did evil because a snake had seduced their ancestors into temptation. She sat, instead, with her gaze fixed on the blackened wall, pondering the questions that they had asked as children: “Why did God, who has all the power in the universe, take rest on the seventh day?” “And if Cain and Abel were the only children of Eve, how did they bear any children?” “And if Jesus was begotten of God, they were separated … and if they were separated why did they still love each other?”
“It does not mean the two cannot love simply because they were separated,” she recalled Phyllipa telling Ikemba.
“You are right ma … you are—you are right,” Ikemba had said, though Ijeọma still recalled the urgency with which he had whispered into her ear when he had told her that separation meant it was possible for them not to love. “The Son could have seen the Father with bitterness in his heart … by the very fact that he now existed apart from his daddy.” That was the phrase she recalled, and she recalled nodding her head when he had said it, as she was nodding her head now, against the palms of her hands; then looking beyond the past, feeling echoes of Ikemba’s whispers—their growing heat, and tender sighs—wondering if he would touch her with his urgency—wondering if he could sense those hums of freedom—moving softly along her heart.
And she sat in the back of the classroom, looking for Ikemba’s hands among the rows and rows of hands that sat atop metal desks, holding translucent pens. She had not found the pair that belonged to him, while remembering her words; remembering, then, her many lessons with Phyllipa, how scripture had been plainly taught before the language called English; and how she had wanted very much to comprehend those new words, wanting to write in her diary; wanting to understand the things that the other children had understood, wanting to feel among; without any attention given to the fact of her muteness. And she began rolling her pen when thinking of how she had studied again, over and again, the words Phyllipa had written on the blackened wall: dog, cat, apple, and rat, studying again, until she had slowly known them; believing herself foolish for struggling to have read words like cat, turning her eyes against herself when she recalled the Christian books she had been given to read; books written for children much younger than her, ones which she had labored to read each day; having read them in many incorrect ways, for as long as she had been reading them—studying them again, because she had forgotten exactly how the studying had begun—as she had moved to sentences—and then to larger books—writing small paragraphs in her red notebooks with handwriting small and fine, and showing those paragraphs to Pastor Nwosu, who had commanded her to continue improving.
And in time, she learned more words and wrote longer sentences, and read the works of Dwight L. Moody and Henry Venn and William Wilberforce and Fanny Crosby—all at the orders of the pastor—studying their sentence structures, and uncovering the meaning of their words in church dictionaries and encyclopedias, then putting those works aside to practice and write in the quiet of the cells. And when Phyllipa had said, “Recite the alphabet,” Ijeọma had written the alphabet before twenty seconds. And when Phyllipa had said, “Write an essay on the story of Noah,” Ijeọma had written an essay, whose closing line was quoted by the pastor during one of his Sunday sermons. And when Phyllipa had said, “Write a poem,” Ijeọma had written:
The Father took me from my mother’s home,
The Father brought me off my sinful road
The Father loves his name, loves his Son’s too;
The Father turned, and made my life anew.
Ijeọma had written for Phyllipa, had written for the pastor, and, in her green diary, had written for herself. And after nine years of continued writing, she had become fluent in the language called English, crafting and seeing those things which the tongue did not make, writing in red notebooks to communicate with others in the church, writing of personal matters in the diary Phyllipa had once given her—as writing became her music; her sentences gave her reasons to dance, as she could now release the noises of her thoughts through her body in a different way—carefully, openly, in the bright pages of her notebooks.
And like her writing, many things had changed through the nine years, since many of the children with whom she had been held were now attendants of the Manifestation Quarters. Very few were returned to the families who had sent them, while the others who had been taken from Amalike’s streets were moved throughout the world, traded by the hands of foreign people; and Ijeọma was uncounted among them—for a reason she had wanted to know—assuming it was because the pastor believed her demons had not been excised.
And her assumption was not incorrect from the gaze of Precious Word Ministries. Ijeọma still rose from the ground as an attendant of the church, doing so in secret
, in the privacy of her bedroom, not looking upon her wooden desk, or her open mirror, one she had once thought would take her back to Ichulu—as the light that passed through her morning window, beckoned her with its pull—drawing her toward the warmth of its soft orange whenever she faced the sky—whenever she felt her wholesome body—rising into the air—feeling the touch of her chi’s vibration build something within her more cathartic than a scream; then in the sky she saw those persons, those many persons, smiling and beaming, blessing her with the love they beheld, watching lilies pour forth from their eyes, as the lilies sang songs bemused by laughter, as trees waned in a dance of sunlight and serenity, stretching their branches beyond each person’s eyes, laughing at incurable things—shedding antidotes of antidotes through leaves and petals and bursting seeds, as the crowns of their heads bore gems and rocks, sitting across each person’s head, glowing like the hope before a fire ignited, summoning lost things, summoning forgotten things, summoning the plenty: the infinities and forevers within a moment, as cruel patterns began to flee, as cruel thoughts began to flee—imprisoned by the horizon—with clouds descending like valleys—plain as their upper lips—each person’s lips—as birds sang newer songs, in newer ways, chirping before their minds could know, as tears trembled, waiting in their eyes—each eye—each person’s eyes—undulating through smiles made by spontaneous forces—the kind before a chuckle, the kind before a laugh—roses resting on their tongues, moonlight passing through their lips—bearing the soft enunciations of a lantern—blue, black, red, green, dancing like gnats across the bridges of their noses—across the wide of their eyes beneath the stories of their souls; and Ijeọma did not forget that she belonged to the Most Supreme, and did not underestimate the weight of Chukwu’s power.
For nine years she was persuaded to become a Christian, and for nine years she secretly dismissed Christianity—pushing to the farthest corner the Bible sitting on her desk, when she pronounced in her room that Amalike’s Christ could never be her own—knowing of his death on a cross, and his resurrection from a grave: a story like many she had heard before, where the gods were called several things—powerful, awesome, mighty in battle, the one who grants wealth and riches, and cures every kind of disease—an ordinary Christ, a man and god of many things, she confessed, things which by themselves make no kind of god exceptional; and she would forget the drunk exclamations of the titles of Precious Word before rising to the air, where human praise was inconsequential.
Ijeọma was induced by Phyllipa to worship the Christian god; and she felt much sorrow in refusing a person whom she found to be benevolent; one who would secretly sing to her in Igbo by the church edifice; one who had given her roasted yam when food had become scarce. She could recall days when Phyllipa had placed paper notes inside those unauthorized food flasks. This is the day which the Lord hath made, one read, Try and rejoice and be glad in it. And Ijeọma would quietly discard those notes once Phyllipa had departed, then focus on the food she had received, smiling before the yam, and eating it as though it were more precious than her chi. And when Phyllipa would return to say, “I love you by the grace of God,” Ijeọma would write, I love you too—not wanting to disclose the secret she thought would devastate the one she admired, so avoiding matters concerning conversion and faith, even while sitting in the back of a Precious Word classroom.
“Today we will be returning to the book of Exodus,” Phyllipa said, beginning the lesson for that day’s Bible study, watching as all the attendants opened their Bibles and waited for further instruction.
“I want you to turn to chapter three, verse thirteen. Have you found it,” she said as the attendants began nodding their heads.
“Good, good. Now, in this chapter, Moses is speaking to God. He is asking God how the sons of Israel should address him. And God in the form of a burning bush says, ‘I am who I am.’ Now … what do you think God means by this?”
Ijeọma clutched her red notebook as she turned from her memories, latching on to the words of Phyllipa’s question—how could a bush on fire speak with such frankness, she thought, or name itself more assuredly than the common person—and what could stop such a bush from becoming a tree or a python or an infant child, and say that it simply was.
“It means God has named Himself to be whoever God says He is. It is not man’s place to question God. It is man’s obligation to obey God’s will.”
Ijeọma heard the conviction with which Ikemba spoke, and her heart began lowering in her chest.
“That is correct, Ikemba. The name that God gives Moses is at once a mystery and a definite thing. ‘I am’ is the name he has chosen to give us. What other names can we call God?”
“Yahweh,” said one attendant.
“Jehovah Jireh,” said another.
“El Shaddai,” said one with glee.
“Ijeọma, what of you? What other names can we call God?”
Ijeọma wrote something quickly in her red notebook and watched Phyllipa move to where she was sitting, then showed Phyllipa what she had written, thinking somehow that she would accept it.
“Ijeọma what you have written is inappropriate. Chukwu is not another name for the God that we worship. Chukwu belongs to a different religion, one that has no place in this classroom. What if the pastor were to have seen this? Speaking Igbo as well as attempting to write it are prohibited on these premises. Do not fail to remember it.”
Ijeọma nodded her head and closed her red notebook, acknowledging that she had nearly exposed herself as a Pagan; but acknowledging, too, that the word Chukwu best translated the word God in Igbo. Just as God reigned supreme above all creation, revealing himself in mysterious ways, so did Chukwu; and now Phyllipa argued that such thinking was unacceptable, and perhaps she was right, she thought, lowering her eyes to her own reasoning—recalling her own unbelief in the Christian god, while recalling her faith in the Most Supreme. She stared into the rust of her metal desk, shamefully waiting for the Bible study to end; and once it had, she began returning to her bedroom to place her Bible on the wooden table, keeping her eyes lowered as she nursed her own regrets, turning her eyes against herself once she glanced at the pimples in her reflection; then she left her room again, and took with her her green diary before checking the calendar for the date and heading toward the large ngwu tree that once stopped light from entering the cell in which she was kept. She sat beneath its broad, waxy leaves, and began writing:
DIARY ENTRY #907 1 DECEMBER 1999
Chukwu I have come to write you again. I hope you are well. I know you are well because Anyanwu is shining brightly and the clouds in Igwe are whiter than the teeth of children. I know you are well because you lifted me from the ground this morning and brought me closer to you.
Chukwu how is Ichulu? Does Igbokwe still pray to you in the mornings? I know he does. Does my mother still remember me? Are Nnamdi and Cheluchi getting along? Yes, yes I know it. I miss them Chukwu, all of them, even my father. I know I was not his favorite child, but I do miss him somewhat. I hope he’s still hunting, and has learned to get along with Chinwe’s father. That girl, sweet Chinwe, I know she is married and pregnant by now, and still taking trips to the Place of Osu, visiting Uzodi, and hearing all of his precious stories.
When will I leave this place Chukwu? I hope that my exile will soon end because I do want to leave Amalike and go back to my home. Today I said that the Christian god could be given your name. I know now that I was being foolish and not thinking properly. Phyllipa was right. I cannot translate you into a different language any more than I can become a Christian. Never again will I write my way into a church. No being can have a name like yours. You are above all created things. Never forget me Chukwu. I am yours.
“IJ, WHAT ARE YOU WRITING?”
Ijeọma closed her diary and kept its pen within it, not fully recognizing Ikemba’s voice when he spoke; but then she turned toward him, raising herself from the ground as he moved toward the ngwu tree; kissing his cheek, then so
ftly touching his finger; and not resisting when he firmly wrapped his hands around her waist. They stood behind the ngwu tree and closed their eyes to begin their silent prayer—a prayer that had their heartbeats quickening with joy—both believing that nobody on the premises could see them. And when the moment passed, Ijeọma sat atop the shadowed ground and pulled Ikemba toward her knees.
“Why do you always keep your writing a secret? Is it because of this Y2K?”
Ijeọma turned her eyes from Ikemba’s smile, and revealed a new pen and a new page in her red notebook.
Diaries are meant to be secret.
“You are right, my love … Anyway, I meant to tell you immediately after Bible study that I thought you were correct in calling God Chukwu. Never mind the things Phyllipa says. Her husband is the true Bible scholar.”
Ijeọma remained silent, neither signing nor writing a word.
“Are you beginning to doubt yourself? Let me tell you, IJ … I was thinking the same thing. Chukwu is the way we Igbos call the name of God. It is a matter of translation.”
Ijeọma returned to her red notebook.
No, my love. It is a matter of belief.
“We have had this discussion before. You think we believe in different gods … but our gods are the same …”
