by Okezie Nwoka
ijeọma … what are you doing
“I am”—Ijeọma held her mouth, feeling the texture of the air above her tongue, hearing her voice sound bright like new metal, as she saw and heard that of another, one whose voice was making letters formed like clouds.
“I am choosing to end it.”
why
“Because my life no longer belongs to me.”
but i am here
“And who are you?”
i am the one who brought you to the sky
“Are you Chukwu?”
i am—i am
She leapt to her feet—quickly dropping the rappa then lifting it again—to clothe herself as she began wrapping herself, not believing that she could stand as she was standing—not believing that power had found its way into her body as she looked toward her feet but could not see them—as the smoke entering the cell stopped her from seeing the cell floor—as she tried remembering things: her voice and the voice she heard and saw, or the rattling and shaking coming from the cell door as its lock was being unlocked; and its door was finally opened.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you! I’m sorry I didn’t believe!”
She rushed toward him, and embraced him, and opened her mouth to speak but did not. And with soft melancholy, she shifted the brim of her rappa, then took her diary and began running through the smoke-filled corridor behind Ikemba, and heard the children screaming, each one of them, all of them, shouting behind their locked cell doors as Ijeọma pulled Ikemba’s arm and pointed.
“We don’t have time!”
She ripped a page from her diary and wrote, then put the page in Ikemba’s hands.
I will burn with them, he read as he pocketed the page, and reached into his bag to remove his set of keys and a lavender rappa, giving to Ijeọma what Phyllipa had once given her before hurrying to each cell, then unlocking them, releasing each child, and shouting that they must leave through the backmost door since the fire was coming from the front. And they listened to Ikemba’s words, rushing from their cells, not hearing the church attendants running from their quarters and into the streets, carrying their belongings in their panicked hands and shouting that the one called their god had forsaken them, that he did not stop an enemy from destroying their holy church, as they blamed their witches and wizards and presumed them all dead when none were found among them in the streets of Amalike.
But the children were all following Ikemba still, rushing out of the cells and through the dark corridor as the smoke was growing thicker and thicker, as those who had come out of the building began inhaling the charcoal-smelling air as they watched the church edifice burning brightly in the nighttime, with nobody there to save it. And Ijeọma followed, too, running behind the line of children—until she turned and saw pink checkers near the front of the quarters—rolling beneath the churning smoke. She thought they would move in her direction to reach the same refuge she was reaching, but the fire approached the pink checkers as she ran back toward the flames, rushing to remove the attendant—letting the quickness of her feet glide through the smoke and ash until she reached a person whose eyes were filled with the panic of the night, who was coughing and then collapsed at the weight of it all as Ijeọma shielded their bodies with the lavender rappa, as flames began licking their covered shoulders: succumbing gently to the ecstasy consuming them both as they were lifted, near the moon they were lifted, through the black-colored walls and the crumbling roof where they found the most merciful love—and felt its sorrows let them be.
EPILOGUE
HE SAW IJEỌMA DESCEND TOWARD the earth like a star and followed her trajectory, running toward it until he could read her eyes. There was a light in them: a brightness he had not seen before. And he held her—then raised their linked arms—trusting the person who began walking as though the night were an afternoon, leading them out of Amalike and into another place beyond unpaved inclines and grassy hills—through the middle of paved streets that soon became dusty roads—atop paths running through small deserts which soon revealed forests which could have been named as evil—then through dark trails, and trees, now making space for many feet.
And when Ijeọma finally stopped and signed for their arrival, Ikemba saw homes no longer built with zinc or cement, but wearing clay and raffia as their material. He thought of which home Ijeọma would now awaken, until he saw her clapping her hands near a dark entrance, summoning a shirtless person whose muscles consumed her in an embrace; and when the embrace had parted, she came to be in search of something which he came to understand, as he removed her green diary from his bag, as she smiled and then kissed his wood-scented hands.
This is my cousin Ụzọdị.
And Ijeọma saw Ikemba smile and greet Ụzọdị with an embrace as she left the two to see the children sitting on the ground and speaking to each other breathlessly, rejoicing in the powers which had released them.
“Ijeọma, leave the children to rest; come into this home of mine.”
Ijeọma smiled to herself when she heard Ụzọdị’s Igbo, and felt tears pushing against the back of her eyes as she entered his home, seeing Anyanwụ filling its darkness with a lightening blue.
“What is happening here?” a young woman said.
“My kin has come to see me. Ijeọma, this is my wife, Ụlọchi. Ụlọchi, this is Ijeọma and her friend Ikemba.”
“Welcome,” Ụlọchi said. “Is there anything you all would like to eat? I can cook yam and akara for you.”
“Leave it, Ụlọchi. It is too early to eat.”
“Then I will come and join all of you,” Ụlọchi said, moving near Ụzọdị and caressing her belly.
“Ijeọma, where is it that you have been?” said Ụzọdị. “You have not come to see me in so long. Tell me, why is it that your hair looks like that of an osu … and why is it that you are so skinny?
Ijeọma opened her diary and began writing in English, then placed the book into Ikemba’s hands.
“Ijeọma says that her father sent her to Amalike, where she stayed for many years.”
“Is that where you learned to write?” asked Ụzọdị.
She nodded her head three times.
“I do not understand,” Ụzọdị said. “Why did Ọfọdile remove you from Ichulu?”
Ijeọma began writing more words and passed her diary to Ikemba, who read, “He removed me because of my flying.”
“You can fly?” Ụlọchi asked.
“Yes, she flies,” Ụzọdị said, smiling. “If I had known you were in Amalike, I would have come to see you. Amalike does not know me as an outcast.”
Ijeọma looked through Ụzọdị’s eyes and nodded three times, nearly weeping that she had doubted that such words could be good.
“If you were staying in Amalike,” said Ụlọchi, “what prevented you from coming here?”
“We were prisoners,” Ikemba said. “And if not for Fịlịpa, a woman of integrity, who had given me a set of keys, gasoline and matches … we would have remained as prisoners.”
They all became silent as Ijeọma wrote again in her diary.
“Ijeọma wants to return to Ichulu,” said Ikemba.
“There is not a problem in that,” Ụzọdị said. “But what of the children? I think they can remain with us. There are families here with big homes, and there is enough land to build more houses.”
“Ijeọma wants the children to come with us to Ichulu. That is what she has written.”
“When do you want to go to Ichulu?” Ụzọdị asked.
Ijeọma pointed to the ground over and again.
“Today?” asked Ụzọdị and Ụlọchi at the same time.
Ijeọma nodded her head three times and watched Ụlọchi stand and leave the room, then heard her rummaging through groaning pots in preparation of the morning meal. And within a moment Ijeọma smelled the aroma of fried akara filling the air—as she walked with Ikemba and Ụzọdị to a nearby stream, after h
aving asked Ụzọdị where she could bathe herself. And she carried in her right hand the lavender rappa, and smiled when she placed a page into Ikemba’s hands with the words: Uzodi’s home is now red.
When they arrived at the stream, Ụzọdị and Ikemba left Ijeọma and began conversing as they returned to the red-clay home. And as they moved away, Ijeọma stood by the water, hearing it spill over the rocks and stones, then stripping herself of her old rappa and lunging into the stream. She remembered the voice in the cell and could not help but wonder what she was meant to do with such a memory, since the voice left her with a feeling, too, great to ponder alone with her chi; perhaps if she gave the memory to Ichulu, then they would understand; perhaps if she gave the feeling to Ikemba, then he would truly know—can god not see, she sighed and breathed as she dipped beneath the water, allowing herself to be cleansed by a serenity, feeling the cool water heal her deepest hurts and winnowing pains, believing the worst of them gave her this dream of precious water, hearing the water whispering, “What has god made that could never see?”
She left the stream cloaked in the lavender rappa, and thanked Chineke for Phyllipa’s cunning before returning to Ụzọdị’s home, where the children were running in circles, and eating groundnut, and playing an old game she remembered from her childhood. And when passing them, she returned each of their nods with smiles—and some of their smiles with hugs; then kissed their foreheads—and walked into the home of the one called her kin.
“Ijeọma, the children have already eaten,” said Ụlọchi, with a hand resting atop her hip. “The remaining akara is for you and Ikemba.”
Ijeọma nodded three times, then took one of the brown akara and put it in her mouth, eating it slowly, letting its oils and flavor remind her that food is a wondrous gift. And when she saw that Ikemba had been watching her, she turned to him and smiled at him and lifted her diary from where she had left it.
Do you know what I would see in the sky each time I flew?
“What would you see …”
I would see an eye, the most beautiful eye, with faces appearing within its pupil, as if it were the entire world.
“Did you ever see my face?” said Ikemba, keeping his eyes low.
I did, many times.
“What do you think it means, the vision …”
Play with it. Play with the word ‘love’ in Igbo as I have, as anyone who cannot speak has played with it. You cannot say ‘love’ without saying ‘eye’.
“Because the eye sees itself last … then first …”
Then last again; and how else can love be?
Ikemba, I love you. I do not know whether I loved you before, because there were things, many things, that I had yet to understand. Though as a truth, I know that I love you today. I couldn’t have reached this virtue of freedom without your being in my life.
“I love you, too, Ijeọma … at least … I am trying …”
Then let us be partners in raising those children, as they will have been partners in raising us too. Let us, together, be chaste and free.
He fell silent reading the words, then their letters—space, then silence again.
“I understand you, Ijeọma … but what of our beliefs …”
chineke and jesus came from separated land; but what could i call them before i was?
Ikemba smiled. Ijeọma smiled, too. And they remained that day within Ụzọdị’s red-clay home, watching the children with whom they came; and soon the good word traveled out of the Place of Osu and into Ichulu that Ijeọma had left Amalike; and the people of Ichulu left their pots and prayers and hurried out of the village—rushing through the Forest of Nta, carrying the ones called Ngọzi’s four children ahead of themselves—seeing shadows of nza birds stretch on the grass before them—arriving in the Place of Osu, and standing among the people gathered by Ụzọdị’s home. And they announced themselves as coming from the village of Ichulu, then announced that perhaps they had no village at all, asking for forgiveness, kneeling before the persons among them, pleading for compassion and mercy—crying that no one is cast out before the Most Supreme, crying that no one is a slave when they are mercifully loved—as hundreds from Amalike had been hurrying from the west, entering the Place of Osu through the leadership of John, crying in many languages, “Take pity on us prisoners! Take pity on us slaves!”
And they were recognized. And when they had seen the face of Ijeọma, plainly, they each greeted her with tears, crying, “Ada Chukwu! Ada Chukwu!”
And when they told Ijeọma that Ọfọdile was dead, Ijeọma began to weep, not knowing that Ọfọdile had been given refuge in the towns of Ụmụka and Etuọdị: towns where all was as it was as in the Place of Osu. And as they told Ijeọma that this was Nnenna—Ijeọma began to weep; and as they told Ijeọma—“Here is Nnamdị,” “and Chelụchi,” “and Chinwe,” “and the one called Chinwe’s child,” Ijeọma began to weep, and to kneel; and to mourn among those kneeling; weeping to a new people as she humbly sang:
Let the man who calls the woman ‘fool’
Forget the name of his Mother.
Let the woman who calls the man ‘fool’
Forget the name of her Father.
And let the one who forgets the name of their chi
Never see the coming Home;
For if one forgets that they are as the Other
They have begun to perish.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I thank God. For giving me the grace and strength to write this novel. I thank Them for allowing Their Heaven to grant me divine inspiration, and for using me as a vessel. I thank Chukwu who is God and is the god of my ancestors for staying close to me and for not disappearing in the midst of colonialism, white hegemony, and modern-day imperialism. Eze ndi eze, ị zọputa m.
Even still, there are not enough ways to say thank you to the ones who have made this novel possible. In fact, I do not even know the names of many, since the random occurrences of everyday life—laughter on a train, dancing on the street, weeping in a church or in a movie, etc.—often happen anonymously. But it is those random occurrences that have lain in my subconscious mind—and in my spirit too: the ingredients necessary to make writing work. To the world, then, I say thank you.
And then, too, there’s my world: the little community of Igbo families who raised me in Washington, D.C., who taught me Igbo on Saturday mornings and sang Igbo hymns on Sunday afternoons—to Uncle Joe and Aunty Dorothy Emeche, thank you for always challenging me to be my very best. To Uncle Alex Obodo, thank you for encouraging me to always strive for excellence. To Uncle Babie Orusakwe, thank you for continually being a model of humility and meekness. Uncle Boniface and “Aunty C” Chimah, thank you for always being so kind to me and all of us children. Aunty Julie and Uncle Chief Onunaku, I hope this novel makes me “your number one,” but I know there is always space for everyone to don that title. To Uncle Geoffrey Okekeocha, thank you for always showing me the meaning of hard work and dedication to one’s family. To all the families of the Igbo Catholic Community of Washington, D.C., thank you truly for raising me up to love and to love language.
And then there’s my family who supported me in the daring feat of being a writer. To my mom and dad, Theresa and Joseph Nwọka, to whom this novel is dedicated, thank you for supporting me in my dream to pursue the literary arts. I hope you see yourselves in this story as much as I do. To my twin sister Adaobi Nwọka, thank you for always being my rock. I have not known this world without you; thank you for being a supportive ejima. Thank you to Nnedimma Nwọka, my younger sister, for continually challenging me and pushing me outside of my comfort zone. I appreciate you. To Aunty Uche and Uncle Joel Uzodinma, as well as Joel, Ify, Chichi, and Ugo, thank you for being a most beautiful family to me. I love you all from the depths of my heart. To Aunty Linda and Uncle Chris Anyikude, thank you for your continued love and support; thank you for your constant joy and for the amazing gift that is Stephanie, Jennifer, Kenny, and Kerry. To Un
cle Okey and Aunty Ogonna Ilochonwu, thank you for the amazing sleepovers and playtime and love I shared with Chibuzor, Obinna, Adora, and Chika. You all hold a deep, deep place in my spirit and I look forward to celebrating more of life with you. To Uncle Mike and Aunty Louisa Ewii, thank you for being the cool kids on the block. You both are the hippest Aunty and Uncle anyone could ask for and you know it! Thank you for the gift of my cousins: Chineye, Ogechi, Nnamdi, and Ginika. You guys already know that you mean the world to me. To Uncle Fred and Aunty Ngozi Udoye, thank you for always showing me the greatest benevolence and hospitality. Thank you for the amazing cousin that is Chinedu “Fred” Udoye, who beamed when I told him I would be a writer. Thank you cuzz. I am so happy for you, your wife Stephanie, and the newest addition to our growing family: Faith Sochima Udoye. Thank you also to my many cousins, aunties, and uncles in Ani Igbo (Igboland) who have supported me through this journey. I love you all.
The family with whom I spent the earliest days of my life mean the world to me, and then there is my chosen family: the ones who through a special kind of love stuck with me as I stuck with them through the craziness of life. To Reginald B. Cole, thank you for being my brother and best friend. I love you with the love of God and hope the best for our bond. To Jovan Julien, you have been at my side since day one of this writing thing; thank you for being a most loving sibling and a true friend. I love you truly and truly love you. To Chijioge “Chi” Nwogu, you are a rock. Thank you for the support, love, dedication, arguments, fights, forgiveness, and friendship. In many ways you are my hero since you often say the things I cannot say and fight the battles I shy away from. Thank you Chi for all that you have done for me. To Ian Allen, thank you for your constant wisdom and showing me that life can be fine #langstonhughes. I appreciate your humility and hard work so much and love you for all the things that you are. To Gabriel Doss, thank you for being an artist. Thank you for inspiring me to pursue art in your own way. Thank you for always challenging me to think beyond myself. To Josh Rames, thank you for teaching me that there is no need to be anxious: everything comes in time. I love you with all my heart, brother man. To Liz Morgan (or should I say Liz Temou), you will always be my mon amie: the friend that knows that part of my heart which yearns for artful healing. To Nikkisha Smith and Fedna Jacquet, thank you both for showing me what true beauty is. Thank you both for being outstanding women who are succeeding in law and cinema. You are my sisters and I love you. To Khara Gresham: words cannot even begin to describe the amount of love and respect I have for you. Thank you for being an amazing sister to me. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you too to Shauna Higgins for always showing the world your kindness and laughter. You are a light and are so beloved by me. To Sophia Blake Roy: I love and respect you so much. Thank you for being a quiet leader; thank you for your activism (let us never forget COPAIT). I love you homie. Meaghan Robinson: you are a source of so much joy to me. Thank you for always showing up with the most radiant positivity. I love you truly. And of course, to our deceased sister Danielle Dunlap, the girl who stole my heart, the one who never kicked me out of her dorm room when I went through all her snacks, the one with the most infectious laughter. We love you Danni. Keep praying for us from wherever you are. This is my family. We call ourselves Boom Boom because of our formerly ratchet ways. The truth of the matter is that we have a most amazing love that will stay with us forever.
