Daughters of Nri

by Reni K Amayo

  ‘Well, what is my task?’ she asked. ‘What do I need to do for the ọbara oath?’

  ‘It is best that you do not know.’

  ‘What?’ Sinai exclaimed, shaking her head. ‘Meekulu, surely that doesn’t make any sense. If I am tying my life to a task, I should know what it is.’

  ‘Should you? You and your soft hands say that you require my services to save your life; if you refuse my request, then according to you, you will die. If you accept my request then you could complete my task and live, or fail the task and die. If I tell you what the task is, then fear might grip your heart and in a moment of foolery, you may choose to not go through with the oath, and then what happens?’

  ‘I die,’ Sinai said softly.

  ‘Mmm. According to you. So what do you choose, Sinai?’

  I don’t know, she thought wearily. The old woman was not normal, that was for sure, but she also was not bad. Meekulu’s heart seemed to emit warmth, a sweet warmth that made Sinai comfortable.

  It also made Sinai trust her, something she wasn’t used to doing, given her upbringing in the cold palace. Everyone in the palace was hustling for some control, their very own morsel of power, so they could have room to roam some portion of their lives in freedom. The Eze was the beacon, the hub and source of all power; the closer to the Eze you were, the closer to freedom. It was not the least bit surprising for friends to cross friends, people to betray their families and lovers—just to bathe in the Eze’s amazing power. Trust was not something that Sinai had come across often, yet with Meekulu, it flowed as easily as a wild river. It simply felt as though she had known the old woman for countless years.

  ‘I trust you, I think. I also don’t think you’re a witch,’ Sinai thought out loud.

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that—’ Meekulu chuckled with a smile, before studying Sinai’s face. ‘—but what do you choose, my dear?’ she finally asked, raising one eyebrow slightly.

  ‘I want to … proceed,’ Sinai said quietly. When Sinai had decided to go down this path, she had reconciled with the fact that she would do anything to achieve her goal. Sinai was certain that her life depended on it anyway. She’d renewed her resolve every morning, after waking up from the same nightmare, a revolving sequence of her fall coupled with Ina’s laugh. A small chill overtook her body.

  ‘Although …’ Sinai murmured.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I cannot harm anyone who is innocent,’ she stated clearly. ‘As long as I am not doing that, I’m happy to complete the oath.’

  ‘Very well,’ Meekulu said, as she took a handful of the fine red powder, allowing small streams to filter through her wrinkled fingers. Meekulu drew the powder close to her mouth and whispered something in another language. The language was so familiar to Sinai, that for a moment she thought she could understand, but she couldn’t grasp the meaning.

  ‘Do you accept?’ Meekulu suddenly said. Sinai looked back at her with unease. She had not expected it to go this fast. Sinai suddenly felt stuck. Seconds passed and Sinai could see confusion building up in Meekulu’s face.

  ‘I accept, I ju—’ Sinai started, until Meekulu blew the red powder into Sinai’s face, the shock of the action resulting in a series of chesty coughs. Once Sinai had finally settled down, she rubbed her eyes open to find Meekulu busying herself with items in the kitchen.

  ‘Is that it?’ Sinai asked incredulously.

  ‘Ahh yes, the ọbara oath is complete,’ Meekulu replied, before returning to the items that she had laid out on the table.

  ‘So … shall we discuss everything? The task—my plan for Ina? I’m happy to get started.’

  ‘We discuss tomorrow … morning … Ina, task … Eze …Ọnye Nyocha,’ Meekulu strained, as she attempted to lift a large bag of rice onto the table. Sinai rushed to help.

  ‘Please, Ma,’ she said, as she helped to heave the rice on top of the table. ‘Ọnye Nyocha? Spying? For the Eze?’ That was a tall task, taller than Sinai had anticipated.

  What could she possibly offer in espionage to the all-seeing, all-knowing Eze? In the brief moments she had encountered him, she had felt like a fly, wiggling in the hands of a curious child. She shuddered to think about what he would do if she failed him at this task.

  Meekulu may have been the one that presented it, but if she was really tasked to be a spy for the Eze, then surely this request had come directly from him. Perhaps this was all set up by him, her fall, her plot for protection, all set up so that she could be his Ọnye Nyocha? No, that’s ludicrous, Sinai thought, and completely pointless; Sinai’s espionage skills certainly did not warrant such an elaborate ruse. Something about this just didn’t add up.

  ‘Spy for the Eze? No, no.’ Meekulu chuckled. ‘You will spy ON the Eze,’ she said, ‘not for him.’

  Sinai let the bag of rice explode on the floor.

  THE GIRL WHO SHOOK THE EARTH

  Furuefu Forest

  NAALA WOKE up once again to the sounds of multiple people talking. She could hear their voices, high with anxiety and laced with panic. The words were incomprehensible and disjointed; she couldn’t seem to make anything out. Until:

  ‘The earth is shaking,’ a voice bellowed in her ear. Naala’s eyes sprang open and the vibrations through the ground came to an abrupt stop. All around her, frantic people with faces etched with worry, began to calm as they realised that the tremors had indeed stopped.

  ‘Another earthquake,’ the girl, who Naala recognised to be Kora, murmured apologetically to her. The moonlight had hidden the collection of raised circle scars across her forehead. Naala had seen a similar design on a traveller from Kwale before. Her face was flat and soft, and a confused expression suddenly flashed across it; Naala realised that she hadn’t formally introduced herself.

  ‘Naala.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name … it’s Naala—Eisnaala.’

  ‘Ah. Ndewo, Naala,’ Kora said, as she greeted the girl, her crossed palms moving from her chest towards Naala.

  ‘Ndewo,’ Naala replied, performing the same greeting from her position on the ground.

  Kora tried to smile back at her, but the strange expression had yet to fully leave her face. ‘Your eyes …’ the girl said, then paused before shrugging. ‘Never mind, my mind is still asleep—I’m being silly.’ She lowered herself onto the fur mats sprawled across the floor. They were in the same makeshift hut that Naala had woken up to yesterday. The morning sunlight filtered through the rows of thin wooden scraps that bordered the room, filling it with a sandy glow. Naala could see flushed green vegetation through the gaps, swaying in the breeze as the birds began their morning songs.

  ‘It’s still quite early; no wonder I’m still frazzled,’ Kora continued. ‘I would try to get some sleep if I were you. Now that you have recovered, we will be on the move again, and, trust me, you will need your energy.’ Kora yawned as she drifted back to sleep. Naala turned on her back and stared up at the straw ceiling lined with wooden rods. What am I?

  A sense of hopelessness lay heavy on Naala’s chest, mixed with guilt, grief, anger, and bewilderment. Out of that brew of emotions, she was unsure about which one she was meant to feel the most, which one deserved her attention. She remembered the feeling of power that had rushed through her in Igbakwu. Naala had felt remnants of that same power when the earth trembled that morning. She knew that the quake was connected somehow to her, which frightened her immensely, because she also knew that that couldn’t be true. How could she believe such a thing? Flashbacks of Hanye’s bright eyes and rambling words filled her mind. Perhaps she was more like him than she had thought.

  Thoughts of Hanye brought with them the stark realisation that her village was gone. What was she supposed to feel? How was one supposed to feel when they were responsible for the massacre of all the people that they held dear in life. Despair? Anger? Or maybe nothing at all. Perhaps everything was supposed to come to a halt after such events. I should have warned them … she thought.
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  Shame; that was her most prominent feeling. She wanted to physically shake herself free from it; instead, she sighed and turned her head to the side, only to be met by a pair of dark eyes. It was the man that they called Eni. She raised her head, her heart pounding with guilt, as though she had somehow done something terrible.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled quickly. Something about that interaction unsettled her. Why did I apologise? Naala thought, I didn’t do anything wrong … did I? She was merely glancing around the room; she wasn’t staring rudely at anyone.

  He lay at the corner and there were at least three snoring people between them, but she could still feel him staring. She looked back at him cautiously, half expecting to have imagined the whole encounter, but his eyes were still fixed on her.

  ‘I like your name,’ he said curtly, before rolling over, leaving Naala gaping at his back.

  She said nothing and instead chose to let birdsong pour over her. The delicate tones bounced around her head and the feathery heat embraced her body. Naala couldn’t focus. She briefly entertained the idea of standing up from the dusty ground, and facing the day’s truth, but she couldn’t. A dull pain on her left temple held her down. The thought of being remotely active was more than she could bear. Instead, she allowed the heavy weight of sleep to pull down her eyelids. She felt herself drifting into a dark pool of unconsciousness, until she was overcome with a harsh blow of emotion.

  Naala gasped and her eyes flew open. She looked around at the still room filled with sleeping people, snoring softly in the early morning light. Her eyes, now filling with thick tears, flicked quickly towards Eni to inspect whether he had caught sight of her bizarre outburst. His back was still towards her. She exhaled shakily and stared up at the straw ceiling, allowing fat round tears to run down the sides of her face.

  Lying here, eyes closed, she had seen them. She had seen her dear grandma, Gini, Eddy, and her uncle. She had seen them sitting down at the oak table that her great-grandfather had built years before her mother had even been born. The wide window had allowed a waft of warm air and muted sunlight into their humble dining room. The room had been filled with love and peace.

  Just as Naala had tried to grab hold of the image in her head, it was brutally snatched from her, and suddenly she was left, mouth gaping, in the dark. A crippling pain surged through her body. It was too much for her to bear. She had lost her family. She wanted to scream and punch the air, but instead she lay completely still, staring up at the ceiling. She refused to close her eyes because she knew that if she did, that same beautiful image would fill her mind, only to have reality snatch it away. Distract yourself, she thought furiously, her teeth clenched tightly. Stop thinking of them!

  THE SEVEN OBIS

  CITY OF NRI

  ‘STUPID,’ Sinai muttered, as she walked towards the crowd of extravagantly dressed people surrounding the Eze. She was in the Elu festival room; it was sandy and decadent, decorated with bright gold and jewels that sparkled in the brilliant ọkụ light. The tall imposing walls filled Sinai with unease as she drew closer to a sea of beautifully laced garments, bursting with vibrant colours and deep rich scents. The palace’s elite were gathered; the heads of the seven most prestigious families in the entire kingdom. Collectively they controlled the trade, water supply, finance system, and technology programmes for the entire Kingdom of Nri. They all held their gold and ivory ofo sticks in their hands, glowing deep within with a green tinge that spoke of the Eze’s blessing. The seven Obis stood firm, their heads crowned with locs varying from jet black to almost white-grey, a sacred sign of their power. They all stood slightly bowed as they laughed and entertained the nucleus of the group: the Eze.

  ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ Sinai murmured, as she swivelled away from the group, walking instead towards the other end of the festival room, near the platters of food that she had watched Meekulu prepare hours before.

  ‘IT’S IMPOSSIBLE,’ she gasped for the thousandth time, while Meekulu pounded the softened beans into a thick smooth paste.

  ‘Bah, it’s easy. You are a noble, are you not?’

  ‘No, well, yes, but not really …’

  ‘Yes, really. We all know that you can enter that room, and listen to the conversations. Impossible? Don’t be soft, girl,’ Meekulu said, as she wiped her brow before shooing away Sinai’s attempt to help.

  ‘It’s not that simple, I’m an efuọla child. I’m not … established,’ she replied with grimace. It didn’t feel the right word to describe her station in life, but it was the closest one she had found so far.

  In the kingdom, the hierarchy was clear. The Eze was the ruling entity. Next came the Obis, the kingdom’s senior lords chosen by the Eze who controlled the kingdom’s major sectors. After them came the nobles, considered as cousins or distant blood relatives to the Obis. They were led by a large group of elders and chiefs, who supported the Obis where they could. As Meekulu had noted, the nobles were permitted to interact with the Obis, and even with the Eze himself, under the right circumstances. They were given the right to listen, and even share their opinions of the world that they lived in, but only within reason.

  An ambitious chief could even garner enough respect to succeed an elderly Obi, with the blessing of the Eze, of course. However, Sinai had garnered no such respect; in fact, she was barely clinging onto her status as a noble. As an efuọla girl, she technically had the same privileges as anyone born with her blood, but in practice, she was tainted. Her rights, whilst there, were not established.

  After her, came the palace specialists. They lacked royal blood but were highly respected due to the skills that they learnt from their family trade. Those with skills, like Meekulu’s, that were impressive enough to directly serve the Eze, wielded slightly more power and respect within the palace walls. Then there were the palace common folk, like Chisi, who assisted the specialists. After that, came the villagers, the bottom of the sprawling hierarchy that the kingdom prescribed to. They provided the raw materials that fed and clothed the kingdom, and yet they wielded tiny morsels of power.

  ‘Established or not, the task is far from impossible. Even the illegitimate efuọlas can still speak to the Eze,’ Meekulu said, before peering at Sinai from behind her crystal glasses. ‘Do you know what my name is, child?’

  ‘Meekulu?’ Sinai asked cautiously, as the old woman shook her head with a smile forming on her wrinkled lips.

  ‘That is my title. What is my name?’ the old woman asked.

  ‘Kaurandua?’ Sinai said hesitantly, as Meekulu’s smile widened.

  ‘Yes,’ she said wistfully. ‘Kaurandua—it means you cannot buy life, in my language.’

  ‘That’s pretty,’ Sinai mused.

  ‘It’s more than pretty, child, it’s true. You cannot buy life, you cannot hide and wait to live it later; you must live and you must live now, because you have no other choice.’

  ‘I am living,’ Sinai protested quietly.

  ‘How can you be living if you do not recognise your own power?’ Meekulu scoffed. ‘You are hiding, all the time, reducing yourself and minimising your power. You have power, my dear; everyone, even the tiniest otomys, has power. The trouble is we are all too quick to give it away.’ The old woman leaned back with a smile. ‘The trick is incredibly simple. To know you have power is to have power.’

  ‘STUPID, STUPID, SILLY GIRL,’ Sinai muttered, as she picked an engraved clay efere and loaded it with spiced gizzard meat. What am I going to do? she thought. Every time that she attempted to penetrate the Obis’ circle, her heart squeezed tight with anxiety. She had no right to join that discussion, no right whatsoever. Her place was among the hundreds of other nobles around the room, who spoke animatedly about nothing, as they snuck glances at the glittering leaders.

  Sinai was supposed to wait patiently within one of those small social clusters for the Eze to make his courteous rounds of the room. He may even pass her group and in that moment she was supposed to be grateful for the fact that h
e took the time to acknowledge her existence. So far he had only done that four times in her entire life. Yet here she was, imagining that she could walk up to that man and infiltrate his circle of Obis so that she could spy on his movements and words. She was stupid to have agreed to such an ọbara oath; there was no way that she would be able to get near the almighty Eze. She had promised her life away.

  Sinai watched wistfully as the noble children darted in and out of the Obis’ circle. The Eze stopped speaking when one of them barged carelessly into his leg. The room stilled and watched the interaction breathlessly. A woman who, judging by her fear-stricken expression, was the little girl’s mother, gaped wordlessly at her child. The Eze bent until he was at eye level with the small girl. A smile formed on his lips.

  ‘I see you are having fun,’ he said quietly, but his voice carried across the silent room.

  ‘Yes, Ozo Eze,’ the little girl beamed.

  The Eze beamed back at her.

  ‘Well, I know something that could make it even better.’

  ‘What?’ she said eagerly.

  ‘This,’ he said, bringing his palm to face her as he conjured a small, green ọkụ ball that began to stretch out, creating small, detailed, and intricate swirls until it formed a large and exquisite play ball that glowed brightly. He brought the flame ball towards the child’s face and she stepped back, frightened. Her mother made a strangled sound. The Eze chuckled.

  ‘Oh, don’t be frightened; I have made this one cool to the touch,’ he murmured. ‘Come see, place your hand.’ And sure enough the girl placed her small hand on the ball, only to leap up and down with joy.

  ‘It’s not hot,’ she exclaimed. The Eze nodded and smiled as he handed the ball over to her. She squealed like a small pig and proceeded to share her gift with her little friends. The guests looked on in giddy excitement. People could say a lot about the Eze, but he had always favoured the children, for the most part.