African Short Stories Vol. 1

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A Project of the Literary Society International (LSi)

11

 
Colours of Dream
 
Emmanuel Ugokwe
 
*

 FIRST came the war that never ended. It was the war that paralyzed the whole region for ten years or more and made me miss a wonderful childhood experience. Women and young children left home at dusk, hiking to an unknown place and when darkness falls over the bush, they slept in cold nights. There, they dispersed buildings, houses and courtyards in fear for the next action. They tirelessly walked to a nearby border passing deserted villages strewn with bodies of dead children and pregnant woman. Corpses piled up faster than any could be buried and I was watching.
I was only twelve or more, I do not know exactly. My father died when I was too young to understand death and the war had claimed other members of my family leaving my old grandfather and my young mother. My mother took me by the hand and followed my grandfather. We set out that morning like others to an unknown place moving toward the bush and leaving our beautiful houses and neighbours behind. A large part of these places consisted of rugged jungle mountains, accessible mainly by foot, as well as beautiful coastal lake and sea.
We passed through many bloodied men whose major language was pull down and destroy the opponent. They were the many faces who we could never see again. Their numbers were going down in seconds and they were more ready to rebel against the other group. Thousands of them who were in healthy looks were cut down during the most productive years of their life. Many others were bored teenagers who had drifted into delinquency as a result of the war.
Night caught us in the heart of that desert but we continued walking. We did not know where we were going. We only followed steps and voices. It was a moonlit night and we saw the path and faint figures and the walking sticks of others clearly. Suddenly, the real killer of my father halted and stopped us. My mother looked into the eyes of the blood thirsty killer and cried openly for reminding her how he had gruesomely murdered my father one early morning in our home and pedalled away to a safe distance when the war began. Father was an earlier victim of the war like his other brothers. Since then Kwame as he was called, was a ne'er-do-well who, from what mother told me, had no power to say no against violence. The ripe hour of his youth had been spent in bloodshed since the war began -a thing he could do efficiently and saw it as merely drinking water. The seed of my hatred against him was sown then. He had made me fatherless for life and as for father I only saw him by the descriptions of my mother and grandfather.
Ewa was a minor tribe to which I belonged, and so we were their targets. Our youths had rebelled because of many years of oppression. For all these warring years, we were treated as slaves unfit to be torched and it was not for our good. Such treatment would continue, as we were only minors. Kwame had trained many youths to embrace such life, the life of violence and hatred. Some learned faster, while others did not. For the later, when their backs were turned they would be shot dead in cold blood to make us believe that they were ready to sweep us out.
As we walked past him, he called mother back and asked his men to excuse him. Mother went and answered his call out of fear and I was standing with grandfather who was too weak to say anything in defence of mother. At first, he could not say anything. They owned our loyalty and respect and had to be obeyed even under the strictest circumstance. He kept looking at mother fiercely and then lustfully, and she begged to look on the ground to avoid his angry eyes. He asked mother to pull up for him to seek carnal pleasure with her in the presence of everyone around. I trusted mother with my little sense that it would either cost her life to fall for such obscenity. Anger was creping into his voice and more delay would earn mother a hard and painful exercise in the adventure.
Mother quickly disengaged her hand from me and ran as fast as she could. Kwame smiled toothlessly and whistled. Two boys in wait ran after her and soon caught her. She was only a woman who had walked tirelessly all day without food and water. With the brief time I stayed in their midst, I saw more than I could understand and heard more than I could remember. The young boys and girls smitten with body worship and vulgar exhibition of what ought to be private, who had discarded lots of ideals, clustered around my grand father and me, yelled and taunted us. I felt for the old man; for he was humiliated by young children who were too young to be his own grand children.
A young boy of either fifteen or more, I did not know exactly, walked to me and jammed a cigarette into my mouth, but I twisted out of the way. The other blew the smoke to my face, but I shoved aside. I was scared to my bone.
Mother was caught and was dragged along and was placed in front of him where he sat and at intervals blew out columns of smoke from cigarette into the wind. He looked with pleasure as the vanishing mist returned to his face, shouting his orders at her as if she were his slave. I started crying and raising my voice high like a small child, though I was one. My eyes caught his and I hated him more. My mother looked up and her eyes dilated like a child�s as she looked hopefully at me. I was her pride any day. I could have saved her at that moment. I looked searchingly into her eyes and our emotion for each other heightened and I began to read it in her heart and such look tipped our relationship into great intimacy. Love of a mother to his only son. I prayed she should not be harmed, but I was in no position to right the situation.
I opened my mouth to plead in behalf of mother. Word came but I did not know her offence. Pleading could earn her guilt. I faced the other way and watched with pain the thick smoke snaking its way several meters in the air and black the beautiful skyline. I was nearly carried away. I remembered myself quickly. My mind was frozen with horror. Mother could be taken away any moment. I was fearful gasping for breadth. I watched as they took mother to a dark side and he gave out what he had on her. Mother screamed, called our names in high voice, but neither grandfather nor I could rescue her. The old man shook his head painfully and nearly cried. I was only hoping that mother would come back after receiving a punishment on something she did not do. I was wrong for she did not return and I could not see her again. That was the last time I saw mother. That was the day she was taken away from me and I became an orphan.
Grandfather muttered some words, but they were not audible. Even if they were I could not really understand. As a child, I did not know such matters of having carnal knowledge of a woman; they were too deep for me. I stumbled out of the black night to a tree away from father sobbing, my legs wobbly with fear. Grandfather sat cross-legged in the fire made for warning of their body at cold nights and called me with his voice. He could not see me anymore, for the smoke had formed a bridge between us. I could have answered him, but mother was everything to me and I could hardly survive without her.
I could not wait. I did not believe that mother could not come back like many mothers who had been violated and killed in the war. I called my mother out in a loud voice, and the desert bounced the name back at me. I felt fearful, lonely and deserted. Kwame and his men had taken their turns and inflicted bodily harm on her, and with the last strength in her, she was calling for help, trying to run out of the danger for rescue, but strangely remained rooted on the spot, confused on what next to do. A lot of anger was building inside of me. It was like a dream that should never repeat itself. I fell down and only opened my eyes the next morning. Mother was nowhere to be found. The birds were soaring high in the sky chirping and singing freely with their young and old in the standing trees, but I could no longer see mother for she was no more.
The war was still on and any moment probably could give way to more dangers. I ran back to grandfather and softly woke him up. He rose and stretched his legs wearily. Sleep still weighed heavily on his eyelids. He knew by my look and the noiseless nature of the whole place that mother was no more. He yawned as he rubbed off the soft mote at the side of his eyes. Kwame and his men had left. Heartily we locked in deep embrace and separated. I looked at him and felt I should tell him that mother was no more and what he meant to me especially from that moment.
For the next five years the war lasted we stayed rooted there as Kwame and his men had transited to another camp and no one disturbed us. I grew under his protective arm. His bone for sure had gone so bad he was weak and needed care. Time had healed the wound of the loss of mother, but the war was still on. One night he called me up for a talk. I was worried, but I had to hear him out.
�My son, do not worry so much. The young must see what the old saw. I am now old and cannot see clearly despite that the day is clear. That shows that my death is coming. I see only my death. I see only unfamiliar sight. I have added years, wrinkles, and have been sick every time. I have lost everything, almost everything except you. One two, three, four, and five�� he kept counting the numbers of children that the war had claimed off with his right fingers against the left.
�I am sorry, Papa,� I said to him.
�My son, I should be the one to say sorry. Soon I shall leave you to suffer alone. Too many wars have been fought end war because we believe we can end war. Our children had gone rebellious and are partly not to blame. We were wrong. Our kingdom like others had seen sad times; we are hated and badly treated. Now as young as you are, you can feel the sign of death over our heads. Young children battered by the thorns of life. Some of our brothers had died painfully without seeing their mothers and children. They have died in lands, seas and deserts, with the result that the vultures made meals of their dead bodies. You watched the widows and even your own mother, all in tears, their sons are no more, their daughters had been raped and their husbands had all disappeared with the infraction. From my youth I have fought wars, I have seen wars fiercer than this and the acrid smells of blood, they don�t surprise me. You saw on the last night of your mother�s death how young boys molested me. They only believed what their eyes could see and what their strength could accomplish, but those things do not bother my mind any longer. I am only bothered about you.�
�Papa, I must see to its end. I shall revenge,� I almost shouted in anger as tears rolled down my eyes.
�Death at war had been a thing that distinguished my household from many other homes. Generally, it is easy to begin any battle, but resolving it poses a problem. More bloods and heads invoke more hatred and animosity. Our tribe had lost young men who would replace us. If not for my age I would have loved the war to continue till Dupe tribe sweeps us from the earth. Soon such thought would come into you and becloud your sense of judgment. The aftermath of war is unimaginable and beggars all contemplation. The wreckages, the ravages, the destruction and spoils are all its danger. We kill our friends, neighbours, loved ones and those we ought not to. The young sons of ours have learned wickedness from the muzzle of guns and edge of sword. Natural affection had been replaced by wickedness as they cut down and waste our heroes and laugh over it. Rare great names we had so much cherished long that will never come back had gone. Eating grasshoppers and alligator peppers all night in the jungle and thinking all night in pain and anguish. Gnashing their teeth like old men nearing the death path. Such a life increases their fear, their hatred, their frustration, and all hope that peace would ever return is dashed. They left home vibrant and full of energy on a day like many others. They go to farms or field for adventure, but do not come back, they disappear, vanish into nothing. The scars and tears are legion, the deserts, houses, the empty streets, the fallen rafters and the hungry leftovers, all send more grief to our hearts.�
�Papa for how long shall we continue living a life like this. It makes life miserable. Not sweet for life. I shall do anything to have my revenge on Kwame. The gods know I will,� I said to him as I sat making quick mental calculations on what next to say and do.
�They will survive. We shall survive. Blood had spilled so long for God almighty to hear our cries. The smaller gods have seen that it is not their fight, yet we trust them. The old men and women with their grand children have suffered. You are too young to understand. Go to the roadside where they are seated. They are running for their lives, others like us. We left home for the alien people who are now clutching our gods. My first son, your father had a large heart like you. I loved him as a son and like my own son. He was a good son who knew my heart even more than anyone else. He thought and behaved like me. He suddenly left home for the war some years ago, when your mother was a few months pregnant and shortly came home to show himself that he would soon be no more. That night he was murdered in cold blood in his own room in my presence. I prayed for a son who will carry after him and the prayer was answered the day you were born, I saw him in you. Some said, he had returned through you and you were named after him. As you were growing, I also saw him in you. My second son that took your mother later died when you were eight. You are the son of my loved son. I saw the resemblance and feel the blood attraction in you more now. Who knows if the gods had made you live after all these losses? The other children of the house were good too, especially the one that took after him. Even after many years, many could not believe he was no more. We searched for him, desperately searched for him, but there were only faint traces, insufficient clues, few and uncertain eye witnesses. Your mother was made a young widow the second time. She was such an enduring and loyal woman.�
He paused and his breath was heaving. I knew he would let out a cry if he had continued. So I bent over him and whispered words to his ear. I felt deep inside me that the man had seen hard times.
�Kome, my son, for a long time I have watched you grow strongly and handsomely. Children of your age hold the topmost secret. I cannot project beyond the dawn, that is why I am telling you all these from the depth of my heart. Despite my age, the future is one of the many concepts l lack. I know the reason. Our tribe had known no peace. I tried hard to forget the past, but the heart is too small to hold my pain. Immediately your mother was taken out some five years ago, a radio telegram came from the barrack home of refugees that the war had been called off. Though we have been here all these years the road is safer now and you shall go as fast as possible to our deserted clans and villages. It�s dark now and we shall have to sleep.� He said no more.
I read all meaning to what he said, but another thing filled my mind and troubled me. A man who killed both of my parents and my mother�s second husband deserved nothing good. Grandfather slept and I walked outside thinking ahead of the next day. I swore in the name of our gods and the little knife that had been in my possession that I must kill Kwame before I died. I wish and prayed the war to end only when Kwame must have died. Unknown to me the war never ended as gun shots and loud noises came from a distant camp.
Out of fear, I ran into the tenth and met grandfather breathing slowly. Though hunger had taken much toll on him, what surprised me were the unpleasant feel and smell of his body. He called me for a whisper, and I walked fast to him and sat close. It was the heart of the night and now even a whisper could be heard afar. His strength started failing him and he was struggling to breath but could not. His spirit departed from him.
I suddenly took fright knowing that I was all alone. It was slowly occurring to me that my grandfather had died. I shook him with all my strength, but he could not show any sign of life in him again. I ran to the darkness and come in again looking intently at him. He lay like one sleeping peacefully. I made a feeble attempt to run away but I could not for I loved him even at death. I squatted on my mat silently waiting for the morning to come.
That night I became a young man and took a big decision. I dug the ground, though not too deep, and buried my grandfather alone. He was among the war victims that had an honourable burial, for others were not buried.
I was the only person around when he was laid to rest to the dust of the earth. The next evening I almost followed him to the grave. I cried and consoled myself that crying my eyes out for him could not help. I was the only one remaining in my lineage. I stayed all day thinking deeply into many things and slept on top of his grave all nights. I mourned grandfather for days and many past memories recurred again and again.
The next morning, I became afraid and could not talk to anyone. I walked down the passing stream located close to our camp. All these years it has been our source of water and for the others. I sat down watching the calm and quietly passing water, the fishes performing and repeating their dives. The only disturbance was the voice of seabirds that were drinking in tiny sips at the edge of the water and the ant cooperating orderly, working together to drag home objects much larger than themselves. I was not busy though but my mind was not at rest.
A bird chirped nearly somewhere and I looked in that direction and saw a very beautiful maiden coming towards me. As she was coming, she must have sensed I was a strayed young trainee from another camp. She kept looking at me and I begged to look at the ground to avoid her eyes for she was beauty parked relatively in a small frame.
�Who are you?� She asked
�I am Kome,� I answered
�What brought you here?�
�Nothing. I lost the last surviving member of my family few days ago and all other ones had been claimed by war,� I answered.
�Where are you from?� she asked again, now more interested.
I was not quick in giving an answer to that question. It would mean either my end or another problem.
�Ewa,� I said in stammer.
�Why are you here then?�
�I am tired of life. I want to die,� I replied. �Our town had seen sad times, though it sounds as though the war ended. But��
�The war is still on. But a straying bullet caught Kwame the headman of the opposing group and some of his men had to flee for fear of being captured. Now he is in hiding and I am here to get him water and fruits.�
When she opened her arms in embrace I was too ashamed to return the gesture. I stood up and, strangely, I felt love in the arms of this girl who had just blossomed out into a beautiful young woman. Heartily we locked in deep embrace and separated. Slowly we slapped our bare feet on the dried sand and walked slowly to the camp.
�Your skin has gone so bad,� she noticed.
�Hunger� I answered.
I looked searchingly into her eyes and our emotions for each other heightened. I began to read it in her heart that she loved me. Her relationship with me tipped into a greater intimacy as we chatted home, to that part of the world where the dwellers survived from day to day, without any apparent purpose or hope for a brighter day.
Nabe as she told me was her name kept me off from Kwame�s eyes and fed me for many days. I did not forget my grandfather or my dreams. At a cheerless hour of the night of that same day, when everyone had surrendered to nature, she came to me and started questioning me again. I was not retentive enough to carry on all that was discussed. She watched me closely and was only sizing me up, trying to determine when it would be safe to break me into her graft. I almost answered all her questions but I was still in fear. My brief dream before her coming in had some colours of which I did not know. Many things kept my mind busy. I was now in the danger zone with the man who was responsible for my parents� deaths.
Soon a voice was heard afar, the voice of a muezzin, repeating his prolonged hypnotic chart for As-sub, the first muslin prayer of the day. The night and innocent leaves around felt at peace and maintained quietness. The tranquil nature of that time of the morning was exceptional. I could not tell why, but it was the first time in my entire life that I had not witnessed such.
�Good morning,� she quickly said and joined the darkness.
�Good morning,� I replied.
I soon saw a fresh morning. My mind was working on many things. I tiptoed to a nearby room where I saw the cruel Kwame groaning in pain and gnashing his teeth fiercely. He was wiggling in pain. I felt sick at my stomach. Nabe was busy squeezing green leaves which she had stripped from a tree limb. She was pouring the juice right into a small bowl. Nabe was most kind. She cleaned and washed his body parts. She was carefully rubbing him as one who got the prescription from a doctor. I was soon back to my little tent which Nabe kept for me.
Kwame�s boys had greatly reduced in number and the few remaining ones had sneaked out to hiding. So the whole camp was scanty. Unlike then when it was hard for predators to approach undetected, now it was an open home. Some of them whose duty was to alert on dangers and report in whistles had equally disappeared. A bad spirit entered into me as I sat watching the ants cooperating orderly working together to drag home objects much larger than them. It was one of the many things I enjoyed watching. I wondered why the object called man could not do the same. It was all caused by Kwame, I reasoned. I started hating him the more and wanted him dead. I stumbled out of the room gnashing my teeth. That morning, I bit the edge of the little knife I was having in my possession as a vow to send Kwame to the world beyond. My plan did not last long as it took Nabe all day to convince me to forget my dream and ambition. I had grown a liking for her and tried my best to make her happy.
The next day I got up from my locally made bed at the very crack of dawn to see Kwame. The local lamp was placed at the centre of the room and it shone everywhere. I had conditioned myself to rise at that hour to work out a plan. I remembered immediately, my eye contact with him, the day he killed my mother. He was not sleeping as he stared at me. I could see some effort in his looking my way staring at me in utter hopelessness and despair. None of us could say anything; only that hatred had been established. I sat close to him and could not say anything.
�If you die now,� I suddenly started talking, �it will not be enough to pay for many dear lives you wasted in the name of war. Many great and rare names were wasted by you. Years shall not restore what has been lost through you. You have made us see hard times. Many have moved toward the bush and leaving many houses behind and could not come back. You should know that no one is indispensable. I shall not continue to see you living. You must go back to tell how you lived your life. You are just paying for your sins. A life of bad record. Good night.�
Kwame did not say or do anything. I was also careful by using few words which were not audible to anyone outside. He was only looking towards my direction and I hated that. I dipped hand into my small bag, brought out my knife and inserted it into his lungs twice. The charms he had crossed all over his body, and others he bodily inserted into his veins, could not allow him to die peacefully, but I ensured he died.
I left the camp to the dark early morning dew and vanished into the early hour�s darkness to my home for a new restoration process.
 

12

Fawura

Asabe Kabir Usman

*

FAWURA, the princess was the most beautiful girl in her village and every man longed to have her for a wife. One day a king came to visit Fawura�s father from another village, Fawura was among the maidens who danced to welcome the king. This king saw Fawura and fell in love with her. Before he left the land he asked Fawura�s hand in marriage. His request was granted but it was agreed that Fawura should not go with the king to his palace when he was leaving; she would follow him after ten days when the wedding ceremony had taken place.
On the tenth day when everything was ready, Fawura was put on the back of a beautifully dressed horse and the journey began. Fawura travelled along with her servants and her best friend Bella. On the way, they met a man on a queer looking donkey selling dried meat. He offered the travellers meat. Fawura wanted the meat but Bela refused since they did not know the source of the meat, and they continued their journey.
After they had gone a little away, Fawura lied to her friends and companions that she wanted to ease herself. They got down from their horses to wait for her. She went back into the bush and ran back to where they had seen the man with the meat. She asked him for a piece but he gave her all to satisfy her greed. She sat down and ate the meat. When she got up to leave she made to thank the man but when she opened her mouth to talk, what came out was a bark like �Whoff! Whoff!�
The man gave a wicked laugh and went his way leaving Fawura surprised and stunned. She then decided to go back to her companions. When she got to them, she found them all worried for she had gone for a long time but despite the questions they asked her she said not a word for fear of giving away her secret. The journey continued.
When they got to the king�s palace everybody welcomed Fawura with joy except the king�s wives. She was shown to her chambers and after the welcome ceremonies everyone left for home. Meanwhile, Fawura refused to say a word. Bela said the bride was sick and could not speak to anyone because she had developed a serious sore throat on the way and as a result was temporarily indisposed. The king was very sad to hear this but because Fawura was beautiful he decided to keep her.
Bela was disturbed but there was nothing she could do. Whenever she tried to speak to Fawura the answer she got was always �whoff, whoff.� Soon the time came for her to leave, and Fawura was alone with her problems. When the king went to see his bride, she refused to say a word to him. The king therefore assumed his wife�s sickness had to do with her tongue which was disallowing her to talk. He therefore told every member of his house hold that his wife was partially dumb but not deaf.
Days, weeks, and months came to pass and nobody ever heard the bride utter a word. One day, Fawura�s favourite pet cockerel went to where one of the king�s wives was drying rice for the evening meal and ate it up. The king�s wife got very angry and hit the cock till it died. Fawura came out and when she saw the dead cock she became furious. In an attempt to challenge the king�s wife she said �whoff, whoff� and this gave her secret away. Immediately everyone started screaming saying: �The king�s new wife is not a human being but a dog.�
News of what happened got to the king�s ear in his palace and he immediately went into the house to see for himself. When members of his household told him what had happened he demanded an explanation from Fawura but he got no answer. The king therefore decided to put his wives to test. He told all his wives including Fawura to get ready for a song/dance competition the next day in front of the whole village. Each of the wives agreed but Fawura said not a word. He then promised that if Fawura or any of his wives barked when singing the next day he would have that person executed. But if nothing happened then those that said Fawura was a dog will die.
Every one of the king�s wives was happy except Fawura. She could neither eat nor sleep because she knew her secret would be let open to the whole world the next day and she will be a dead woman. If only she had known, she would not have tasted the evil meat, but alas it was too late to cry. Late in the night when everyone was sleeping, she heard a knock on her door. When she went to open the door, she saw her pet cockerel alive again and it flew into the room past her and rested on the bed. It then to Fawura�s surprise said: �My mistress, do not despair, your problems will soon be over.
�Take me, pluck me, boil me over the fire and then make a stew with my meat, but make sure you do not eat the bones, do not utter a sound to anyone, until tomorrow at the village square during the song and dance,� and with that the cock fell dead on the bed.
Fawura although dazed and afraid nevertheless took the cock, plucked it and made stew with it as the cock had asked her to do. She did everything the cock asked her to do and waited for events to unfold.
The next day the village square was filled to capacity all eyes and ears open to see what would happen. When the king and his wives had taken their seats, the village square became quiet. The king then told all his wives to file out to where everyone could see and hear them sing any song of their choice, beginning with the first wife.
The first wife came out and sang. After she had finished the king nodded his approval and beckoned her to sit down. The second wife did the same, so did all the other wives. Then it was Fawura�s turn she came out and all eyes were on her for everyone had heard that the king�s new wife was only human physically but in actuality a dog.
Fawura came to stand where all the king�s other wives had stood, cleared her throat and began;

Oh God look at me
My dear king, look at me
My dear queens look at me
Loyal villagers look at me
Do I look or sound like a dog to any of you?

Everyone was surprised not only at hearing the bride talking but the beautiful song she was singing instead of �whoff, whoff� they had expected to hear. Before the king could utter a word the other wives had taken to their heels because they knew the king might be tempted to make good his threat of putting them to death.
Fawura was very happy and lived happily ever after with the king. But from that day she made a vow never to be greedy again.

13

The Mermaid and the Princess

Asabe Kabir Usman

*

THERE once lived a kind, rich and popular king who had a very beautiful daughter. But she was proud. When it was time for the princess to get married, many suitors came from far and near. They included princes, dukes, wealthy men and poor men alike. But the girl refused to marry any of them. She promised to marry only a man with a spotless and clear skin. Every suitor that came did not qualify so the princess refused to marry.
Not far from where the king ruled there was a very big river and in it lived a mermaid. Every day the mermaid came to the river bank to get some fresh air.
One day the mermaid came out to the bank and while resting fell asleep. When she woke up, she heard voices near her. She turned to see who was talking and she saw three princes sitting under a tree near the bank of the river. She listened to their conversation and heard them talking about the disgrace they got from the beautiful princess. The mermaid felt sorry for the princes and decided to teach the princess a lesson. The mermaid went back into the river and borrowed different parts of the human body and clothes from her human friends and turned into a very handsome young man. She dressed up and went to the king�s palace as a suitor. The princess was then called upon to see her new suitor. Immediately she saw the mermaid she fell in love with her. She did not bother to look for any scar on the mermaid�s body but told her father she had at last found a husband. The princess was very happy and asked that the suitor be taken to the guest room before the ceremony took place the next day.
When the princess� grandmother heard about the new suitor she grew uneasy and suspicious. She then decided to test the suitor. She gave the princess fresh milk to put under the suitor�s bed. She said if by morning the milk turned sour the suitor was not human but if the milk remained fresh by the next morning the princess should go ahead and marry her suitor. Early the next morning the princess looked under the bed and saw that the milk had gone sour, but because she was already in love with the mermaid she poured the sour milk away and replaced it with fresh milk. She refused to tell her grandmother what she had done. So when the grandmother saw the milk she was very happy and blessed her granddaughter for making a good choice.
The next day the king called his best drummers and praise singers and there was merry making all through the day. After blessing the newlywed, the king asked the husband to take his bride home. When the king�s friends and servants made to accompany the bride to her new home the husband refused saying he wanted to travel with his bride alone.
They had gone only a little way when the girl heard a voice crying: �Give me back my shoes.� The handsome mermaid pulled off the shoes and threw them back towards the voice. The princess made to ask question but the mermaid shut her up. He moved on without the shoes. A little further a voice cried: �Give me back my legs.� The mermaid removed the legs and threw them towards the voice and in its place replaced her fish tail. Little by little the mermaid gave back all the things she had borrowed to the owners until she had turned fully into her real self: a mermaid. By then they were already by the river. The princess was terrified. She cried and screamed for help but none came. The more she cried the more the mermaid pulled her into the river.
In the river the mermaid had a very beautiful house. The mermaid unlocked the doors of the house and pushed the princess inside. The poor princess had to stay with the mermaid as a slave for a very long time. Every morning the mermaid would leave home for her daily swim and rest at the bank of the river. The princess was left alone to do the house work.
One day, after several years, the princess was going about the house when she heard a sad voice coming from a part of the house. Out of curiosity she went towards the voice and at the far end of the house she saw two old women huddled together by the wall. She spoke to them and found they could speak her language. She asked them what they were doing down there and one of the old women told her that they were brought into the river by the mermaid when they were young and now since they could no longer work due to old age she had left them there to die. The girl felt sorry for the old women and told them her own story. They decided to help one another.
One of the old women asked the princess if she could write. She said she could. The old woman said if the princess could get a bottle and writing materials they could send a message to the king. The princess ran into the mermaid�s room, got some fresh leaves and with a cut on her hand made an ink from her blood. She used this to write a letter to her father on the leaves. This they pushed into an empty bottle.They sealed the opening of the bottle and sent it afloat up the river.
The bottle floated to the top of the river and one day a fisherman who was fishing in his boat happened upon it. He picked it up and found leaves inside. He brought out the leaves and found written on the leaves was a message to the king. In it the girl described to her father the dilemma she was in, the location and direction of the mermaid�s house. The fisherman ran as fast as he could to the palace and gave the king the letter. When the king read it he could not help but cry aloud in pity. Without wasting time he decided to send a rescue team. He sent his town crier to ask everybody in the kingdom to assemble in front of the palace. Within a short time, everyone stood in front of the king�s palace. After welcoming everyone the king requested for the best tailor in the whole land. A man came out of the crowd and claimed to be the best tailor for he could sew the earth together if there was an earth quake. The king told him to stand aside. The king again requested for the best sightseer. A man came out and claimed to be the best sightseer in the land and he said he could sight a pin ten miles away. The king asked him to stand aside with the tailor. The king then asked for the best sailor. A man came out and claimed to be the best sailor. He requested for the best spear thrower and also the most notorious thief in the land. He also got the two. Then he had asked these five people to step aside and thanked his people for coming when he needed them. He then dismissed them but asked the five people he had requested for to remain. When everyone had left he took these five people into his palace. He told them the plight his daughter was in and asked for their assistance in rescuing her. He promised each of them a part of his kingdom if they succeeded. A day was then set aside for the rescue.
At last the day came and a strong boat was given to them for the rescue operation. The sailor took oars and they set off. The sightseer gave the direction. They travelled far and long before the sightseer sighted the mermaid�s house. He directed the sailor towards the house. The thief proved he was talented by breaking open the iron gates of the mermaid�s house. The thief entered and brought the princess out of the house, she pointed to where the old women were and he also rescued them. He led them up onto the boat. The sailor took the oars and they set off in full speed. They had only gone a little way when the sightseer sighted the mermaid coming angrily towards them. He told the expert in throwing to get ready his poisoned spear but before he could take his position the mermaid was already upon them. She used her tail to hit the boat and it divided into two. The tailor immediately got out his sewing tools and sewed the boat together and it looked as if nothing had ever happened to the boat and they continued their journey.
The faster they sailed the faster the mermaid came after them. When it looked as if she was going to overturn the boat, the thrower got ready his spear, aimed at the mermaid and got her on the neck. She made a turn and dived deep into the water, came up again, dived back in and never came up. Their luck was unbelievable. They all cheered and sailed safely to the shore. When they disembarked, the whole town was there to welcome them. The king was overwhelmed when he saw his daughter alive again. He gave her a hug and there in front of everyone she asked her father for forgiveness and promised never to be proud again.

14

Glory Past
For Chief Olowolaiyemo Ikibakugbo
 
Steve Bode Omowumi Ekundayo
 
*

 
His character was a giant glass
Clean, smooth and radiant as a hailstone
Which some heavenly hands designed and placed on high
To reflect inimitable goodliness
But at old age, this glass fell into shits and urine!

THE most offensive odour I had ever perceived in my life assaulted my nostrils on that day. It was more acrid and horrible than the rotten smell of a public latrine. Nothing I could write or say can effectively make you perceive the odour in the same way that I inhaled its concrete existence on that day of destiny.
It was on a day in June 2000. I had returned to Afekumah, my village, after twenty long years of sojourn in alien countries. I left home in 1981 when I was twenty three. Then I had just left the university in flying colours. I graduated with a First Class in Economics and was consequently offered a scholarship for Master�s degree and Ph.D. at Cambridge University. I was among twenty gifted scholars from various fields of knowledge offered scholarship to study abroad. In the United Kingdom I had resounding success with my Master�s programme and immediately started my Ph.D. in Developmental Economics and the Economics of Politics. I bagged my Ph.D. in 1984 at twenty seven years. Consequently, Cambridge retained me in her Department of International Economics and Politics.
After lecturing in Cambridge for ten years, I became a professor of International Economics and Politics at thirty eight. In 1999, I met a highly placed diplomat that linked me up with our President and I was consequently offered the position of special adviser on economics, politics and governmental relations. The President regretted not meeting me earlier. He would have made me the finance minister. I accepted the offer and so had to return to my country in the year 2000.
I was happy that I was home again at Afekumah after twenty years in the United Kingdom. Among other things, I had gone home to satisfy that nostalgia for my roots, a deep feeling that I had had to nurse for many years in Europe. Secondly, I wanted to reunite with my people for I had lost touch with the realities and changes in my homeland in the past twenty years. Thirdly, as a special adviser and a top shot in the incumbent government, I needed to go back home to establish a base to familiarise myself with the problems, progress and prospects of my people. Specifically, I wanted to reunite with Owolayemo, my adopted father, and the get a piece of land where I could build a home in my homeland. I intended all this in one or two months. Money was available to achieve this within the time I wanted it. I had more than enough to build five houses in one month.
When I returned home, I became a stranger in my homeland. That is what happens to a man who leaves his people for a long time. Those who knew me, my age mates, were no more in the village. I learnt that some of them had died and the rest were eking out or enjoying a living in different cities. The old generation who knew me in my youth had grown older and absolutely forgotten my face with the passage of time. However, I still recognized them. I had a task here and there taking them back memory lane, twenty years and more ago. I had to remind them of their own son that was my age mate whom I used to play with, or my late parents who were of their age. Once their buried memory about me was thus exhumed, they were able to recall twenty and more years ago. Then they screamed excitedly, embracing and welcoming me back home. As for the young generation, those in the age bracket of three to thirty years, hardly anyone knew me, and I could not recognize any of them. These were the young people who were either born in my absence or were below ten years when I left the village in 1980. But somehow, most of them have heard of my intellectual achievements and fame. I was their role model in absentia. They all had heard of a certain Professor Mizibae Onorion, their kinsman in far away London, who was making waves in Cambridge and in world economics and politics.
As they gathered around me, asking me both relevant and irrelevant questions about my sojourn in the United Kingdom and about the sophisticated Oyinbo ways of life, what moved my spirit was the pitiable panorama of penury and degeneration that had descended on the entire village. Everywhere I turned, raw poverty stared at me from people�s faces and the surroundings. The villagers that I left behind twenty and more years ago were now looking haggard, shrivelled, emaciated and frustrated. Those who were bubbling with vigour before my departure had rapidly grown older than their real ages. Even some of my illiterate age mates now looked like they were in their late fifties and sixties. Their eyes had withdrawn deeply into their sockets, like wells without water, like snails in a prolonged fast in dry season. Their cheeks were sunken like sucked orange chaff, as if they had no teeth anymore.
The surroundings were even more ravaged. Most of the houses were dilapidated; mud houses built a long time ago before I came to life. They now had uncountable cracks on all sides and the ageless asbestos roofs were torn, tattered, rusted and dark brown. My eyes captured a sea of houses with thick brown asbestos in shreds. The primary school I attended had collapsed and was now partly in the bush. Only one or two buildings passed for school. In the sixties and seventies, we used to have five long buildings of three or four classroom each, apart from the spacious Catholic church with a resident parish Reverend Father.
The one primary and one secondary school in the village fared no better. The buildings were in abeyance. There were no students in sight even though it was Tuesday morning when students in uniform should be in school. In those days when we were pupils and students, the school effervesced with life. Afekumah Secondary Commercial School, for instance, used to be one of the best in the area. In 1975 when I left the school as the best student, our overall result was the second best in the entire Bendel. The population was over a thousand students. Students used to come from the neighbouring states and local government areas to attend Afekumah Secondary Commercial School popularly called ASECS at that time. There were students from Okene, Obehira, Aduge in Kogi, then Kwara; Auchi, Afuze, Otuo, Ora in Bendel, and Isua, Ikare, Ifira in Ondo. We socialized and mingled as a body of learners bonded by youth, intellection, vision and hopes. But alas! ASECS had died. It was the opposite of its former self that now stood before me. Only its skeleton now stood looking at me. All her glory, fame and newness were now history! All her children from different mothers had gone and forgotten her! The school compound was just like an abandoned cemetery in which the young and bubbling had been buried. I shook my head sadly, tears surging into my ears. Ah! Ah! What has gone wrong? I asked myself.
Yes, something had gone wrong. Something had left Afekumah. Her glory was gone. Her active mornings when students hurried to ASECS and pupils rushed to Afekumah Primary in groups were no more. Afekumah�s animated days were dead; noisy and excited days when farmers walked happily at dawn to their �offices� in the bush, or returned at dusk, clutching to their cutlasses, hoes and dane guns. Her cool twilight and glorious moonshine when children assembled under a greyed storyteller was gone forever. Her beautiful dashing maidens, princes, princesses and queens of beauty had disappeared. Her valiant, young men were nowhere to be found. The seductive and irresistible hands of urban life had stretched elastically to reach and sweep all of them away to the cities en masse. Ah! Ah! How could a village have degenerated like this? Nothing new, nothing to make a song and dance about existed now. Even the road to Afekumah, which used to be tarred and smooth had narrowed and degenerated to a farm path full of gullies and puddles. It was hell driving through the nine kilometres from Ilobi to Afekumah. Even when I had used a jeep, it still got stuck in one of the many gullies on the road.
Examining Afekumah, I was benumbed, tears filling my eyes. This was an abandoned village; a village abandoned by her sons and daughters, abandoned by government, left to the mercies of the elements of providence. I remembered Wordsworth�s nostalgia in his intimations of immorality:
 
The rainbows comes and goes
And lovely is the rose
The moon doth with delight
Look around her when the heavens are bare
Water on a starring night
Are beautiful and fair
The sunshine is a glorious birth
But yet I know, wherever I go
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth!
 
Indeed, there hath passed away a glory from Afekumah! If my time and childhood was positive glory and generation, then this time was an absolute degeneration. I shook my head slowly and pitifully over the piteous picture of gory squalor and degeneration spread before my eyes and then walked down to my maternal uncle�s house.
Chief Owolaiye Ikibakugbo, alias Owolaye Ikiba, was my maternal uncle who took care of me from infancy through my graduation from university. When I lost my father, life became difficult for my mother. Consequently, she moved out of my father�s house to live with Owolaye her elder brother. As her last born for my father, I went with her to live with the extended Owolaye�s family. Owolaye had three wives and many children. His three wives were my mom�s age mates and friends so we lived together as one family. Although the wives had misunderstandings occasionally, they lived at peace with my mother. Owolaye himself treated me like his son. There was no discrimination in him. Whatever he gave to his children, he also gave to me and he treated my mother very specially. He would never allow any of his wives to treat my mother with disdain. He was particularly fond of me because I was the most intelligent and hard-working of all the children under him. At any rate, that was what he used to say about me then.
Somehow I lost my mother when I was eight years. My mom was splitting firewood when she mistakenly cut her in-step with the axe she was using to split the wood. I still can recollect with the eyes of a child how she bled profusely. Later she tied the injury with a piece of dirty rag that she tore from a larger one. After some days, the leg got swollen and gave her headaches, cold and fever. The following week, she died! I just came from school one afternoon to meet that my mom had left this world, my mom who gave me garri and akara in the morning before I left for school was dead. I still can remember how she was wrapped in white and black shroud and lowered to the grave in Owolaye�s compound. I was called to take sand and put on her remains. I did so. Everybody, even Owolaye, cried and wailed. But I was too young to comprehend the enormity of the tragedy that had befallen me.
I did not see my mother again. I never had her maternal attention anymore. I felt terrible, hollow, dry and alienated months and years after her untimely departure. But for Owolaye, I might not tell what could have happened to me. I remained with Owolaye from age eight, when I lost my mother, until I left for the university. Owolaye ensured that I had a successful university education. My inevitable departure and sojourn in the UK, in London precisely, cut me off from him. While I was in London for many years, I could neither see nor speak with him. But I was always writing and sending things home. Whether those money and things I used to send ever got to him was a different story entirely. Now that I was home, nothing would stop me from meeting with Owolaiye, my dear uncle and adopted father.
The first eyesore that assaulted my sight was the shabby and dilapidated look of his compound. The house had collapsed and the surroundings had grown wild with grasses. Only one side of the house still stood with a roof that had fallen and tilted to the side with fallen walls. It did not seem that someone could be living here. So, I turned and face the next house where young men and women were playing in groups. I had earlier greeted them and walked past. So, I returned to them to ask for Owolaiye.
�Where does Owolaiye now live? I see that his house has collapsed,� I asked one of the women.
�Owolaiye? Owolaye is still there,� she pointed to the dilapidated house.
�There?� I pointed to the house too. I was surprised that someone could afford to be living in that ramshackle and life-threatening building.
�Yes, he is still there. That�s where he lives, this other side that has not fallen down,� the women maintained. I went back to the house shouting and asking if someone was in, but nobody answered me. Rather, it was a foul, unbelievably disgusting smell that assailed my nostrils. At first, I thought an animal had died in the collapsing building, but as I walked in and in, another thought replaced my earlier thought. I was now thinking that Owolaiye himself had died and was now decomposing. I made a U-turn and went back to the same women to complain.
�I don�t think anybody is there.�
�He�s there. Maybe he is sleeping,� one of the women confidently maintained.
�All right, come and show me where he could be in this house,� I begged the woman and she left the white cocoyam she was cooking and accompanied me reluctantly to Owolaiye�s dilapidated compound. As we went in, I thought she would complain of the foul odour oozing from the house, but she did not, even when I was pressing my nostrils together with my left index and thumb.
�Can�t you perceive this smell? It�s like something has died here?�
�Nothing has died here. It is his shit and urine that are stinking like this,� the woman said without a qualm. I looked at her and she smiled.
�Yes, he shits and urinates where he sleeps.�
�Why?� I asked.
�Don�t you know he is blind?�
�So what? What about his children?� I asked.
�Are you not one of them? You all should ask yourselves that question,� the woman gave it to me sarcastically. I ignored it and engaged her in a chat only to learn that this young mother in her mid twenties was my cousin, my aunt�s child. She was about five when I left home in 1980. Looking back to twenty-five years ago, I remembered that my aunt in question did have a young girl called Amina.
�Wait a minute! Are you Amina the daughter of Ayime?�
�Yes, I am Amina, the daughter of Ayime,� she answered. I smiled at the realization.
�Have you heard of Mizibae Onorion, one of your late mother�s sister�s sons abroad?�
�Yes, but I don�t know him.�
�This is me, I am the one.�
�Yeee! People of Afekumah, save me!� She screamed and jumped on me, kissing and embracing me. Then suddenly, she left me and dashed out, shouting and fleeing with the good news of my return to Afekumah.
Fortunately, her screams just now had woken up Chief Owolaiye from inside a dark room. I could hear a tiny shaky voice asking questions.
�Who is there? I say who is shouting there?� It was Owolaye�s voice. I endured the suffocating smell and answered him.
�It�s me your son,� I replied.
�Which of my sons? Do I still have a son who cares about me?� he returned, and then I heard some movement in his dark room. He was trying to grope his way out of his sad confinement.
�Who did you say you are? Is it Obini or Azaji? Is it Orime or Matarazi?� He started naming his biological sons.
�No, it is me your son -Mizibae!�
�What? Mizibae? The one in the white man�s land? Are you back?� He hurried out slowly, groping and waving his hands in the air as he came out of the room. I reached out to help him, dragging him out painstakingly. Once he was out and on his feet, he collapsed on my body in a passionate embrace. I responded by pressing him to my breast. He was old, pale and groggy, like a victim of a wasting disease. He burst into tears, weeping and complaining in the tone of a frustrated elder that could move any listener to tears.
�This is me o! This is me and the end of my days � Mizibae, my son! Look at me! I Owolaiye, husband of women, father of children! I the talk of this village! I the sweet wishes in the heart of young women! I that doled out packages of kindness and relief� I have tripped and fallen down a soft fruit that no one is ready to pick. I can only decay into the earth! I no longer have help when I need it most. I have become an abandoned rag. Children and wives have all gone, leaving me here to rot. I urinate and shit where I sleep because I can�t find my way out of this house� I don�t have anyone to give me food. I don�t know how and when night comes and goes or when day breaks. Only the cocks crowing give me an idea of when it is nearing day break.
�But what have I done that all of you have abandoned me so, eeen? What did I do? Oh! Blindness! I�ve been crying and praying for death. I can�t understand why even death has refused to come and take me away from this suffering. This mess and vomit called life! If everything and everybody in life abandons me, should even death that settled all also abandon me? Is death not better than this? Tell me my son, Mizibae, is death not better than this condition? Oh I�ve suffered�� He went on and on, aggravating my guilt, remorse, anger and disappointment. I felt guilty that I was part of those who pursued their interests to far-away lands and abandoned him. I was angry and disappointed at his children and all those he was kind to in his hey days, who had for one earthly chase or the other forgotten this kind-hearted man.
I led him out of the shabby room to outside the house. My God! What is this? Is this Owolaye? I wondered. If I cried that Afekumah had degenerated, then I should be weeping for my uncle. He was the epitome of the abject physical degeneration that had eclipsed the community. Owolaiye looked like a mad man. His hair had turned into a greasy mass of short dreadlock infested with lice. His finger nails were now claws, like a wild bird of the virgin forest. He was pale like a cadaver that had over stayed and he stank worse than a he-goat and pit-toilet. Between his fingers and toes were hordes of lice and bugs. I burst into tears at the gory sight.
Now my mind went back to the sixties, seventies and eighties when this man was a real a man who was reigning in his prime. He had a milling industry where his children and I used to help villagers to grind cassava, shell or crack palm kernels, package cocoa, coffee, kola nuts and other cash crops, for he was a rich merchant. He was the first to buy a Peugeot Pick-up van in Afekumah, the first to buy motor cycle and the first to marry two wives in a big ceremony in one day, all in the 1950s and 60s. Then both the young and old used to flock around him. His generosity had no limits. He gave his beneficiaries profusely like the rains. He was easy-going, peace-loving and unassuming in spite of his wealth. Many of us living with him then were not his biological children. Yet he treated us as if we came directly from his manhood. We entered his barns and granary without restraints and had our fill with foods. He paid our school fees without complaining and attended to us individually. Owolaye was like a god to me. His character was like a giant glass that some godly hands had hung far and above us: clean, smooth and transparent, reflecting inimitable godliness. That this kind of character could end up in this way beat my sense of justice. Why and where had all his beneficiaries gone? Those children, those women and men who used to come cups and caps in hand to drink from his fountain of magnanimity, where had they all gone?
In fury, I started cleaning his room. It was like cleaning the Aegean stable. But I had to do it. I opened out the windows so I could see the room. The windows of wood cricked open reluctantly because they were stiff, having been locked for a long time, and termites and ants were eating them up. The room was a dingy and nauseating sight. There were old, maggot-infested heaps of shits everywhere. Urine had formed different lines, maps and patches on the floor and flies were boozing around the room in legions. I started evacuating them, a disgusting task to undertake. I was sweating it out this way when Amina, my cousin, returned with my aunt, her mother, to meet me packing out the chunks and lumps of shits in Owolaye�s room.
They were shocked and embarrassed to meet me in this smelly labour.
�Ah! My son! My son! My son!� Mama Amina embraced me. �Ah! You shouldn�t be the one doing this.� My aunt ran out to mobilize some two teenagers to lend a hand. They tried to stop me from doing it, but I refused because there was a joy I was deriving from doing it. Together, we started cleaning the room with buckets of water and detergent. I personally took out the tattered mattress on the floor. Everywhere in the torn mattress were hordes of bed-bugs running and hiding. I sent for a gallon of kerosene, which I emptied on this mattress and rags to set them ablaze in front of his compound. A big born-fire it was!
�But why didn�t you all do this for him since?� I challenged my aunt and the teenagers who were my aunt�s children.
�My brother, forgive us. We were doing it before everybody got tired. There came a point when everyone started asking one question: What of his children? See me here; I�m the one that feeds him because anytime he gropes out, crying that he is hungry, I�m the one that answers him. You can ask him. That�s why he is alive. Otherwise you wouldn�t have met him alive,� Amina, my cousin, revealed.
�It�s true. It�s Amina that gives me food and, um, who again? �Arishe, who comes here once in a while,� Owolaiye himself confirmed it.
�Ah! It�s not fair at all. Not this man should be suffering like this,� I observed. One by one, the villagers started coming to see me, the one they had heard much about but had not seen physically. When they met me cleaning Owolaiye�s room, which everyone knew smelled unbearably, they were humbled. News of my deed spread round Afekumah fast. That someone like me who had just returned from the white man�s land was doing this was a pleasant shock for them. There was this belief among villagers that one who had gone to the white man�s land was extraordinary for that reason.
After the cleaning which took more than two hours, I was all a noxious smell. Where was I going to have a thorough bath in this backward village of mine? I was still thinking about this when an old friend of mine appeared. His name was Evela, my primary and secondary school mate. Evela was still in the village, now a headmaster in the relics of Roman Catholic Primary School, the same school that we all attended a long time ago.
�Who is this that I see?� Evela stopped walking and asked.
�And who is this coming towards me?� I asked, looking at Evela. Suddenly we collided in a warm embrace, releasing each other and embracing again and again and again.
�Mizibae!�
�Evela!�
�Mizibae!�
�Evela!�
We kept mentioning each other�s name and then embracing for the umpteenth time.
�Wonderful! Are you the one doing this for our father Owolaiye?� Evela wondered.
�My brother! All of you in this village have been unkind to this man,� I observed.
�Well, well, you see... It�s not like that. When those who have something abandon that thing, even others won�t care about it, or if the abandoned thing is good, others would pick it. His people, his children abandoned him,� Evela reasoned.
�My friend, where can I have a good bath? I�m stinking badly,� I changed the topic.
�You can come to my house. I�ve built my own house� if only Londoners like you will make do with my kind of house.�
�Have you forgotten that I lived the formative part of my life in this village, from birth till I was twenty or so? In fact, the village is still in me and will remain in me till I enter the grave.�
�Ok then. Let�s go to my house and see.�
�I would have preferred us going to the stream, as we used to do in our school days. Is River Ochaara still there? I asked.
�Oh! Very well! Ochaara is still there.�
�In that case, we should go to Ochaara.� I said and we started heading for Ochaara River. First, we went to Evela�s house to pick toiletries and from there we trudged to Ochaara, Evela narrating to me the stories of all the funny and strange events of the past twenty years; who had died, why and how they died and who was still alive, who did this and who did not do that.
The Ochaara River, wide like an express road, flowed like a giant boa in the boundary forest of Afekumah. Its source was in one of the mountains in Kogi State, but its major body of water snaked through Afekumah forest and connected River Osse down-down the south-western part of Afekumah at the border between Ondo and Edo State. This was the river in which I bathed almost daily in the first eighteen years of my life. There was this belief that its natural coolness had a healing effect. It could cure fever, headache and skin infections. The instigating nostalgia to bathe in Ochaaraa once again pushed me to pull off my clothes and dive into it, swimming up and down in her watery bowel flowing quietly down the forest. Bathing in Ochaara once again evoked the memories of a beautiful generation, a generation lost, gone forever: more than twenty years ago. At least, Ochaara was still what it used to be, it had not suffered unimaginable degeneration as Afekumah had generally undergone. Nature remains where mankind and society decay. We returned home after the fulfilling swim and bath in lovely ageless Ochaara.
Later in the evening, at twilight, I went to the only supermarket and sales outlet in the village. An Ibo from the Eastern part of the country operated the supermarket and store. I bought insecticide, deodorant, carpet and a new Vitafoam mattress of nine inches. I returned with these to equip Owolaye�s room. Although we had cleansed and disinfected the room, traces of the nasty odour still hung in the air. For the first time in many years, Owolaye slept soundly like a baby on his infant bed. I was by his side till dawn.
People came in scores to greet me the next morning. They were surprised that I could sleep on those shabby surroundings with the blind old man. They praised and prayed all kinds of good prayers for me. That morning, a new idea occurred to me and I started pursuing it immediately. I could pull down this dilapidated mud house and put up a new house of the same pattern in no time. The idea so seized me like a spirit that I jumped up and headed for the local government headquarters, which was twenty kilometres from Afekumah. At Enuto, the headquarters, I consulted some block-moulding industries, architects and professional builders. The terms were articulated and agreed on. I took them to the bank and got money for them -the block industry and professional builders. On the following day, they brought a caterpillar to Afekumah to bulldoze Owolaye�s compound. A building project started instantly. Some young men and women were available to render cheap manual labour.
The next thing I did was move Owolaye to Abuja in the mean time, where he resided in government official quarters with me. I was visiting home regularly every weekend and giving the building contractors money to execute the building project. One of my elder sisters had a son who was on holiday at home. He was a final year Civil Engineering student of the University of Benin. I made him a supervisor of the project, to ensure that the job was done to specification.
After four weeks of concerted efforts, a new house stood there to the wonderment of the villagers. Everything was there: electric fittings, conduit wiring and modern toilets in each of the six rooms; curtains, furniture and above all a borehole, the first borehole in Afekumah. The new building of the same pattern with the one pulled down was painted in Owolaye�s favourite colours of red and green. The walls were painted green and the roof and ceiling red, such that at the end of the well-blended painting, the new house stood like a blossoming plant of green leaves and red flowers. Afekumah admired the new house in awe. Until now, they did not know that one could build a house in a month and move into it.
�Baba, this is your new house,� I told Owolaye.
�Please, take my hands, take me round the house. Let me feel the walls and smell the paint myself,� Owolaye requested. I led him round the house, showing him the delicate patterning and structure.
�My God! You�re great! I can perceive the odour of freshness everywhere. Oh! God! Open my eyes for even a second to see this glory before me and then you can melt me into eternity, oh my God!� He prayed and I wished God could really answer his plea. I took him in to show him his new room and sitting room. Things had been arranged in such a way that he could move round with little or no assistance, without obstacles. His bed was a giant 18-inches original Moukafoam on a floor well-laid with glossy tiles. There were four ropes or string leading from different directions to his bed so that when he stood up, he could hold the strings and trace them carefully to the toilet and bathroom or any part of the house. I taught him how to conduct himself round the room and the entire house using the strings. Since the pattern was still as of old, Owolaiye was able to master it easily. Furthermore, I brought two house helps, a young man and a girl from Abuja, to attend to him. I placed them on good pay in addition to free food they would enjoy. All these I did shortly before Christmas.
Satisfied that I had done my best, I believed that I could return to Abuja with a discharged and acquitted conscience. But If I thought that I had done well, some others were thinking otherwise. I was shocked when some of Owolaye�s biological children gathered and came to accuse me of being a usurper! They claimed that I had no right whatever to build a house in their father�s land, pulling down their father�s old building and putting up another one there without informing them. They argued that by my action, I was claiming to be the first biological son of Owolaye, that if I wanted to build a house, I should have done so on my own paternal land. I was shocked and weakened, but God gave me the wisdom to handle them.
Smiling, I said to them: �Well, I know who my father is. I also now know that I�m not one of you. The truth is that I didn�t build that house in my name, no, it was built in your father�s name, and I have no intention whatever to live in that house. The house is yours, for all of you. In fact, you can have all the documents now.� I opened my small hand bag. All the documents of the house from the purchase of the smallest nail to the biggest material were there. I pulled the bundle out as well as the building plan and stretched them to Owolaye�s first son. They were looking at me in bemusement, hesitating to collect the documents from me. I squeezed them into his hand and walked out on them to meet Owolaye in the room. I did not raise the matter with him because I knew he would react badly if I told him.
�Baba, I�m returning to Abuja today,� I said.
�All right, kneel down before me and I�ll pray for you.� I knelt down obediently.
�My God in the sky, gods of Afekumah, our ancestors, three things I pray for this great son of yours. I wish him long life, I wish him victory over his enemies and I wish him sound health and peace.�
�Amen.�
�Go, go my son! You will see as you reach Abuja, the first news you will receive will be the news of your promotion to a higher chair in government,� Owolaiye said like a prophet. I left Afekumah a happy man. As I stepped into my car, villagers fetching water free from the only borehole in the village prayed for me, waving me their hands of sincere farewell.
That same week in Abuja, President Victor Adebanjo did a cabinet reshuffle and moved me from special adviser to be minister of external affairs. It was a big shock to me because I did not expect it. During the screening of ministerial candidates at the national assembly, the senators asked me to take a bow and leave because they had nothing against me. Two weeks later, after the national assembly had completed the screening of the candidates and sent their list to the president, we were sworn in as ministers of the republic. It took me two weeks to settle down in my new ministry.
In the third week of my assuming office as minister, I left Abuja for Afekumah to rejoice with my people, having added another feather to my cap. I was the first son of Afekumah village and in the whole district of thirty towns and villages to be made a minister. Before me, none from Afekumah had been made commissioner, let alone minister. Thus I returned home full of joy for Afekumah and Owolaiye whose prediction and prayers for me had manifested immediately. When I arrived at Afekumah, a huge crowd had gathered at the new house that I built for Owolaiye. At first, I thought they were people drawing borehole water as usual. But as I drove my jeep closer to them, I discovered that it was an assembly of sorrow.
�Owolaiye died this morning,� Amina informed me as I stepped down from my jeep.
�What?�
My bunch of keys fell from my hands and Amina bent to pick it for me. I was frozen with shock. I could not believe my ears. Here was someone that I called three days ago to say that I would come home to celebrate him. I stood there thinking and wondering. I was devastated.
Later, many of Owolaiye�s children who had abandoned him started coming home for his burial. It was in this new house that they all put up when they came one by one. Some of them started shedding crocodile tears and some did not even cry at all. A general meeting was held on how Owolaye should be buried. The first son who was himself now ageing at over sixty, the one who led that accusation team against me, and the others drew up an elaborate burial scheme of seven cows, seven rams, seven dogs and so on. They suggested that Sunny Ade be brought to play in the wake that would be organized for their father. When the cost was put together it was over three million naira. To bring down Ade, a leading musician, to perform in Afekumah would cost one million naira. At any rate, the Juju music maestro would not collect anything less. But when it came to how much everyone had to contribute, the gathering went dumb and cold. Apparently, they were counting on me to bankroll the grandiose burial plan.
�Excuse me!� I stood up and started quietly out of the meeting. Someone was passing a comment that touched me as I walked away. It was Amina, my cousin, who was talking to some of her friends.
�You see how life is? All his idiot children are now coming out one by one to claim his remains. They have no shame to occupy this house my uncle built for them. They will now use the death of their father to make money. The cows and oxen he didn�t have to eat when he was alive and hungry they will now slaughter to bury him. God forbid!� Amina snapped her fingers over her head.
�When he was sleeping in shit and urine, we didn�t see any of them. Look at that long-necked daughter of his with cattle-egret legs! She lives in the local government headquarters not far away, but she would never come to see her father. What a witch!� another woman called Mama Iyabo remarked as one of Owolaye�s daughter walked past them.
�This life isn�t reliable at all. When the man was crying for death every day, death ran away from him. But when relief has come to him, death now comes to take him,� Amina observed again.
�Well, well, well, come to think of it, Amina, isn�t it better that he didn�t die in shit and urine? He died a happy and clean man as he used to be in his days of glory,� Mama Iyabo reasoned.
I heard all the comments but pretended as if I didn�t hear them. I went to those who were digging his grave at the spot Owolaye himself indicated he must be buried and dropped some money for the grave diggers. Next, I went to the elders to find out the basic rituals that I being his adopted child should perform to bury him.
�My son, you�ve done marvelling well,� an elder praised me. �Really, you don�t have much to do anymore because he isn�t your biological father. All you need to do now is to drop money for the shroud and animal, a he-goat, that will be used to bury him� and if you care, you can give the elders something.� I asked my aunt the cost of a he-goat and he told me two thousand five hundred naira and the cloth is one thousand five hundred naira. I paid immediately and even added five thousand naira for the gathering of elders to buy palm wine.
Owolaye was laid to rest before twilight in the grave at the spot he wanted his remains buried. I stole out the next morning and we drove back to Abuja with a convoy of three cars, my jeep in the middle. Throughout the journey, the thought of the kind life Owolaye lived preoccupied me. He was a good example of how people should live this life. He was kind, easy-going and caring. He helped those who needed assistance and gave lavishly and cheerfully to all those who came his way. Owolaye seemed to have lived out the true meaning of his full name, Owolayemo, which meant money is life, or when you are rich, people know you and flock round you. �Indeed!� I said to myself.
But alas! The same people and even his biological children he had lived his youth for abandoned him at his old age. Why? This selfish and merciless practice is common with the new generation everywhere in the country. Children grow up, get married and forget their parents who suffered to bring them up. They forget them to rot in the villages far removed from the sleek urban life. They forget their parents in a country where government does not cater for the aged. Everywhere in the village, you see old, haggard and senile mothers, fathers and relations. They are hungry, angry and lonely. They sleep and live alone in deserted houses with no one to attend to them or give them company. Yet their children are in the cities attending to their wives, children, girlfriends and wasting time and money on frivolities. It is a huge plague on this generation.
A year later, Owolayemo�s children came to see me in Abuja. They were planning the second burial of their father. Second burial in my culture is a ceremony and rituals of respect and remembrance organized by children and relations for their dead father or mother. They had drawn up a budget of five million naira which they wanted me to bank-roll. On that day, I had the auspicious opportunity to lambaste them.
�When Baba was in shit and urine, where were all of you?� I asked them. They bent down their heads low. �Now you want seven cows, you want to invite Shina Peters and Sir Victor Uwaifo, Sunny Ade or even Michael Jackson to play for your dead father? And you think I�ll sponsor this idiocy? All of you should leave my house now. If you want to bury your father and invite the whole world, you can go ahead. But count me out of it, or didn�t you say that I�m not his son?� They stood up one after the other and left me in shame.

15

His Leaving

Bonface Nyolde

*

HE dug with his bare back glistening in sweat in the hot African afternoon sun, throwing mounds of deep red soil out of the pit in slow labored swings. It was hot, stifling hot. The soil landed on the boy�s feet covering them with each throw up his thin legs. The boy enjoyed it. The man paused for a breath and straightened his aching back, every bone embossed sharply against his dark skin. His breathing was laboured, and he coughed through cracked reddened dry lips. He swung the hoe just high his chest and dug into the hard ground again and threw the soil out onto the boy�s feet. There was a metallic sound as the soil landed.
�What was that Papa?� the boy asked.
�I don�t know,� the man replied.
The boy sifted through the fresh soil and retrieved two copper coins with holes in their middle. �Look! It�s money, Papa,� he exclaimed in delight as he wiped them off. The man peered at them closely.
�They are the queen�s coins, from colonial days,� he said.
�Can they still buy something, medicine for you?� the boy asked.
�Not any more. But you can keep them, may be just for luck.�
�For luck? Will they bring me good luck from the queen?�
�May be,� quipped the man.
�The queen, they say she is so powerful that men kneel before her, is it true?� the boy continued.
�Oh yes. She�s their leader, the white people,� the man told him.
�I once saw white people; they came to our school and gave us books. They are pale like ash, with sharp noses!� the boy laughed at his own remark.
�Come and help me dig, we have to finish this before the sun sets,� he handed the boy the hoe and struggled out of the shallow pit. �You may find more of those queen�s coins you know.�
The boy dug furiously as his father stretched his frail body on the ground. It was April, the month they hoped for the rains in this village up the hill. In the evenings the wind blew and it�s been growing cold and colder by night. Soon it would rain, watering the seeds they�d planted and bringing forth new crop to life.
Frustrated at not finding any more coins, the boy resigned from digging for a rest.
�Papa, is it true there are treasures buried beneath the ground?�
�May be, in some places there are gold and diamonds and oil. But not here.�
A little downcast, the boy thought and asked. �Papa, why are we digging another pit latrine?�
�So you can have your own, don�t you want that?� the man answered him.
The boy thought another moment, his wide eyes seemingly lost in some grief. �Is it because you have Mama�s disease?�
The man sat up and looked at his little boy. He least expected this from him and he felt a mixture of anger and pity upon him. He scanned around the farm as if in search of an answer, wondering what to tell him. From his view up the hill he could see the vast rugged expanse of the country below, serene from the distance and disappearing into the blue horizon. The boy had been asking questions endlessly. He was all he had and this disease was wasting him away.
�Come, sit here with me,� he beckoned at him. �We have to build you your own latrine. I am getting worse and you must not get the illness.� He clutched at his son who now wore a sad look.
�Are you going to die, Papa?�
He thought of his fate wondering how to tell it to the boy. A wind blew shaking leaves around in a tormented dance as he stared blankly at the ground for a while then into the boy�s face. He had to prepare him, he knew that time had come. �Yes, I will die, to be with your mother. But not yet.�
�But what about me, what will I do?� the boy cried.
He hated this moment. He was tired, exhausted from the thinking and the fear that dogged him every day within his mind. The boy was his worry, his legacy to leave when his time came. He felt consumed by anger at his hopelessness.
�Oh my son, don�t cry. Your uncle will take care of you.�
He sobbed along with him, thinking how difficult the burden was for the boy. His uncle had not responded to the numerous messages he had sent him, and now as the disease ate him away he knew there was little time left. They were isolated. Isolation, always isolation, was his abiding concern. At the village school none of the children would sit nor play with the boy and no one came around their home any more. The village called the disease Akot, the disease of the adulterers, and it was whispered everywhere they went, even by little children.
And there, beside the heap of the red soil he rocked his son in their tears, both coming to terms with the impending doom.
The sun was setting by the time they thatched the roof to the new latrine, having already built a mad wall around the pit. It was small enough for the boy, with an old tattered sack with a faded print of the American flag and vanishing letters that read �Humanitarian food aid� as its door. They stood away from the structure admiring their work, the boy akimbo and his father shivering from the blowing evening winds.
�Pick all the wood left as we go, �twas a good job we did there for the day. I am proud of you, so proud of you,� he praised his son. The boy looked up at him with a smile.
�When I grow up will I be strong like you used to be?�
�Yes, but you must know strength isn�t in the body but in your heart,� he told him as they walked back to their house, the boy carrying the pieces of wood on his head.
Seated by the fire that night the man covered himself in blankets, coughing intermittently as he sipped a dark bitter concoction of boiled herbs. His mouth twisted in anguish at every sip as the boy watched in silence, his innocent face brightened by the flames. Nights were becoming unbearable; the drifts between the coughs, the splitting headaches and the sweating and the running stomach. He was forced to sleep on the earthen floor, close to the door to make it easier for his numerous visits to the latrine outside, and sometimes to catch the breeze to cool the sweating. The winds kept blowing, harder every night carrying the howling of the dogs and his coughs with it. He had struggled to collect enough wood for the fire before the rains, and tilled the land and planted maize and beans and cassava knowing this may be his last task. He had pushed the boy through the labours, himself pushing his lean body hard and at one time passing out on the farm. His boy had run to call for help but no one would dare come close to touch his father. Akot was a feared disease, a despised disease of adulterers.
He was awakened by the daily call. �Nke! Nke! Are you awake? How are you feeling this morning, Nke?� The woman, every day she called on her way to the farm, to see if he was still alive in the guise of morning greetings. He ignored the calls and stayed silent, clutching close to his blankets. The woman made to knock the door but stopped before her knuckles touched it. She stepped back as if she�d seen akot on it. �Hey! Nke! Please say something,� she persisted.
�I am alive! Isn�t that what you want to know? Go tell the rest I am not dead yet. We are already dead to you anyway,� he shouted back with resignation. He struggled up and opened the door and the woman hurried away without looking back. She used to be his wife�s close friend, but distanced from her when she became ill. And now she only passed by, and not even her children would play with his anymore.
This morning he felt weaker, his eyes straining against the early morning light. He lit a fire and boiled some black tea and cassava for breakfast, then warmed the leftover of the herbs from the night and gulped the concoction.
�Papa, what are we doing today? We have done almost everything,� the boy asked as they had their breakfast.
�Hmm, is that so? Today we will rest then. I want you to take me to the cliff.�
�The cliff? But Papa, they say when you go there your head will spin and then you will fall off!�
The man laughed. �May be if you stood to the edge your head will spin and you will fall,� he told the boy.
�But what are we going to do there? They say that place is not good and that a long time ago people used to throw their dead there, is it true?� the boy wondered.
�Not everything people say is true,� his Papa said.
�Like what?� retorted the child.
�That you are sick like me. Do you feel sick?�
�No, Papa, but they say after you die like Mama I will also get sick and die.�
The man sighed, and then sought to explain: �No, you will not be sick like us. Don�t keep in your heart what people tell you about me or your Mama. You�ll see. You won�t get sick.�
The boy seemed confused.
�In school nobody wants to touch me, or sit next to me, even the teachers. They all make fun of me.�
�It�s ok my son. You don�t have to go back there. I guess you will have to stay home with me for a while. I need you here to help me.�
The boy beamed with relief. �Yes, I will stay home and help you.�
They set off for the cliff, the boy carrying boiled cassava wrapped in a cloth. The few people they met on the way stood aside the paths to give way, murmuring greetings and looking back long after they had passed. They went on, not minding them, winding up the hill past the school and tilled farms towards the cliff. At one farm a family was busy collecting shrubs to burn them. They stopped upon seeing the two and stared till they disappeared from their view.
�Don�t mind the stares. They are just afraid.�
�Afraid of what, Papa?� the boy asked.
�Of us, and the disease.�
�Are you scared of the disease?�
�Not now that I have it.�
�Are you scared you will die, Papa?�
He was scared, who wouldn�t. He imagined of his death and wondered who would bury him. Only a handful had come for his wife�s burial, the men only helping to dig the grave but not touching the body to lower it in. He had done so by himself, the boy helping lift up her feet. Then the men eagerly shovelled in the mounds of soil as if she might suddenly come back to life to infect them.
�I don�t want to leave you. That is what scares me.�
�Then don�t die Papa. I want to be with you,� the boy whimpered.
He placed a comforting hand over the boy�s shoulder. �It�s not my wish to die, it�s the disease.� He pleaded.
They reached the huge stone that ended abruptly at the edge. From its top it seemed to connect with the sky and they could see the far distant lands below, tiny vehicles gliding on a thin straight line that made the road, and shiny tin roofs of obscured houses. There was a fresh breeze blowing different from the one they were used to.
�Papa, what is that place?�
�That is Tana. It�s a big town with many people and cars, and shops filled with everything. There�s even a train station, I used to work there before you were born.�
�Wow, will you take me there to see?� asked the boy.
�Your mother took you there once to visit me, but you were so small you won�t remember.�
The boy was mesmerized by the view. He looked all around at this new world he had never seen before, taking in all he could perceive.
�A long time ago people came here to pray. They believed that from here their prayers would be answered, and their sins forgiven,� his father explained.
�Do you still believe that, Papa?�
�That�s why we are here,� he pulled his son close to him. �I have forgiveness to ask of you, here and now. Then maybe God would forgive me and your mother.�
The boy looked up at him fearfully, confused.
�For what Papa, what did you do?�
�For the disease, and having to leave you still so young, and the isolation that you receive because of us. I am sorry my son, I am truly sorry. Please forgive us, now and as you grow up every day.�
�Stop crying Papa, please stop,� the boy begged amid sobs as he wiped the tears from his father�s face. They stayed wrapped in their arms for a while, crying as the wind blew their tears dry. Then they sat on the warm stone basking in the sun, the father telling his son old stories of Tana, and the boy relishing every bit of it. He told him of his youthful days working at the train station, loading and unloading goods and wares for merchants. They chewed on their cassava, and made loud shouts to thrill themselves upon their echoes. They sat there till dusk before trooping back home, the stories and the questions never ending. The winds were blowing cold, and Papa started coughing and shivering. He coughed and coughed all the way, at one time going down on one knee with the pain, the boy helping him up.
�Boil those barks for me,� he asked the boy after a difficult meal as he lay on the floor beside the fire. He wouldn�t stop coughing. The boy boiled the barks and filled him a cup.
�Here Papa, sit up and drink,� he helped prop him up to a seating position and fed him on the syrup.
�It�s the wind up the cliff, I�ll be alright. Don�t wear that worried look,� the man tried to reassure the boy. He took a few more sips from the cup and lay back on the floor with exhaustion.
�Did God hear our prayer, Papa?�
�Oh,� he groaned, �I don�t know. I hope He did.�
He lay there on the floor facing the roof, the flames dancing shadows on the mud walls in their quiet. He slowly turned to face the boy. He was toying with the coins.
�You can pass a string through the coins and make yourself a pendant, you know.�
�Where do I get a string?�
�Fetch me my leather bag from under the bed. I may have just the right string for you.�
The boy went to the bed and crawled under and came out with the bag. He admired it as he handed it over to his Papa. The man removed the straps as the boy knelt by his side eager to see the contents. He had always wondered what it contained. With fidgety hands the man pulled out an old Bible and from within its yellowing pages took out a black and white photograph.
�This is a photo of us. We took it in Tana when you were three years old.�
The boy looked closer and giggled. �You are wearing nice clothes, where are they?�
�They grew old and worn out. That�s you in the middle.�
The boy took the photo in his hands and viewed it closer to the light with a smile. His Papa retrieved a necklace from the bag and handed it over to him.
�This was your mother�s. You can slip the coins in it.�
The boy took it and slipped the coins through then wore the pendant over his head.
�You see, it looks nice on you,� his Papa said.
�What else is in the bag, Papa?�
The man retrieved a pouch and opened it.
�A little money we saved up for you.�
He untied a bundle of ruffled notes from a string.
�Use the money wisely when am gone. Don�t misuse it or let anybody take it away from you. It�ll keep you going long enough, for food and any other thing you may need.�
He returned the money in the pouch and placed it back into the bag, his bony hand shaking weakly. �The bag is yours too, I want you to have it.�
�We can buy medicine with the money for you Papa, so you won�t die.�
�No, son, the medicine will be of no use, I am a goner. I�ll still die anyway. Keep the bag and everything inside always with you, and remember not to let anyone take it from you.�
He lay there shivering despite the heat from the fire. Beads of sweat had broken on his taut face, his eyes deep in their hollow sockets. The boy took a cloth and wiped his forehead. In that moment his Papa raised his hand and touched his face.
�My boy, when I go I want you to lay me next to your mother. Nobody else will touch me.�
He went into a series of coughs.
�You can dig like we did with your latrine.�
The boy stared hard at him with a painful gaze. His tears were threatening to flow, but he struggled to hold them back.
�Please my son, you see, the joy of a father is in not seeing his own children go before his own time. I am glad I will not see yours. You have your whole life to live, promise me you�ll live it well.�
The boy held on tightly to his Papa�s hand, hot tears bursting through his guard and streaming down his face. He acknowledged with nodding, one hand wiping the tears.
�Thank God I have you. I am proud of you, so proud of you,� his voice carried a burdened weakness, and his sunken eyes only half wide open as if heavy with sleep.
�Your uncle, he�s in Nyika, I have sent for him several times but he isn�t coming. He may not find me. I had hoped he would take care of you.�
�What if he doesn�t want Papa, what shall I do?� the boy whimpered.
�Oh, my boy, God isn�t sick like me, nor is He dead. He�ll give you a way. I know He will. You know how to take care of yourself now, like the way you have cared for me.�
The boy lay beside his father and thought of the worst without him. He felt a burning anger at the village, the isolation, the disease, and death.
�Will you be with Mama when you die?�
�Yes, I will.�
�And you will tell her about me?�
�I will tell her about you, all the time.�
�When I die will I also be with you?�
�Yes, you will be with us. But I don�t want you to die yet.�
They stayed silent in their thoughts as the winds shook the loose iron sheets on the roof. Sleep soon overcame them.
�Nke! Nke! Have you woken?�
The boy shrugged off the blanket and sat up.
�Nke! How are you feeling today, have you woken?�
The boy opened the door and the woman retreated to a safe distance.
�How�s your father? You have woken early.�
�He�s still asleep, not feeling well,� the boy replied.
�You watch him, and boil him the herbs if they are doing him any good.�
He watched her hurry away and thought of the days he could play with her children, and she and his mother gossiping outside the house almost every other day. Now everyone isolated them, like they�d never known them before. He stepped back into the house to wake his father.
�Papa, Papa, wake up,� he gently shook him. No response. He laid there, his mouth in a painful gape.
�Papa, please wake up!� he pleaded. He pulled at his hand, it was cold and stiff. Then it dawned on him. He stepped back and took in the blood rush that raced through his body. He went down on his knees and burst in controlled cries not wanting to be heard. He rose and closed the door and fell on his Papa�s chest and cried the more till he just lay silent on him. After a long while he stepped out with a hoe in hand and made his way to his mother�s grave. He wondered on which side to dig, to the left or the right. He stood there contemplating. He took off his shirt and began to dig out the mound of soil on his Mama�s grave, the pendant swinging furiously on his neck with his every dig. He would bury them together, he told himself as he dug with tears washing his face.
An hour later he hopped out of the grave and went to fetch his Papa�s body. He took off the blanket and spread it beside him then rolled him over to it. He wondered how he would carry him to the grave by himself and felt helpless. He passed his arms under the shoulders and propped him up to a seating position and was surprised by the little weight the disease had left of him. He could easily lift him and so he carried him out of the house, the feet dragging along. It was no easy feat but once by the grave he laid him close to the hole then jumped in himself. He gently pulled in the body supporting it with his shoulders then placing it inside, adjusting the blanket to cover the face and the legs.
�Good bye Papa, tell Mama about me,� he mumbled in his tears.
The sun had risen to a blaze before he completely covered the grave. When he was done he stood there for a moment leaning on the hoe. His heart thumped so hard and he was filled with a sudden fear at his loneliness. He went back to the house and retrieved the leather bag from under the bed and left, half running the winding paths towards the cliff as he softly cried. He didn�t stop, crossing farms even faster not wanting anyone to see him. He reached the huge stone and sprawled himself on it weeping for his Papa. He stayed there for several hours wondering what to do. He had cried so much there were no more tears left. He decided to go to Nyika, where his uncle was said to be. If he wouldn�t take him in then he would come back home and fend for himself. He left the cliff and decided to head home to pick a few things he would need for his journey. Along the way he chose to keep off the foot paths and instead use the road to avoid the staring eyes on the farms.
As he walked on there came a droning hum of a vehicle coming up the road. Vehicles very rarely came up the village and he wondered on what mission this was up to. As the droning drew closer he caught sight of the land rover coming up the hill towards him. There were children running after it. He chose to walk on, keeping to the side of the road to allow the vehicle pass and avoid the children after it. It was approaching behind him and he made no interest to turn to see it. As the car passed him, from the corners of his eyes he could make out a familiar face in the back seat peering at him through the window. Then the car suddenly pulled to a stop ahead of him and the pursuing children hit themselves on its backside. The rear door opened and out hoped the school teacher. From the front doors emerged a white man and a woman, their hairs flapping in the wind like chicken feathers. The boy�s heart thumped in fear and he stepped back almost falling into shrubs. They were coming towards him, the school teacher mumbling something to the white people.
�We have come to see your father,� the teacher addressed him. �These are visitors to see him. Come with us so you take us home.�
The boy�s heart was racing.
�Hello,� the white lady greeted him with a peculiar accent. He cringed back further into the shrubs clutching the leather bag. There was laughter from the rest of the children. The school teacher barked harshly at them and they scampered away.
�Don�t be afraid, they are here to help people like your father,� the teacher said softly. He led the boy into the car and they drove home. They left the car on the road and made it on foot through the path to the house, the boy silent all the way. He didn�t know how tell them that Papa had died; he just went along feeling like a captive, and leading the way. The whole village had come out to see the strangers, greeting the school teacher and following them behind, wondering what these white people had to do with the diseased family. The boy led them to the house and opened the door and let them in.
�Where�s your father?� the school teacher queried.
The boy stared at his feet in fear. The white lady was staring at him in pity and he could feel her eyes. He stepped out of the house quietly and led them to the grave behind the banana stalks. The rest of the villagers stood at a distance, still in fear of contracting Akot. The teacher was bewildered when he saw the fresh grave.
�Do you mean he�s dead?�
The boy nodded.
�When did he die?�
�I woke up this morning and he was dead, so I buried him here with Mama.�
The teacher turned to the white people and barely whispered to them. Their faces turned pale with grief and disbelief. They conversed for a while then the teacher turned to ask the boy who helped him bury.
 �No one. I did it myself,� the boy said.
The teacher looked down in shame as he translated to the white couple what the boy had said. The white lady placed a sympathetic hand on the boy as they went back to the house.
There was a loud murmur from the villagers, someone shouted, �Akot!� to warn her. In the house the teacher pulled the wooden seats for the visitors and they sat. The boy remained standing. The white lady stretched her arm to admire the pendant the boy was wearing.
�Are those old English coins you are wearing?� she asked, but the boy clutched them tightly in fear.
�It�s ok, am sorry,� she apologized.
The three engaged in a conversation, and then the white people left the house and stood outside. From the door the boy could see them converse, then they turned and glanced at him. He didn�t look away but gazed back at them. The woman walked to him and bent over to his face.
�We are sorry about your father. You are a brave boy, very brave. But you need someone to look after you. You can come with us if you want, we�ll take care of you,� she said. She nodded at the teacher who stood up from his seat like a pupil and explained to the boy what she had said. The boy thought for a moment, then asked the teacher: �Will they take me to Tana, the big town down the cliff?�
The teacher was puzzled but soon got the idea. He took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes, then put them back on.
�They�ll take you to a place bigger than Tana.�
The boy watched him explain to the white people what he had asked. The white man affirmed with a nod.
�Can I say good bye to Papa before we go?� the boy asked the teacher.
�Yes you can. Take your time, son, you may be gone a long time.�
The boy stepped out of the house leaving the teacher to explain to the white people yet again their conversation. They watched him stand by the grave in his forlorn face, mumbling.
�I am also leaving, Papa. There are strange people here to take me to a place bigger than Tana, and they are white. I think they are from the queen. They were coming to see you, Papa, to help you. Only they were late. They say they will look after me, tell Mama about it. They are good people, they are not afraid to touch me. I�ll come back to see you, after a long time. Bye Papa.�
 He walked back to his guests, the white lady stretching her arms to him, and after hesitating for a moment, he obliged into her caring hug.

16

Remains of our Vote

Bonface Nyolde
 
*

WE sing. Not dirges this time but hymns, though I cannot tell the difference. Our voices are not the same as before and I try to figure out why. You see, my mind escapes me at times and I try hard to remember my music lessons in school. On what music note are we? I can�t think much, for my mind is stretched by evil and I decide on the only note that�s appropriate. Flat. Our tone is flat, but we carry on. Missing voices I knew hum along in absentia in my head. Pastor Kizito�s domineering base, old Mama Sandra�s piercing soprano, but nothing more like my love Miri�s sweet voice. I call her Miri, others call her Miriam, and the old folk of our town fondly call her Maria. Whatever they call her, she�s my Miri. My name is Mambo, but my Miri calls me Mo. Away from that, we are here for a special church service.
I am tempted to look at my father who is standing next to me but I�m consumed by fear. No. Shame. I scratch my head furiously in irritation because I think it may be guilt, and not fear nor shame. Which of the three? Anger and its twin sister, hate, have been residing within me. I feel like leaving and walking away as far as possible and never to come back to this madness. A hand softly clutches mine and I feel the storm subside within me. My little sister looks up at me with that face again. I do not need to search into her eyes this time to find what I could not see all along. She is talking to me, silently but so clearly.
 �Chidy?� I call out in a whisper. I�m not sure of her response. I think I see a smile but I fear I could be wrong. Speak to me! I beg.
 Her face goes blank. She trains her eyes slowly from mine to her dress and then I understand her need. She is getting wet. I walk her out the church ruins without a word to my father and past the strange congregation; past mama Suzy and the faces that I do not want to see, faces of evil.
Outside we head for the latrines at the back of the church but stop in our tracks. They too stand in mangled ruin. I look down at Chidy and she gives me a sorry look. I do not want her to feel sorry for me. I am not helpless. I shepherd her to the back of the latrines and urge her to go on and relieve herself, but she just stares at me in pity. I see that her piss had long streamed down her tiny legs into her shoes. Chidy! I squat and caress her soft black hair and reassure her that it is alright. I pull her into my hug and feel the distant beat of her heart against mine.
�Kaka,� I shudder and pull her away from me. Did she just speak? �I�m sorry,� she says.
 She speaks for the first time since hell! Since death visited us that fateful night and took away our very lives. My heart pounds faster within me and my stomach churns. We died along with others, falling by every blow in our helpless screams.
 Footsteps and glowing flames outside our house, screams afar, and the moans and the stampede from our cows. Simba�s barking fiercely then a blow silences him. Mama�s screaming for help as Papa rushes to the door, machete in hand. I jump out of bed and pick up frightened Chidy. We scream. The door crushes in sending my Papa to the floor. Death has come!
 My vision blurs and the world swirls around me. I vomit violently and then go tumbling down to the ground with Chidy in my arms. Then darkness. Hands are pulling Chidy away from me. She�s screaming and gripping on to me, tearing my shirt. I hold firmly on to her and fight them, kicking hard. Then familiar hands reach out and I stop fighting. Papa pleads with me to stop. �It�s ok,� he begs. There are tears in his eyes. I�m crying, sobbing, and weeping my heart out in bitterness. These tears give a momentary relief. He picks us up and walks us out the surrounding crowd. They give way and watch with sorrowful faces as we walk through. Pastor Emmanuel tries to say something, Bible in hand, but my father ignores him. He carries little Chidy on his chest with his arm over my shoulder and we go our way. As we walk home in our silence I feel strange in this place I grew in. The beautiful trees we climbed and the lush grasses we rolled on now but pillars and beds of hatred.
We shouldn�t have come back. They all hate us. Everything hates us, I insist.
 We pass through the shops and activity stops. Staring eyes haunt us but we do not look back. My father tightens his grip on my shoulder as we pass his looted shop. It stands desolate among the rest, with its windows shattered, doors caved in and blackened by smoke. I picture mama selling her wares by the road and my knees grow weak. I sob even the more and wish I died that night along with her or pulled out of the matatu together with my brother Apacha and slashed and stoned to our end so I wouldn�t be walking here. My heart palpitates and I heave and lunge forward to the ground and throw up. Hushed murmuring comes from the staring eyes behind us. I wish death envelopes us in its cruelty and take us all away into its belly, pound us into bloody pulps. Chidy whimpers in fear. My father grabs me up and I stagger on. �Be strong, my son. Be strong,� he chokes in his voice. I gasp for air and we walk on. Strong, be strong!

A month prior to the service in our ruined church I was helping out at the shop. Business boomed. I sold alongside my father, tending to the tripled number of customers as election campaigns geared up. Our small town was not spared the political activities, as parties scrambled to secure their last bits of votes. Shops were covered by campaign posters, today of one party and the next of another on top of the previous one. It amused me. We�d sell late into the night, Miri often helping out to cover for our times together. Our mothers were friends from way back, and sold wares at the market across the road. Before dark they would close for the day and troop home with other women traders to Mzee Kombo�s mill to grind maize then head home to prepare dinner for their families. After closing shop I�d escort Miriam home with a loaf of bread and milk from our cows in appreciation for her help. My father always showed gratitude in this way. We walked under the bright moon holding hands, stealing kisses along the way. Halfway to their home was the big mango tree that gave us cover for our romantic escapades, on whose trunk we had engraved our names.
 One evening as I fondled Miri, Mama Sandra emerged from the shadows and startled us.
 �Hey! What are you two doing?� She stood akimbo balancing firewood on her head. We remained silent in shame.
She peered at us closely. �If it wasn�t for the love in your eyes I would have told on you. Now just be careful young man not to get her pregnant, unless you are ready to marry her. Are you?� She asked.
I was taken aback.
�Yes.� I replied hesitantly.
�You say it like you mean it boy �cause this sweet girl here really wants to know, only that she can�t ask you, don�t you Maria?�
Miri nodded shyly.
What! I wondered how she could possibly imagine what Miri wanted to know.
�Mama Sandra, I love her.� I stammered.
 �I�d better be seeing you two in church, and Maria I want you to join me in the choir tomorrow, won�t you?�
Maria submitted again.
�Now don�t stay out too late, the night is coming.�
With that she went her way and we never heard of it from a soul. She was a hard working woman, and never missed church. I wondered why they called her mama Sandra yet she was childless and lived alone. It was only when Miri told me her story that I understood. She had a daughter called Sandra who fell in love with a boy from the next village. When she became pregnant the boy disowned her and she committed suicide. From then on I started looking at Mama Sandra from different eyes. I wondered what pain she bore every day, and understood her concern for us that evening. I loved Miri, and unlike the boy from the next village I would never disown her. We had dated since secondary school and we both longed for the day we would leave town to join colleges in the city. I had missed university by a few points and totally refused my father�s suggestion to repeat in another school for the third time. In truth I couldn�t agree to the idea because I feared for my age and losing Miriam, who hadn�t excelled either. My mother had hinted that come the New Year, and with profits from the business, I could join my brother Apacha in Nairobi and go to college. I was excited, but what about Miriam?
As I walked her home one of those evenings I decided to tell her, but wasn�t sure of her reaction. I found it difficult to say, for it felt like betrayal. We had grown to love each other so much, and I suspected even our parents knew it. Did they?
�Miri,� I began.
�Yes dear.�
�Mama told me I would be going to college this coming year.�
 She remained silent as we walked on and words vanished from me. I didn�t know how to proceed but I had to say something.
�I will join my brother Apacha in the city and live with him,� I managed.
�I know all about it; they planned it.� She said. �My mother told me. I am going too; I will be staying with my mother�s friend. I was waiting to see if you�d tell me. We may end up in the same college you know!�
That gave us new hope and new fantasies. We lay under the mango tree staring at the stars above and reliving our dreams. We talked of Nairobi, of its bustling life and tall buildings, and the fashionable people. The first time my brother Apacha came home from the city he was all changed. His skin was smooth, the pimples that dotted his face were no more and he wore clean jeans and nice T-shirts. Even the way he spoke, in corrupted sheng that made us all laugh. He told us of the university, how big it is that it was like walking from home to the market just to get to his hostel from class. No, he didn�t call it class, but lecture hall. Away from my parents he told me of the weekend discos they held in their halls and their drinking sprees; of beautiful girls in tight fitting trousers and bare backed tops, the internet and all the things that we�ve never known here in rural Tana. They even spent the nights with their girlfriends at the hostels, he said. I yearned to be in such a college with Miri. My brother Apacha only provoked my desire to leave Tana and join civilization.
As Mama Sandra had instructed that night, Miri joined the choir while I carried on with daily chores at home; helping graze the cows and ferrying mama�s wares to the market. Papa often left early in the mornings to open shop and receive stock. He was a lively man. Often interacting well with customers and engaging them in captivating conversations. He laughed loudly too, his raucous laughter livening every mood. Now a retired primary school teacher, he had bought land and settled here in Tana, which is hundreds of kilometres from his ancestral home in the north-western part of the country. He taught briefly there and was then posted here until his retirement. Apacha had done him proud by qualifying for university, but that meant a struggle on finances to cover for his education. We barely survived. Relief only came when Apacha started getting student loans and so we managed to get by.
When you come to Tana, the first thing that irritates you is the dilapidated road full of huge potholes. The next thing that hurts you is the ride you take in the single matatu that would bring you here. It is always crammed and overloaded, and stinks of fish, an offending mixture of sweat and urine, and vomit mostly from children whose stomachs could not withstand the bumpy rides. So when the election campaigns climaxed, so did promises and pledges of a new tarmac road, new schools, a vocational training centre for losers like me, electricity supply, a factory to process produce from our farms, modern market stalls for our mothers, the list was endless; and all for free they said, but only if we voted right. After the rallies the residents of Tana were left more confused over the candidates and their parties than ever. We passed time outside shops politicking, seeking to vote right, and sipping cups after cups of tea sold to us by Mama Sandra. Good thing this election had brought about, convoys of vehicles and cash handouts from politicians we only saw on newspapers or heard mentioned on radio. Our town was bustling and trading, and our usual boredom was cast away. We were renewed in hope, across the seas our own Obama had won, here at home Apacha had gone to university, our cow had given birth, our roads would be covered with tarmac, electricity would light our homes, and I was set to go to college; along with Miriam! Were we not blessed? Eh! You tell me.
Finally Christmas was here, but was overshadowed yet by politicking. I would have wished to have Apacha home, but he had secured a temporary job through Christmas and was to come home just before New Year, he promised. Miri�s family joined us for the feast after church where, together with Mama Sandra and the rest of the choir, she had sang carols so beautifully. We slaughtered a goat and chicken, and made merry through the evening. When night fell there was carousing everywhere. Beer flowed and music soothed our souls, but nothing escaped political intonations. It was only a day to the vote, so that was inevitable. Dancing outside in the moon light with my Miri and Chidy, and with kids from the neighbours, I sought an opportunity to steal time alone with her. I motioned her to follow me and she did a minute after I had disappeared behind the house. We took our usual path to the mango tree walking hand in hand. The moon was bright, shinning upon her angelic face. She was beautiful.
Staring into my eyes, she whispered, �Mo, what�s my name?�
�Miri.� I answered.
�No, try again.�
�My Miri,� I corrected.
�I want to be yours forever.�
�You are forever my Miri.�
That night we became one. We lay on the soft grass in each other�s arms not wanting to let go. I do not know for how long we lay there, but it was the most beautiful night and Christmas of all. As she lay in my arms I could feel I�d met my destiny, to be with her for the rest of my life, and so we made vows to each other never to part.
My father was sceptical of the election promises and was uncertain of change. He argued what more good would change bring to our country when it had only so far propagated and entrenched corruption, with the rich getting richer and the poor poorer? I found that very wise of him, and reminded myself that my father was still a teacher by blood. As he argued with others at the shop, he maintained that he favoured the status quo even though he admitted to their corruption. He and his proponents were met with stiff resistance from the opposing views, and on it went rising in tempo and emotion. Residents of Tana were split, majority of the youth like me were pro change, and I was torn between trusting my family views or the inclinations of my peers.
Obama had campaigned on the platform of change, and to me this change seemed to be the universal answer to everything. I wanted a change to my town, my life, my country, my shoes and clothes, to go to college, everything; except my Miri of course. These politicians confused me. On campaign trails they had the answers. Once in office they didn�t remember a single word of their pledges. So come the day of the vote I accompanied my peers to the polling centre, along with Miri, enjoying the jeering and cheering of political parties and the candidates. Our parents had instructed us on whom to vote, but split as we were we crafted our own plan.
Miri and I would vote for both presidential contenders and have the best man win. In the voting cubicles I scanned through the ballot papers. There were oranges, mangoes and bananas for party symbols. Strange these politicians were, I thought to myself, strange as the fruit salads they made. So I crossed an x on the President and my Member of Parliament. As conspired between us, Miri was voting in the same manner for the opposing candidates in the next cubicle. We had done our national duty by voting as we had been implored by the national election commission. They said we were deciding on our future, and that we all come out on this day to vote. Didn�t we all, our fathers and mothers, grandmothers and the youth like me, all come out to decide on our collective future? You tell me. We were promised roads, electricity, free education, jobs, and all the goodies we yearned for in years. Time had come, they said, and it was now.
We trooped back home full of satisfaction, with ink on our fingers-proud evidence of the national duty we�d exercised. If only Apacha were here he would have applied his education in guiding us through this complexity. He hated our incumbent MP. He had given him a bounced cheque for his initial university fee. Whatever a bounced cheque was, all I knew was that it brought untold suffering to my father. That cheque was no good. We were forced to sell Paulina our cow, but she didn�t raise enough; so Wangila the bull had to be sold as well.
The next day we stuck to our radios to follow the vote counting. We had sold hundreds of batteries in our shop. Big names were falling, so did our MP lose to the owner of the ramshackle matatu that plied our road. We were elated. As evening approached, queries and disputes emerged as discrepancies in the presidential vote count set in. At a steady pace during the day one was leading by a huge margin, come evening the other overtook him with runaway votes. Confusion seemed to live with us, so we counter checked our radios to see whose was reporting accurately. Soon our rural town was consumed in arguments, accusations, allegations and counter accusations. Mzee Elija stuck his transistor radio close to his ear, twisting his moustache as he digested the news. He was always informed, tuning between BBC and VOA. He never went anywhere without his radio, and it was said he left it on through the night as well. So I chose to confer with him on the unfolding events.
�Papa, what are they saying?� I sought from him.
�Mhm! Mambo, things are not good,� he warned, shaking his head and spitting to the ground. �Some returning officers have suddenly vanished with the results and forms 16A can�t be traced either,� he said.
�But what are��
�Ssh!� he hushed me before I could ask my question. He only stretched his cup to me for more tea and I scampered to Mama Sandra for a refill. Seriously glued to his radio, I handed him his cup and joined another group meters away. Crammed before a hissing radio, we listened to protests from the antagonists, fortunes were quickly changing and the nation was becoming polarized. That was the beginning of a time we�d never seen before and we�d never imagined for our country. For our rural town of Tana, the fate that awaited us was in a few hours to be born. At sunset as I shepherded our cows back home, tired of the politicking that had engulfed us through the day, I heard shouts and screams from the market. I knew then that a winner had been declared.
Miri was home with us that night. After a long day, my mother had insisted she joined us for dinner before I saw her off. We dined together fearing for the news that was coming in. There were protests all over the country and even right here in Tana. Our incumbent MP was moving around with his supporters dismissing the result as having been rigged. He was demanding a recount and urging his supporters to come out in numbers and root out the election thieves. He accused the declared winner and his tribesmen of having planned to rig him out, terming them enemies of Tana.
�Is he not the one who cheated our children on bursary funds? And was he not the one who turned his constituents away from his big office in the city whenever they went to seek his help? Hey! How can he say that the people voted for him? Didn�t he know he would come back to the village to ask for votes from the very same us that he despised?� my mother fretted as we dined, her face glinting in the glow of the fire from the hearth. �Heey! Surely God is great! He has avenged my son Apacha. That man is a liar and a thief at best, stealing from the poor who looked up to him.�
When supper ended, I set out to escort Miri home.
�Sleep well, my daughter. Tell your mother to rise early tomorrow so we be the first in the market, or else mama Suzy will encroach on our stalls,� my mother bid her. �That woman loves nothing but to quarrel over space,� she continued.
We walked in the dark, talking less and consumed by the tension that had gripped Tana after the vote. As we approached Miri�s home we could hear an exchange of words between Mama Miri and another woman. What was it now? We wondered. Getting closer we could hear Mama Suzy�s distinct shrills.
�You are thieves!� she was screaming. �Who else could have taken my fish but you and Mama Apacha? You have been provoking me of late and I won�t take it lying down. Now give me my fish back!� she demanded.
�Mama Suzy, since when did Rhoda and I become thieves to steal fish from you?� Mama Miri retorted. �What has got into you, coming here in the night to insult me like that?�
Rhoda was my mother.
�Mama Suzy, what is it now?� we intervened.
�Shut up you silly two. All you do is roam in the night engaging in bad manners. In fact, I don�t want to ever see the two of you near my Susan again, you�ll spoil her. Your families have been robbing the people of this town, taking everything good while we have the scrapes. You do not belong here!�
We were enraged, and together with Mama and Baba Miri we took on Mama Suzy in a tirade of words. Neighbours had come out and joined in, some taking sides, while others tried to cool us off. It was another hour before everybody went home. Hey! How dare that woman call Mama Miri and my mother thieves! You tell me.
As I lay in bed recounting what had occurred, I felt the urge to leave for the city, away from these frustrated, hungry, and malicious folk. You do not belong here! What did she mean by that? Tell me.
Chidy slept soundly next to me, her soft breathing blowing off the anger that had engulfed me. I wished I could sleep so peacefully like her, not caring one bit about the world. Soon sleep caught up with me, and I embraced it with my whole body and soul.
I dreamt of Miri standing by a bus and beckoning me to go with her. I was hesitating, not sure where the bus would take us. Chidy was clutching my arm crying, not wanting me to go. She kept pleading with me not to go but Miri kept on beckoning with her hand, urging me to join her. I felt confused and afraid. Miri was oddly dressed, in a flowing white gown like those of the choir, white as flour from Mzee Kombo�s mill. For every step I took towards Miri, Chidy cried even more that I was split between staying with her and going with Miri. It was a difficult decision to make, but I stuck with Chidy as Miri faded away in a hazy mist. I woke up abruptly to a lamp before my face. My mother was by the bed. �Since when did you start having nightmares, eh? That woman Mama Suzy, don�t be bothered by her my son. Now say a prayer and go to sleep.�
I lay there in darkness recounting my dream. Nightmares were never frequent in my sleep and this one felt strange as an unknown fear surrounded me. Was my leaving for college in the city doomed? I searched my mind. Had my grandmother Teresia been alive, God rest her soul, she would have explained the dream to me. I blankly stared in the dark until my eyes drooped into deep sleep again.
I may have been dreaming again, distant noises, screams maybe. They were approaching, slowly at first. I tossed now and then, giving in to a paralyzing slumber. The dog was barking, joining several others afar. It seemed to be running around the house. Then there came loud screams not far way. Did I hear Miri�s scream?
I shrugged off the sleep and sat up, my body tense and ears alert. The noises became real and the screams even louder than before. Suddenly there were glowing flames permeating into the house and loud bangs on the door.
�Come out you traitors, away with you who blotted our votes!� they were shouting. There was commotion all over and painful moans from the cows as they were slashed with machetes. Our dog Simba was barking and fighting fiercely before a loud blow silenced him.
The door crushed in felling my father. Mama rushed to help him up but was beaten to the floor, her lamp rolling along with her. I took Chidy into my arms as we screamed. I couldn�t see the faces of our attackers, but only their looming shadows from the obstructed lighting. Hands were pinning down my mother as she struggled for her life. My father was up again fighting, shouting at me to run with Chidy. �Run Mambo, run!� I was paralyzed, confused and enraged. I dropped Chidy and picked a wooden chair and crushed it on one of the assailants on top of my mother. Her clothes were torn and I could see blood stream from her face. One of the assailants hit my father with a blunt object as they fought. His frail body went limp with a thud to the floor. Someone had grabbed Chidy! She screamed and as I rushed to her help, a hand grabbed at me by the neck, constricting my throat and suffocating me of air. My eyes bobbed out I thought they would fall off their sockets before I too went limp in painful darkness.
I woke up to my father�s crying. He was wiping my face with a damp cloth, his other hand holding onto Chidy. Mama�s lifeless body lay before us covered over with a blanket. I am dreaming, I told myself. But no, it was daylight, and from my glance I could see the havoc of the night all around us. Shattered windows, walls of our brick house demolished, Simba our dog lying in a pool of blood metres from us, and the carcasses of our cows. Who on earth could do this, what had we done to deserve this? Blood everywhere I could smell it. I struggled to stand and took a few wobbling steps forward. I could see burnt maize and cassava fields, and Miri�s home bellowing smoke, flames still razing their tin roof. Miri! I collapsed to the ground.
From the earth I could see someone fast approaching, his legs half running. He was loudly cursing and crying at the same time, but from the piercing sun I could not make out his face. He approached me and lifted me up, dragging me next to my father. In the process my leg got entangled on the blanket covering my dead mother, pulling it away. I screamed in agony on seeing her half naked body with deep cuts and blood all over. Pastor Emmanuel held me firmly, himself crying and saying that the police were here to help us, desperately trying to quiet us from our weeping. Soon the drone of a lorry drowned our cries as it approached. Dozens of armed policemen jumped from the back and carried us with them, together with my mother�s body at the back.
We were not alone. There were others I had not seen before and a few familiar faces from our village, with the dead at their feet. I searched around for Miri but couldn�t find her. There were crying children and women, most of them with blood on their cloths. As the lorry charged through the rough roads, the blankets and sheets covering the dead kept tilting and slipping, revealing parts of the bodies. I strained to make out some of them and it wasn�t long before I saw Mama Sandra, blood still oozing from her mouth. One police officer quickly drew the blanket over her head and gave me a sombre look. I scanned through the rest of the bodies, some between the legs of those alive. I wanted to get up and physically check on each of them, but the presence of the police scared me.
Pastor Emmanuel sat across me, clutching his Bible and praying aloud as we danced to the rocking of the lorry. I sat, pressed closely to my father with Chidy in his arms. He stayed silent, his face lost in shock and grief. I was confused, the sudden sequence of events too hard to comprehend. I buried my head between my legs and wept for my mother and Chidy, for my helpless father who almost died defending us. Fright still consumed me and I wondered what was going to happen next. Where were we going?
At the police station we were asked to alight and leave the bodies behind to be taken to the mortuary. We kept silent between our weeping and mourning as the truck left with the bodies. There were many people at the station than I had thought; some nursing deep cut wounds and many more mourning their loss. We wound our way through them and sat at a corner of the compound under a tree. My father gave Chidy to me and left to join a group of men listening to a bespectacled man who looked like a government official.
�Chidy,� I called. �Chidy.�
But she didn�t answer. She just stared past me like I didn�t exist, humming in her soft cry, her tears endlessly flowing onto her bloodstained dress. I pitied her, this innocent little soul a victim of such horrid brutality.
�Mambo.� I looked up and saw Tito from our village standing before me.
�Tito!� I called back. I wanted to ask what happened to him and his family but quickly changed my mind. He squatted down and said his brother was killed and his father seriously injured. He managed to run and hide with his mother in the maize plantation before the police rescued them in the morning.
�Did you notice any of them?� I asked.
He shook his head and said he didn�t.
�They killed my mother and hurt my sister,� I said.
Tito rose up and looked away, there was something stirring his mind and he kept shaking his head.
�Tito, what is it?� I queried with concern.
�I heard them chase after Miriam as she screamed into the plantation. From where we were hiding I could see them overpower her, rape her, and then kill her. I couldn�t help,� he sobbed. I felt a piercing in my heart and my body went numb. I never heard the rest of what Tito said but I sat there defeated and anguished, rocking Chidy to and fro. Pain seeped through my veins like venom and hot tears inflamed my face.
By evening my father had gathered enough boxes, polythene bags and sticks to make a shelter we could sleep in. He took off his shirt and covered Chidy with it as she slept and remained in his vest. I lay next to Chidy and crossed my arm over her, hoping to pass her some warmth. The cold was biting, so my father gathered some littered paper and wood and lit a fire to keep us warm. It was a long night, with Chidy waking up crying between sleep.
When morning came, my father left in search of food and water. The police could not provide for all, and we depended on sympathizers who dropped in now and then. At about midday my father was called aside by two policemen who engaged him in a polite conversation. I moved closer to eavesdrop, with Chidy in my arms, fearing what trouble my father could be in. They seemed to be confirming some details from him and then I heard them mentioning my brother Apacha�s full names. My father nodded and there followed a little more conversation before one officer placed a hand on my father�s shoulder in consolation. My father fell to his knees and wept bitterly to the heavens. I rushed to his side wanting to know the matter as he wept for Apacha.
�Papa, what happened to Apacha, please tell me!� I shook him by pulling at his vest.
�They killed him! They have killed my son! O Lord, what have we done to deserve this cruelty?�
We wept without any more tears flowing from our eyes. Our tears had dried up. We quietly mourned in our polythene tent on our own; everyone here had a loss. Death was no longer a stranger but our bullying companion. We had many dead to our account, Pastor Kizito, my mother, mama Sandra, my love Miri and her parents, my brother Apacha, Tito�s brother and many more others. Tito had told me our shop was looted then set on fire. We were said to be traitors, we had voted for the enemy, and that we were outsiders. We did not belong to Tana but only came to invade their land, Mama Suzy had said, and thus had singled us out to them.
So we died in the hands of our neighbours and friends turned foes. My brother Apacha had been killed while travelling home by gangs that stopped their matatu and dragged them out, killing them in all manner of ways with all sorts of crude weapons. Chidy has not spoken since it happened. Violently defiled, she spent her days crying and afraid of everything and everyone. I washed her blood and wrapped her in a clean cloth offered by one of the post election victims at the police camp. My whole body ached; we could not eat nor sleep for the several weeks to come. As peace and calm returned, many buried their dead in mass graves on land donated by the government, fearing to return to their land; but my father defied all fear and pulled the coffins of my mother and Apacha by handcart all the way home. In turns the two of us dug out the graves while Chidy lay on a rag under a tree. Our tears freely mixed with sweat as we laboured under the scorching sun. No one came to bury with us, except Pastor Emmanuel. And so we buried and confined ourselves in our destroyed home, cast away from the rest of Tana. Chidy clung to me day and night, mute in her sadness, as father struggled to gather what was left over on our farm to get us going.
Pastor Emmanuel had organized the special service in prayer for peace, repentance, and healing for all the victims of the violence. The church in itself had been attacked, and pastor Kizito killed for sheltering �traitors.� He had come home to implore us to attend, but had only received studious silence from my father. While calmness had returned throughout the country, our wounds still remained bleeding and our loss our daily burden. In one night my mother and my Miri were gone, and a day later my brother Apacha. Chidy, my little sister couldn�t speak for all those days, until today at church.

I count that a miracle healing. And now we stagger home to our exile, away from everyone. Mzee Kombo�s mill grinds noisily afar, the only sound that seems familiar to me. At our desolate home my father lays Chidy on a mat to sleep. She�s only been sleeping in short breaks between her nightmares, and at night we stay awake to watch over her.
My father speaks to me: �I know you are angry with everybody around and at this place, but this is where we belong. We will rebuild our house and our lives right here, because this is our home.� This time he looks at me in the eye, and I do not look away.
Not long after we gather poles and iron sheets to repair our house and start on the works. As we proceed, Pastor Emmanuel cautiously comes our way. He says nothing but climbs up the roof to join my father, who pays no attention to him but continues to hammer in the nails. Chidy has woken up and sits outside watching us. I pray she doesn�t stop talking. She is different today, alive I may say.
It is said that everyone you meet wants something, loves something, and has lost something. This could be an easy way to sum up our lives. But maybe there are those of us who never want, who never love, and who have nothing to lose in the tragedy of others; the politicians in whose names we killed and died for, for example. Otherwise how do we explain what sins we commit? You tell me.
I hoist the last iron sheet to my father up on the roof and together with Pastor Emmanuel they fix it in place and hammer in the last nails. Our house is done, except the homes of our hearts. Chidy has been playing by herself, and is covered in clay all over her hands and dress. Some has rubbed on her face. I sit next to her and admire the human figures she has moulded.
She whispers that one is of Mama and another of Papa as she places them gently close to each other. Next she places that of our brother Apacha in line, that of me and Miri, and then squeezes hers and Simba�s in between us. She looks at me and reaches out in her soiled fingers to wipe the tears in my eyes.
�It�s ok, Kaka. Come, let�s bury them here,� she says.
She picks out the moulds of our deceased and we bury them in a shallow grave she�s dug out with a stick.
We cover them in mounds of soil and she closes her eyes in prayer. I follow suit and pray that our broken hearts may heal and our nation may never rise up against itself. That Chidy�s life, and those of many other children like her, shall be healed by our love and never be robbed in our watch ever again.
I open my eyes to find her smiling, and I know my little Chidy has taken her step towards healing.
Will it happen again? You tell me.

17

And It Came to Pass
 
Steve Bode Omowumi Ekundayo
 
*

 LIFE is like a ripe African cherry fruit of yellow skin, oozing with grey milk from a sweet and sour tissue of flesh. The cherry fruit of life is milky, sweet and sour.
 Okoziwe Obipanu lived in the village of Ogidigidi in Kurukuru Kingdom. Apart from the Okpahin (the Oba or King) of Ogidigidi and the Priest of Ogidigidi�s shrine, no other person was as famous as Okoziwe Obikpanu. Several gifts, privileges, lucks of history and character traits lifted him to the apex of fame.
First, Okoziwe was the most handsome of the men in Ogidigidi. He was tall, slender, fair and beautiful. Only very few women in the village could be adjudged more beautiful than he was. Because he was this beautiful, his mother and sisters over-pampered him. As he grew to become a promising teenager, many women gave him more-than-needed attention and gifts, flirting with him, wishing, praying and hoping that Okoziwe would become their husband. Consequently, Okoziwe became a lazy �king of beauty,� so lazy and effeminate that his father, Chief Idaniya, an industrious farmer, loathed taking him to the farm, for he was irritably lazy in farm work.
Luckily, the teenage years of Okoziwe coincided with the coming of the white men and Western education to Ogidigidi in the twenties. To punish the lazy Okoziwe, his father handed him over to one Reverend Peterson Bushroad who put Okoziwe in Ogidigidi Roman Catholic School. Years later, Okoziwe became literate, writing and speaking English happily. He emerged the first son of the community to receive western education. What started as punishment for his laziness in farm work became a blessing in disguise for him and his community.
Okoziwe became a tin god in the entire Kurukuru Kingdom, to whom many people paid homage, from whom many asked for favours. He was the light of the clan, the interpreter of messages from the white men and missionaries, the reader of letters and the leader and mentor of all. Logically, privileges and rewards flowed to him. As many young girls and married women threw themselves at him, so he held many positions and made a lot of money. He was the first to build a house with modern blocks instead of accumulated mud and bricks and the first to crown his building with shiny white asbestos sheets, called roofing pan. Obipanu, his name, originated from the word �pan.� Obipanu means �the man of pan house.�
�Okoziwe� itself was not the original name his parents gave him. Okoziwe and Obikpanu were a later nickname for his being the first to learn how to read, write and speak the white man�s language and the first to build a house with blocks and asbestos. Okoziwe meant �the one who is well-read, who can speak in the tongue of foreigners.� Both appellations became so popular that people forgot the name his parents gave him at birth.
Unfortunately for Okoziwe, a predicament gnawed at his mind, giving him sleeplessness: Okoziwe had no children. He married Omolewa, the most beautiful girl in Ogidigidi when she was seventeen, at the very ripeness of her beauty and youth. Then he himself was twenty-three years. After seven years of a childless marriage, Omolewa eloped with a prince from a neighbouring village and in the following year, she had a baby boy for the lucky prince. Okoziwe equally took another wife, but he still could not make his second wife pregnant. His second wife also ran away, seeing that Okoziwe was just sleeping with her without results. Okoziwe took a third, fourth and fifth wife but had no child to show for it and they left him one by one. Soon, village singers started taunting him with songs, calling him a well read man who didn�t have a child. Women teased him to the effect that �books and the white man�s language have eaten up Okoziwe�s reproductive viability.� How funny and sad.
This was the predicament Okoziwe had to bear for a long time. All manner of women kept coming to try him, having a share of his handsomeness and money, but none could mother a child for him, or he could not father a child from any. Eventually, he became fed up with women when at forty he could not impregnate any of them. What is sex in marriage that brings forth no child? However, the village-shrine priest kept encouraging him to keep trying because he saw him having a child some day.
One day Okoziwe met a woman in her room on a secret night. Onokome was her name, a woman in her thirties. She was no longer married or under a man, having lost her first husband. The woman had two girls for her late husband. Three months after the encounter, Onokome ran back to Okoziwe to inform him that she was pregnant. Okoziwe was shocked and at the same time amused.
�Are you sure?�
�Yes, I�m dead sure,� Onokome insisted.
�In that case, some man might have impregnated you, not me.�
�Well.� Onokome swallowed the insult, �Contrary to whatever you think, you were the only man I have met in the past three months,� Onokome maintained.
Okoziwe looked at her up and down and sighed helplessly.
�Take and go back. I will send you money regularly to keep yourself. When you have the baby, I�ll see whether it is mine or not mine,� Okoziwe gave Onokome some money.
Later Okoziwe consulted the High Priest of Ogidigidi Shrine for he doubted Onokome�s claim. Among other things that the oracle predicted, Onokome gave birth to a baby girl, an exact photograph of her father. Even the birth mark under Okoziwe�s lower lip, the girl came to life with it. The birth of the girl child shocked Ogidigidi and once again changed Okoziwe�s story. As a village singer sang, Okoziwe was always shocking the community with strange deeds.
At last, Okoziwe became a father of a girl child. It was better than having no child, although society placed higher premium on a boy-child for some cultural reasons. Sadly, however, the woman called Onokome died. Her caul or after-birth did not drop down in spite of concerted physical, spiritual and native medical efforts to make it come out. Before Onokome could be rushed to the nearest hospital at Auchi, she had died! In those days, hospitals and modern Medicare were a rarity.
Aina Adesusu, Okoziwe�s younger sister, who was a nursing mother then, nursed the baby girl whom Okoziwe named �Utulome,� or �Utulo,� a name loaded with meanings. Utulome meant �my special eye, my most precious gift, my light, the apple of my eye.�
Utulome grew up under Adesusu�s motherliness. She breastfed her and her own daughter who was three months older than Utulome. The name of her daughter was Jajajabomo, Jaja for short, meaning �the lively and smart child.� Jaja and Utulo grew up together as inseparable twins. But somehow, Utulome grew faster and bigger than Jaja so that people always thought that she was born before Jaja.
When the two girls were six years, Okoziwe moved them to his house to live with him permanently. There were many children living with Okoziwe, brilliant children of villagers and his relations as well as the late Onokome�s earlier children. His new wife called Ozilo catered for them, but she herself had no child yet for him. So, Okoziwe poured love on Utulome. Anything that affected her disturbed him too. He shielded Utulome with love and protection like a cobra would do to its eggs, never allowing her elder siblings living with him to touch Utulome. Fortunately enough, Utulome was growing fast and big. At sixteen, she was already taller than all the children at home, including her elder siblings. Suitors, princes and the sons of rich men had started running after her. Although Okoziwe would have loved Utulome to get married in time and have grand children for him, he wanted her to acquire education up to university level first. And she was very brilliant, already in her last year in secondary school.
It was at this promising prime of her life that some simple jokes caused an unintended tragedy. One Sunday afternoon, Utulome came home with a gift from one of the young men wooing her. She loosened the shiny wrap before Esheme, her elder sister, a calm, decent and intelligent girl.
�The Prince gave it to me in the church today,� she told Esheme as she hastily tore it open.
�Whoa! My God! Wristwatch, necklace and earrings!� her sister screamed pleasantly.
�Aren�t they lovely?� Utulome asked enthusiastically.
�Yes they are! Men are always giving you gifts�� Esheme observed and Utulo blushed.
�They say that I�m the most beautiful of all the girls in this house,� Utulome said.
�Who told you so?� Jaja came in uninvited.
�They always say so,� Utulo insisted.
�O yea? People also say that I am,� Jaja claimed.
�All right, tell me how many men have given you gifts this week?� Utulo took up Jaja.
�Is it by receiving gifts? They give you gifts and run after you because you�re bigger and taller than all your age mates, even your seniors. They don�t know that you�re just growing like efor vegetable!� Jaja teased her and the family audience burst into laughter.
 �Go away joo! Jealousy! Take away your smelly mouth from a matter that doesn�t concern you! Go and brush those green teeth of yours before you contaminate my love-gift with your smelly mouth!�
Utulome hit Jaja hard too. Not giving up, Jaja replied and unintentionally hurt Utulome, or Utulome felt rather hurt by Jaja�s teases because her remarks somehow carried some smattering of truth.
�Hmmn! Your body and armpit smell like a he-goat�s! Hmmn!� Jaja waved her palm across her nostrils, as if she indeed perceived a foul odour from Utulome�s armpit. Go and bathe yourself, otherwise this odour will chase away your suitors,� she added.
Utulome looked at her angrily, having no matching reply to this remark. Truly, Utulome�s armpit at times gave out a kind of odour, especially when she sweated from the armpit, something characteristic of puberty. But the odour was not as offensive and permanent as Jaja had mischievously put it.
�You�re crazy! It�s you who smell like a he-goat,� Utulome gave Jaja a knock and Jaja slapped Utulome on the cheek. They jumped on each other and started fighting. The others yanked them apart, rebuking them severely. Then Utulome had already given Jaja an upper cut and her mouth was bleeding slightly. When Jaja touched and saw her own blood, she started struggling to fight back.
Suddenly, Okoziwe came in. Esheme quickly hid the gift as everybody scampered to their seats and quietness took over the scene, as if nothing had happened just now. All the same, Okoziwe became suspicious, examining their faces and the scene thoroughly. Utulome could not look at her father. She was hiding her face. Okoziwe looked at Jaja�s face and saw anger and a frown there. Her mouth was blood-stained and her eyes red with an urge for vengeance.
�What�s happening here?� Okoziwe growled.
�Nothing sir? We were playing,� Akugbe quickly answered, giving Okoziwe more cause for suspicion. Akugbe was Okoziwe�s nephew living with him.
�So, how come Jaja�s bleeding from her lips and all of you are this quiet?� He asked, but nobody answered him. �Esheme! Tell me, you are the senior here, what�s happening?�
�Utulome and Jaja were fighting each other,� Esheme revealed.
 �Fighting? Is that true, Jaja?� Okoziwe turned to Jaja.
�It was Utulome that first hit me on the head,� Jaja said, stressing the word �first� and crying. She stressed the word �first� because Okoziwe had earlier decreed that whoever started a fight first or first hit another would be found guilty and consequently punished. All misunderstandings must not go beyond the exchange of words.
�Is that true?� Okoziwe faced Utulo.
�Daddy, she said I smell like a he-goat��
�No, she first said my mouth smells like�like um...like something!� Jaja argued.
�Shut up, two of you!� Okoziwe hushed them and turned to Esheme. �Now, Esheme, what happened?�
Esheme narrated what happened, stating that it was Utulome that first knocked Jaja on the head, carefully avoiding the lover�s gift that caused the trouble.
Why did you give Jaja a knock on the head?� Okoziwe asked Utulome, but she had no defence. �Did I not tell all of you in this house that whoever hits first would be judged guilty? And you Jaja? Why did you hit back? Was there no order from me that no one should hit back?�
Jaja looked defenceless too.
�You see, both of you are guilty. You violated my orders: Don�t be the first to hit, and if you�re hit, don�t hit back! You violated them. Now, two of you, kneel down! I�ll change my clothes and come back for you.�
The two girls knelt down obediently beside each other. Utulome turned to Jaja, put the tips of her index fingers on her lower eyelids and pulled her eyes open, uttering the word �yion� to Jaja, a gesticulation that meant �shame on you� or �serves you right, I don�t give a damn!� Jaja reacted by whispering the phrase �he-goat smell� to Utulome�s face, a thing Utulome hated to hear. So Utulome stubbornly poked Jaja with her clenched fist and Jaja, still minding to fight back because of the slight injury on her mouth, leapt on Utulome. The confusion made Okoziwe rush out of his room in a vest.
�Stop it!� he screamed angrily at them.
�Who started this again?�
�It was Utulome!� everybody said, because they saw when she poked Jaja with her clenched fist.
�Daddy, she still called me a he-goat,� Utulome defended herself.
�Daddy, she was doing �yion� to me,� Jaja protested.
�You stubborn thing! Why are you this stubborn?� Okoziwe picked a torn piece of jeans trousers, swiping at Utulome�s face with it. But to everyone�s surprise, Utulome yelled, as if her father had hit her with a hot iron rod. Everybody burst out laughing because to swipe at someone�s face with a piece of cloth was not as painful as Utulome made believe with her theatrical yell. Utulo held on to her left eye and kept shouting �My eye! My eye! Daddy has injured my eye!�
When she would not stop screaming, Esheme went to see what was really in the eye that she was screaming endlessly. At first, everyone had thought that Utulome wanted attention and petting. But when Esheme saw it, she screamed even louder than Utulome herself. Okoziwe rushed out again, as all of them were screaming, having seen the damage done to Utulome�s left eye.
�Oh Holy Mary! What has cut your eye like this?� Esheme wondered, pulling open Utulome�s palm covering the affected eye. Her palm was soiled with blood. Everyone besieged Utulome, humbled by the injury done to Utulome�s eye. Ozilo, their step-mother, came in at this juncture.
�Whaaat? My God! What have I just done?� Okoziwe screamed when he saw blood oozing from his daughter�s eye. But�what�s in the jeans that could have injured your eye this way?� Okoziwe and Ozilo picked up the tattered jeans to check it. They discovered that the torn jeans still had its iron button and zip intact and dangling. When Okoziwe had given his daughter a swipe with it, the iron zipper had cut her eye deeply.
Utulome was rushed straight to Auchi where the nearest hospital was located. But they were referred to Benin and from Benin, they were referred to Ibadan, the only place they could get expert treatment. At Ibadan, they were told that Utulome had lost her left eyesight forever. The zipper had cut too deep and punctured her left eye.
Okoziwe was demolished. He has unintentionally disfigured his beloved daughter. He wept and refused to eat for days. Everyone who heard about the tragic incident shook their heads in utter pity and disbelief. How could such a thing have happened to this promising princess of beauty?
Utulome spent a month in the hospital at Ibadan for the punctured eye to heal. Thereafter, she was discharged a disfigured beauty! She wept endlessly, threatening to kill herself. But for those around her, giving her emollient words of consolation, she would have taken her life.
Back to Ogidigidi village, all the princes and bachelors of royal lineage chasing her stopped. It was a taboo for a prince, a future king, to marry a disabled or disfigured woman, a potential queen. Even people who were of humble birth would not want to have a one-eyed woman for a wife, let alone a prince or a man of noble birth. So, that was how the shine and bloom was plucked out of Utulome, the blossoming flower.
Okoziwe became forlorn, for the calamity had bleached him of happiness and equanimity. Tears caused down his face whenever he saw Utulo�s hollow and dry eye. His mind went back to the day that he consulted the village oracle and all he had told him: �The woman is indeed pregnant for you. She�ll have a daughter for you. Like the daughter of a goddess she will come with beauty and stubbornness. But no matter what she does when she grows up, don�t beat her, even if she kills a human being, don�t you ever beat her. Others may do that, but not you.� The voice of the oracle now echoed in the hollow of his mind.
�And it still came to pass!� he murmured remorsefully.
 Why did he forget? Perhaps, he did not see any danger in using a piece of cloth to hit her. Really, nothing was dangerous in that, but for the iron button and zipper that cut her eye. Well, there is always but in the stories, achievements, failures and personalities of life. Life is the African cherry fruit, bitter and sweet.
Villagers then changed �Utulome� to �Otulome,� which still sounded like Utulome, but meant something different. Utulome meant �my precious eye�, but �Otulome� meant the �one with one eye.� They started calling Okoziwe �the father of a one-eyed daughter.� Okoziwe found it humiliating to be used as an object of general village song and derision. Anywhere he went, people sang with �the father of a one-eyed girl.� There was nothing village singers would not sing with. The stark reality stared at him. So, Okoziwe found a final solution which he executed without delay on that New Yam Festival day when people were out feasting. He was alone at home. Her daughter had gone to check the result of a scholarship that she had put in for and the other children were out. Okoziwe even refused to see Ozilo, his wife, who said she had something urgent to tell him.
Utulome was rushing home to give her father the good news. She was among the three students given scholarship to study in London. Above anything else, the white man who brought the result told her that in London, she could have an eye transplant to correct her left eye to look good again. So, Utulome was racing home with the double-barrel news for her father. However, when she got home, she found that her dear father had ended his life by drinking a lethal poison that choked his heart in his room. Utulome screamed and ran out. Villagers assembled there in no time, including Ozilo, his wife, and Adesusu, his sister. Utulome read his suicide note and collapsed into an infectious and wild round of weeping:
�My dear, please forgive me. You are my love, the only love of my life. I regret the day I hit you with that jeans. My happiness is gone! I can�t afford to see you agonizing with one eye, villagers taunting you and me. I�ve caused you and me everlasting unhappiness. I can bear no more� and I have no other child! Death obliterates all of a man�s memories! I have to leave. Forgive me! You know I never intended it. Take good care of yourself my sweet darling! All I have is yours and your mother�s, the woman who breastfed you. Please, hold nothing against Jaja, your twin sister. The blame is entirely mine! Adieu my love.�
People were disappointed in Okoziwe for truncating his life abominably. As his adopted children and relations wept, Okoziwe was packaged with leaves and lifted out for burial in the deep forest cemetery for witches, wizards and those who committed suicide. Ozilo wept more than any other person, confiding later in Adesusu and Utulome that she had actually wanted to inform Okoziwe that morning that she was about three months pregnant for him. Utulo wished that she had reached him in time with this news. Perhaps, the news from her step-mother and her could have made a last minute difference.

18

The Prince

Asabe Kabir Usman

*

ONCE there was a king, who had a very handsome son. When it was time for the son to get married, the king got his son the daughter of another king. After the wedding festivities the bride went to live with her husband. But she turned out to be an ungrateful wife. She never made her husband happy, never cooked for him, never washed for him nor swept the house. If the husband complained she insulted him and walked away. If he reported to his father the king, he would tell him not to be angry with his wife.
Things continued to happen this way for a long time until one day, the prince felt he could bear it no more, he decided to leave home. He left quietly when it was dark, without telling anyone. He travelled for days going through bushes and forests. One day he sat under a tree to rest and he slept off. When he woke up he found an old man near the tree struggling to carry up a bag of corn. He got up, greeted the old man and volunteered to carry it home for the old man. The old man gave the direction for his home and they set off.
When they got to the old man�s house, he asked the prince to remain outside while he entered. The old man had three daughters. He told his first daughter to take water in a curved calabash to the visitor outside. When she did so the prince looked at her and said, �Are you giving me only the water or also the calabash�? The daughter felt he was rude to say such a thing. She was angry and went back into the house without giving him the water. When her father saw that she had come back with the water he asked if the visitor had refused to drink but she said, �No dad, your visitor is too rude so I refused him the water.� The father was angry and told his second daughter to take water to the visitor outside and she did. The prince asked her the same question he had asked her sister. She too was angry and refused him the water. The old man then sent his youngest daughter who was the most beautiful of them all. When the prince asked her the question he had asked her sisters she only laughed and said: �The water, the calabash and the cover all belong to you now.� The prince smiled and took the water from the girl and drank to his fill. He returned the calabash to her with a smile and thanked her. She took the calabash in and told her father, �Your visitor has drunk from my calabash.�
The old man was happy and got up to say goodbye to the visitor. When he went out, he asked the prince if there was any favour he wanted. The prince then asked the old man for his last daughter�s hand in marriage. The old man said he had no objection but he had to ask his daughter if she wanted to marry the prince. He called his daughter and told her the prince�s request. The girl said, �If my father agrees, I too agree.� It was then settled. The prince said he would send the girl her dowry. The girl requested for ten white flowing and ten black flowing gowns for her dowry. The prince then got ready, went home and informed his father. His father was very happy for him.
The prince called on his best friend to take the dowry to the bride. When the friend got half way to the old man�s house, he decided to steal each five of the flowing gowns and dug a big hole and hid them. He planned to pick them and sell on his way home after delivering the remaining gowns to the girl. When he got to the old man�s house he gave her five white flowing and five black flowing gowns as dowry from the prince. When the girl saw only ten flowing gowns she knew that something had gone wrong. She decided to find out if there had been any foul play. She told the prince�s friend to go and tell the prince that she had seen his message she thanked him very much, but out of the twenty chickens he had left in her care, the eagle had taken away ten. The friend said goodbye and innocently took the message to the prince. Immediately the prince heard the message he understood what she meant. He asked his friend why he took only ten flowing gowns to his bride-to-be. When he got no answer from his friend, he called his personal guards and told them to punish his friend till he told the truth. When the friend heard this he got frightened, and told the prince that he had sold the ten flowing gowns he had stolen. The prince was angry and asked that his friend to be locked up. Then he called some trusted servants and sent ten more gowns to his wife and asked that his wife be brought to him.
The prince lived happily with his bride. Whenever the first wife annoyed him he sought solace in his second wife�s chambers.
Unknown to the prince another prince was in love with his new wife. One day, the prince went hunting and his supposed rival had him kidnapped. He was taken to his rival�s palace and tortured. The prince�s father, the king, looked all over for his son but there was no trace of his whereabouts.
The kidnapped prince thought of a plan to escape. He told his captors that he had a royal gown at home which had ten openings and asked if his captor wanted the gown. The prince said he wanted the gown for he could never believe there was a royal gown that was so designed. The captured prince then asked that the prince should send his royal vizier for the gown since it was such a rare and precious material.
When the messenger got to the hostage prince�s palace, he gave the message to his father, the king, and requested for the designed royal gown as ransom for the prince�s release. The king thought for a while and said he knew nothing about the gown. He sent for the prince�s first wife and asked her if she knew where her husband kept the supposed royal gown. That one also said she knew nothing about the gown. The new wife was called and asked if she knew anything about the royal gown with ten openings belonging to her husband. The new wife immediately got the message. She called the king aside and told the king that the prince had no royal gown that had ten openings but the message he meant to convey was that the messenger sent for the royal gown should also be held hostage until himself was released. So king gave the instruction to arrest the messenger.
The next day the king sent a message to the kidnappers requesting for his son�s release in exchange for their royal vizier. When they got the message they had no choice but to set free the prince who came back home hale and healthy. When he arrived home safely the royal vizier was released. The prince was now to live happily ever after with his family. When his father, the king, died at a ripe old age the wise prince became the king.

19

The Ungrateful Wife

Asabe Kabir Usman

*

TANIMU, the woodcutter was a very quiet and nice man to stay with. He loved all his neighbors and treated them with kindness but he had an ungrateful wife who was bitchy and spiteful. There came a year when there was a famine and people had nothing to eat so there was no need to buy firewood because there was nothing to cook with firewood. So Tanimu was out of job for a long time. One day when he was tired of sitting idle doing nothing at home, he decided to go into the bush to see if he could get something for his family to eat. He went round the bush for several hours but he could get nothing. He had given up and was going home when on his way he met a very big calabash lying by the road side. He stared briefly at the calabash and walked on. To his surprise the calabash moved and said: �You humans are not polite, when you pass people on the way you never acknowledge their presence nor would you greet them and ask for their names.�
Tanimu looked again at the calabash and laughed. Then he said to the calabash: �I never knew calabashes could talk that was why I did not greet you. I am sorry for that. I do not need to ask for your name for I already know you.�
The calabash asked Tanimu: �Then what�s my name if you really knew it?�
And Tanimu replied: �Your name is calabash.�
Then it was the calabash�s turn to laugh. He laughed and laughed, and when he had laughed to his fill he told Tanimu that he was not calabash by name but Milk Producer. And if Tanimu wanted to see for himself he would produce for him.
Tanimu then asked the calabash to produce milk for him. Hardly had the words finished from his mouth than the calabash became filled with milk. The man sat down and drank to his fill. When he finished he poured the remaining milk away and took the calabash home.
When he got home he asked his wife to ask the calabash its name. The wife looked at the husband in surprise and asked him if he had ever seen a calabash talk in his life. �This calabash is a mysterious one,� the man said. �Just ask it.�
Reluctantly she asked the calabash its name and to her surprise it answered that its name was milk producer and if she wanted it could produce for her. �Then produce for me,� she laughed. In a twinkling of an eye the calabash was filled to capacity. She drank to her fill and then called their five children to come and join. When they finished the husband asked her to wash the calabash and hide it under the bed. This she gladly did.
Every day, morning, afternoon and evening the family brought out the calabash and demanded it to produce. They would drink to their fill and then wash the calabash and hide it. While the whole town remained hungry the wood cutter and his family always had something to eat.
One day the king invited every man to his farm for work and every man went including Tanimu and four of his children. They left the fifth at home because he was too young. When they had all gone out Tanimu�s wife invited all the women in the village for a feast. When they came she brought out the calabash and asked it to produce. It did and every kept on drinking until they could drink no more. Later they all ran home to get calabashes to put the extra milk for their husbands and children. In the struggle for the milk the calabash broke in two. In annoyance, Tanimu�s wife sent all the women away and took the calabash into the house.
When her husband came back with his children, he asked the wife to bring out the calabash because they were hungry. The woman refused to get up saying she was tired, but told one of her sons to get it. The first son went under the bed to bring out the calabash and saw it broken. He brought it out and immediately the mother screamed and said the first son had broken the calabash. The last son quickly said it was the mother who invited all the women in the village for a feast and they were the ones who broke the calabash. �Shut up,� she screamed at the boy and told her husband the boy was lying. Tanimu being a man of great patience only said, �It is God�s will that the calabash should break.�
They slept hungry that day and the next day and the next. When Tanimu could not bear the hunger any longer he went back into the bush to see if he could get something for them to eat.
Like the last time he went round and round the bush and could not find a single fresh leaf, not to talk of a fruit. Like before he started for home disappointed and when he reached the exact place he found the calabash he saw a clay pot lying there. He made to pass and as the calabash did before, the clay pot said: �You humans are not polite; when you pass things on the way you never acknowledge their presence, nor do you greet them or ask for their names.�
This time the man did not laugh but said to the pot: �You are a pot and a clay one for that matter.� The pot looked at Tanimu and laughed. It rolled to and fro until it was tired and then said: �My name is not clay pot. My name is Food Producer and if you want me to prove it, ask me to produce for you.�
Everything was happening as before. The man could not believe his luck. �Okay, produce and let us see,� he replied.
The pot immediately became filled with cooked steaming hot delicious food. The man sat down and ate and ate till his stomach nearly burst. When he was full he found clean water from a nearby well drank to his fill. He washed the pot and took it home.
On his arrival the wife welcomed him and took the pot from him. The wife then said, �Should I not ask the pot its name?�
The man said: �Please do.�
The woman then asked the pot: �What is your name?�
And the pot said: �Food Producer.�
�Then produce and let us see,� she replied.
Immediately the pot became full with cooked steaming delicious food. The wife called her children and they all sat down to eat. The children were very happy. They cleaned the pot and ate from it every day.
One day Tanimu and his four sons went to pay a visit to his parents in another village, again leaving the wife and the last son. When they had gone like before, the wife went to call all her friends for a feast. When they all came, the wife told the pot to produce and it did. They all sat down and ate to their fill. In the struggle to get some for their husbands and children the pot broke in two. The woman sent them away and put the pot under the bed.
When Tanimu and the children came back home the wife said the second son should bring out the pot from under the bed. He went to do that and he found the pot broken. The wife immediately pounced on him saying he had broken the pot. The youngest son made to say the truth of how the pot got broken but she gave him a rude slap him and he kept quiet. Tanimu again said, �It was God�s will that the pot should be broken.� He took the broken pieces from the wife and threw them away.
The very next day Tanimu went back to the spot he had found the calabash and the pot and there he found a bone. He greeted the bone and asked the bone its name.
 The bone said: �My name is Meat Producer.�
Tanimu told the bone to produce for him and immediately the bone turned into a big roasted meat. He sat down and ate till he could eat no more. When he was full the remaining meat turned into a bone and Tanimu carried it home.
Hardly had he got to the door when the wife ran to him and seized the bone from his hand.
She asked the bone what its name was and the bone said: �Meat Producer.�
She quickly ordered: �Produce for me,� and immediately the bone became a big roasted meat. The children and their mother ate to their fill. They kept the bone safe and kept eating the meat it produced for days until one day when Tanimu and children had to go hunting for the king.
Immediately they left the woman ran to her friends. This time she did not need to call them. As soon as they saw her they followed her home. She brought out the bone and asked it to produce and it did. They ate the meat till they could eat no more. As greedy as ever they struggled to get a share of the meat for their families. In the struggle the bone broke into two. She sent them away and put the bone under the bed again. When the husband came home she asked her third son to bring out the bone. He found it broken and she accused him of breaking the bone. The husband said nothing.
The next day he went back to where he had met the calabash, the pot and the bone and there he met a cane. He asked the cane its name and it said it is called Strokes Producer. What kind of strokes, the man thought and then said: �Produce and let me see.�
Immediately the cane started beating the man. It beat the man till he could no longer scream for help. He fell unconscious. When the man came round he took the cane home. When the wife saw him she ran to welcome him. The man then said: �This one I brought is the most delicious of all. I have eaten mine so you may eat yours in the room. Since our children are very naughty and keep breaking whatever I bring home we won�t call them to share with you. So go into the room and close all the openings you can find so that the children wouldn�t even have a smell of it.�
The greedy woman did as she was told and ran into the room. She closed even the smallest hole she could find. Immediately she locked the door, she asked the cane to produce. The cane started giving her real hard strokes. She screamed and screamed but no help came. When she could scream no more she fell unconscious and the cane stopped. After she regained consciousness she took the cane and put it under the bed. The next day she told her husband and the children to leave the house.
When they had all gone she went to call all her friends to come for a feast and they did. She locked the house and asked the cane to produce for them and it did. You need to hear the fearful screaming and howling. They screamed and screamed till their voices turned hoarse with grief.

20

Lord of the Creeks

Benson Udoh

*

IT was a cold, harmattan evening...

Just before sunset, a strange group consisting of men and women, chained together in gangs of fours or fives and herded by mean-looking men wielding horsewhips and weapons, staggered into Buppa village -a small settlement overlooking the notorious slave port in Okoloma.
Jaja, a child of six or seven, was among the group that arrived in chains that evening. From the elevated terrain, he could see parts of the lush kingdom of Okoloma spread out below him, like a craftily embroidered damask wrapper caught in the glowing embers of the evening sun.
 Buppa was a small settlement, serving primarily as a mustering point before slaves were herded off to Okoloma. At first sight it announced itself harmlessly enough as a row of bamboo huts at the mouth of a quiet, muddy creek. A few mangrove tree roots strutted into the water on both sides of the bank, creating a narrow passage way where small canoes and boats could easily navigate towards the ocean. The settlement was flanked on one side by thick mangrove fores, and at the other end by a gradually expanding clearing. In the middle of the clearing was an open space where stout wooden beams were driven into the ground to form a rough circular enclosure.
The prisoners, laden with fatigue and misery, were ushered into the enclosure with kicks, rough shoves and loud curses by their minders.
It had been a most gruelling journey. Jaja was bruised all over, and ached in every joint. Exhausted, battered and gasping for breath, he had staggered to a stop as soon as the harsh command, �Halt!�' pierced his eardrums. It was a word that usually heralded oncoming brutality to an erring captive. But at that moment, it commanded a pause -even if momentarily in their collective suffering.
Jaja glanced about him, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings. This was the first human habitation they had encountered in days. During their long march his ears had been filled with horrendous tales of this mysterious camp from fellow slaves. Most chilling were the tales of impending horror -branding with hot iron, incessant beatings and sometimes outright murders that were said to be quite common here.
These recollections gave him not the slightest comfort. He could see some of his fellow prisoners huddled together, equally as petrified at their stop as he was while others, too exhausted to remain on their feet, simply collapsed to the ground.
Jaja himself sank to the ground as slowly as his bonds allowed him. His captors busied about, passing water in gourds and small earthen-ware vessels among the prisoners. They untied the ropes and chains from some of the prisoners. Others whom they probably considered as security risks simply had their bonds slackened to minimise the possibility of revolt or sudden escape although, practically, that was quite unlikely. Apart from being deterred by the unpleasant consequences of torture or death upon capture, some prisoners were too exhausted even to think about regaining their freedom. The gruelling journey and persistent ill-treatment had robbed them of the freedom of choice.
They had started out from the slave market with about forty-three prisoners. Two men had been exemplarily shot for attempting to escape; two had died of illnesses. A woman was abandoned to die in the forest after being too weak to continue. Still they were pressed on. Ill-treated, barefooted and raggedly clad, the prisoners had been forced-marched through dense jungles, squelched through stinking swamps, tackled rugged tracks and forded neck-high streams. They had been drained of blood by clouds of mosquitoes which kept them company throughout their journey. They were fed stale meat and water once a day. Several suffered from diarrhoea. At present they felt lucky to be alive.
 Armed with the realisation that their march for the day was over, Jaja slowly dragged himself to a corner of the enclosure to rest his back on a wooden beam that formed part of the crude fence.
Somewhere in the distance he could faintly hear the exciting chatter of women and children from the fringes of the enclosure -possibly curious villagers from the settlement trying to get a glimpse of the latest arrivals. They spoke a different language which he did not understand, giggling and pointing at the prisoners. Some of the local men got closer and chatted with the slave traders. A few bargains were quickly struck. One man in particular was talking animatedly and pointing at him. Jaja was to later learn that the man's name was Chief Enebo.
Jaja was worn out by his experience. He ignored them and waited, eyes closed, stomach rumbling for his ration of stale meat and water.
It was growing dark. He needed to sleep. Hunger and misery had, however, sharpened his senses somewhat. He could smell the foul stench of decaying vegetation and mud that rose from the creek and hung over the settlement like a haze. He could, more closely, smell the blood and sweat and vomit and festering sores that emanated from several unwashed bodies of fellow slaves around him, some of who bore hideous horse-whip marks as testimonies of their captors' unquestioned authority and brutality.
Yet, somewhere above the potpourri of hellish odours, Jaja could perceive the very familiar aroma of roasted yam mingled with the smell of smoke from a nearby hearth. It was quite an appetizing smell that involuntarily summoned saliva into his mouth. It sent sharp pangs of hunger and homesickness through his young, starved frame.
He groaned, licking his dry lips. The thought of home-cooked food evoked nostalgic recollections of a once happy childhood that now seemed like a distant dream.
Staring unseeingly at the remnants of the setting sun as it slowly disappeared into the gathering dusk, his mind flashed back to the night some weeks past, when armed men from a nearby hostile community raided his village, Orolu, and forcefully captured him and other villagers in their sleep. He was too dazed then to realise what was happening. By the next morning, he had been sold to slave traders and found himself in a chained group, trudging through thick forests and heading further and further from home.
In the early days, he had cried his eyes out and refused to eat. But hunger and constant whipping had finally made him compliant.
Now, sitting in chains in the middle of nowhere, he longed for home. He longed to hear his mother's voice again, taste her food, wrestle with his friends, or go swimming in the village stream. Alas! All that was gone. He had become a slave. Was he indeed, lost forever? He was appalled at the thought that he might never see his homeland again. Hot tears welled up in his eyes. He wished he could afford the luxury to hope.
*
�Wake up, Jaja, wake up now!� a hand shook him roughly.
He stirred, half-awake and blinked myopically at the oil-lamp held just inches away from his face.
�What's it, Priye?�
�Dada sends for you. He's dying.�
Priye was chief Enebo's uncle. He, like the chief, was advanced in years and was the chief most trusted confidant and adviser. In his thirty-six years of living in Okoloma with the Pelemo household, Jaja himself had come to respect Priye almost as much as he respected his master, Chief Enebo. The old chief himself had been seriously ill for some months past. Over the last few weeks he had grown steadily worse.
And Priye seldom does errands. Seeing him at midnight and in such a state got Jaja very nervous.
�What time is it?� he asked, stifling a yawn.
�Just after the first cock crow,�' Priye said, �there's no time to waste.�
At that, Jaja quickly roused himself and followed the old man out of his hut, towards the chief's quarters.
Chief Enebo lay on his mat, quite feverish and breathing spasmodically. His upper torso was covered with medicinal okposo leaves, mashed to pulp. His youngest wife, Adanne, knelt beside him and occasionally applied a damp cloth dipped in a warm herbal portion to the chief's chest. His other two wives sat on the floor nearby. Ivonne, the eldest, was crying quietly. Directly above the sick man's bed, a wooden carving of an iguana, the sacred deity of Okoloma, dangled from a raffia rope. It was left there that afternoon by the medicine-man to ward-off evil. An oil-lamp set on a low stool beside the mat provided the only light in the hut.
Jaja entered the hut just as Priye was setting down his lamp near the foot of the mat. The chief was conscious, but barely so. Seeing Jaja, he made a feeble effort as if to stand up, but erupted in a violent coughing spasm. Jaja quickly squatted near the mat. He reached for chief Enebo's hand.
�Easy, Dada, easy.�
Adanne hurriedly applied a piece of cloth dipped in a steaming potion nearby, to the chief's forehead. Ivonne broke into another round of monotonous whimpering.
Jaja watched helplessly as the chief coughed his life away. It took a while before the spasm subsided and he resumed his slow, laboured breathing again. The hut was silent.
�My son,� the chief uttered in a hoarse whisper.
�Dada.�
�My eyes are growing dim. I'll soon be joining my fathers.�
�You must be strong Dada.�
�I know. But you must be strong too. I sent for you, Jaja, not because I'm dying, but because I'm leaving you with a great responsibility.�
There was silence again as the chief paused to regain his breathe. Jaja looked around him at the faces of those in the room. They all stared back at him blankly. Nobody seemed to have a clue as to what was coming.
�Thirty years ago, I bought you as a young slave and, having no son from my loins, named you Jaja and brought you up in my house as my son. I've not had any cause to regret my decision.�
He breathed heavily for a while. �You served me well,� he continued, �and through your hard work you've risen to a status that few sons of Okoloma have ever attained as the foreman of our household and a family elder in your own right. You've made the entire house of Pelemo proud.�
�Thank you Dada. I owe everything I am today, to your kindness. I'll always remain grateful.�
�Our fathers are calling me, my son,�' Chief Enebo said. �I won�t tarry much longer. I'm placing my house and all the families of Pelemo in your hands.�
He paused and turned his head slowly, facing his assistant.
�Priye!�
�My lord.�
The old man hobbled over to squat beside the mat. The chief's chest was heaving again.
�Give me your hand, Jaja,� he rasped. �Quickly.�
With a great effort, he grabbed Jaja's extended hand and pivoted it in Priye's direction. The strain of the exercise was telling heavily on him. His breathe was coming in short rasps.
�Bear me witness, Prince Priye Diobu Wakama,� he began, �bear me witness our fathers long, long gone but who are here. Bear me witness, all ye gods and goddesses of Okoloma. I, Enebo Ogene Diobu Wakama, place my son...whom I named Jaja Ogene Diobu Wakama Awajima, in my stead as head of the house of Pelemo -when I am no more.�
Saying that, he dropped Jaja's hand into Priye's extended palms and collapsed, exhausted, on the mat.
The news took Okoloma by storm.
The dull monotony that characterised life in the quiet community suddenly disappeared almost overnight. Chief Enebo was widely known and respected in Okoloma and its environs. The news of his death quickly spread like wildfire. From hearth to hearth, from boat to boat, and at popular gathering places, the favourite topic was the Chief's demise.
Equally making the waves was the shocking announcement by the late chief's uncle, Priye, that Jaja, the foreman of the house of Pelemo and a former slave, had been named the leader of the Pelemo household. The cache was that the head of the Pelemo household automatically became the ruler of Okoloma kingdom.
To some it was a nightmare.
Chief Osaro was returning from a trading trip at one of his outposts near Brass when he received the news from a passing fishing boat. Osaro was an elder in the Pelemo household and head of the Rumuko family, a subset of the Pelemo household.
He, like many others in Okoloma, claimed to do business with the white men, which usually involved trading in palm oil and spirits and gunpowder. Rumour had it that he also covertly engaged in shady dealings involving slaves despite the ban in such trade. No one had ever questioned the veracity of such rumours and Chief Osaro never volunteered information as to the true nature of his business. On the surface, he owned a few trading outposts in the creeks but no one from Okoloma ever visited them.
Osaro was an ambitious man and, judging from his substantial wealth, a successful businessman too. In fact, many viewed him as the likeliest successor to chief Enebo as the head of the Pelemo household. As his boat slid to a stop beside the wooden pier of Okoloma, he was met by his trusted foreman, Taribo, who confirmed the news to him.
�By all the gods, I hope that this is indeed a joke.�
When Taribo assured him it was not, he grew suddenly silent. Looking visibly distraught, he made his way slowly to his house, ignoring the welcome greetings from acquaintances and other villagers he passed.
To him, the old chief's death was long anticipated and secretly prayed for but the announcement of Jaja as successor was such a heavy blow to his secret ambition. The old chief in his illness, no doubt, must have been quite delirious and as such, was not in his right senses to make such an outrageous pronouncement. Osaro felt he must do something to fight, nay, correct the injustice done.
That night, he sent for the leaders of the six families that made up the Pelemo household. He needed their support in his scheme. If he could win them to his cause he would rule Okoloma.
Meanwhile, he made preparations to receive them. He set up seats in his spacious courtyard. He brought out his best bottles of imported gin and set it up in the centre of the seats with wooden cups to go round. A slow fire, made up of logs of mangrove timber, smouldered nearby, providing light and warmth. Taribo, his right hand man, stood just outside the shadows to quickly respond with more drinks, or perhaps a few manilas -as gifts, should the night turn out as well as Osaro hoped.
Shortly before midnight the chiefs arrived.
Osaro watched as they filed in one by one. Chief Ukwere, from the Itighi family and the oldest man in the house of Pelemo, was the first to arrive, followed by Ndume, representing the Kigibo family. Then came Elder Alaka from the Oboli family, Ngboagbali from the Ukue family, and of course, Chief Alaibe, Osaro's best friend, from the quite influential Utana family. Chief Ogwima from the Biri family begged off but sent his eldest son, Oyima, in his stead.
Osaro nodded with satisfaction as they took their places and exchanged pleasantries.
�Come, my elders, let's share a moment together in these sad times.�
He handed Chief Ukwere, being the eldest person present, the bottle of gin for the ceremonial blessings. The chief touched it and passed it to the next person beside him, who did likewise till the bottle finally made its way to back to Osaro, the host. The traditional acceptance observed, Osaro broke the cap and poured out a portion as ceremonial libation to the ground before pouring a small quantity into his wooden cup. He beckoned to Taribo and handed him the bottle. Taribo then started pouring into the cups of those present. By the end of the second round, the bottle was half-empty. At a signal from Osaro, Taribo went into his master's hut and returned with another bottle -just in case. The serving resumed.
After a few minutes of general conversation, Osaro stood up and cleared his throat. The gathering fell silent.
�My brothers, my friends, my elders, I salute you all,� he began. �I thank you for coming out to my little hut on an instant invitation.�
�I thank the gods who brought us here safely,� Alaibe chipped in.
�Yes, my friend. That shows the gods are with us.� Osaro resumed. �I called you out of your wives embraces, out of your children's entreaties, and from your gods' protection because of a very serious issue that demands our collective attention and swift response. Again, you must pardon me for this great demand I've made of your time.�
�Go on,� Chief Ukwere prompted.
�My words are few, yet they hold much weight. We've all been made to witness a most hideous sacrilege. Sadly, we've lost our patron and head of all the families in the house of Pelemo. I feel his loss as much as any true son and daughter of Pelemo. However, my brothers, I wish to protest a most misguided mistake our late leader made -a mistake that affects us all, affects our place in the house of Pelemo, and affects our sacred duty as custodians of the traditional stool of Okoloma. It's not our departed Chief's place to single-handedly chose Jaja, a slave, as his successor, when able sons of Pelemo are very much around to lead the household.�
�Yes,� Alaibe chipped in on cue. �Personally, I don�t think that is the way things should've been done. I don't have anything personally against Jaja. He practically grew up here in Okoloma, in the household of Pelemo. Chief Enebo, who bought and adopted him, is dead. Who can now tell where Jaja's loyalties lie? I've observed with dismay, the impromptu procedure that brought about his emergence as the head of Pelemo household. By the gods, there're other equally qualified foremen in each of our six families that make up the household who can lead the house of Pelemo as well as him. Jaja is an outsider. A child cannot be asked to rub the head of his elders often. One day he might be tempted to try a knock.�
�Listen, Alaibe, before you fly off,� Chief Ndume said. �I'm really surprised at the subject of this meeting. I thought it was a gathering to discuss our ideas and contributions to the burial rites of our late head, as is the custom. I won't be party to any conspiracy to drag down the name and prestige of our family in the mud. Jaja has been a good foreman in the Pelemo household. He has represented the house's business and interests well. I wonder if anyone here doubts that.�
He looked around, seeing no response, he continued. �Surely, from time immemorial, our custom had allowed foremen -whether slaves, servants or freeborn men, to succeed a family or house head, when nominated to that position by the current head, or council of chiefs. Take for instance, the House of Kiribiri.....�
�Not in this case,� Osaro cut in. �We are not members of the house of Kilibiri. They can do as they please with their headship. Our house holds the traditional stool of Okoloma. It's our legacy as the sons of Pelemo. The late chief shouldn�t have unilaterally appointed a successor without the presence and approval of the council of chiefs. It is an illegal pronouncement which must not be allowed to stand.�
�We'll not recognise, or accept Jaja,� Alaibe insisted, bitterly.
�Then who do you have in mind, yourself? Osaro? Talking of legality. Is this meeting legally convened?� Ndume asked. �Why are Priye, the house adviser and Temepri, both heads of two important families in the house of Pelemo, not here?�
�We know where their loyalties lie,� Osaro said, �that's why we count you as one wise enough to support your true kin. We share of the same blood, same ancestors, same history, same gods. Surely, you wouldn't stand against me in leading our house now that we need someone who feels what we feel, thinks what we think and whose same blood also flows in your veins to control our affairs and bring prosperity to our community? Will you chose to align with a usurper?�
�Go and wash your mouth in the creek, Osaro. Jaja is no usurper. Chief Enebo made no mistake. Jaja is a son of Pelemo and he's fit enough to be the head of the Pelemo household as well as you or I.�
Alaibe stood up.
�I know you, Ndume,� he stated. �I know people like you. You sell yourself to someone like Jaja so you could eat his crumbs.�
�The gods bear me witness if I don't tear you limb by limb and feed you to the fishes if you open your mouth to abuse me again,� Ndume also sprang up, adjusting his loin cloth.
Tempers were rising. There was a general finger-pointing and exchange of sharp words. Finally, Chief Ukwere, aided by his walking stick, slowly rose up.
�Enough of this quarrel. Enough!�
The group gradually fell silent. Ndume and Alaibe, after glaring at each other briefly, aided by the dim light from the smouldering logs, sat down heavily at their places. The chief continued.
�Elders of Pelemo, it saddens me this night to see us fighting over mudfish, when the boat is leaking.�
�Ambition, selfish ambition,� Ndume murmured.
�Greed,� Alaibe interjected.
Ukwere ignored them and continued. �The Pelemo household has for generations, been exemplary in its affairs. True, Enebo, the head of the household is dead. It's also true that he named a successor. However, our custom allows us seven days of mourning before we celebrate a new head of the house. I suggest we go home, grind our teeth like adults over this, while we proceed to give our late chief a befitting memorial as custom demands and as due his status. Thereafter, we'll see what the future holds. May we not allow the house of Pelemo be made a laughing stock by hasty actions, please, I beg of you all. Osaro, I thank you for your warm hospitality,� Ukwere sat down.
�Well spoken,� Ndume commented. �Well spoken.�
�We'll meet at the Pelemo town hall. And all the family heads will be present.�
�I agree,� Alaka commented, followed by a general murmur of agreement from all except Alaibe.
�I�d better catch some sleep then,� Oyima said, speaking for the first time. He had not said a word throughout the exchanges.
�Goodnight my elders,� he stood up.
�We�ll meet again, soon,� Osaro called out as the meeting broke up. As far as he could tell, that was the end of his little scheme to form an alliance against Jaja.
Shaking his head, he gazed in dismay at the now empty bottle of gin that Taribo had so painstakingly preserved, and at the disappearing backs of the chiefs as they slipped one by one into the starless night.
*
They buried the chief at night.
Customarily, the burial of such a high profile chief was only witnessed by titled chiefs of the Okoloma community, led by the Pelemo household. The burial rites proper were overseen by the Priest of Okperri - the cult of the iguana and python, which were considered sacred animals and deities by the Okoloma people. Other households in the kingdom and beyond sent their elders and family representatives. The three wives and daughters of chief Enebo had to remain at home. Tradition did not permit their presence at the burial. In fact, only a handful of close relatives including Jaja and chief Priye, accompanied by the members of the Okperri society made the group that carried out the old chief's burial.
Just before dusk, the boat carrying the remains of the chief, closely accompanied by the group, set out to the burial island some distance away from the communal pier. All along the stretch of water leading to the island the priest, dangling a fowl in one hand and a small clay pot in the other, chanted incantations, invoking the ancestors and the gods to welcome their son home. The tide was going out and it was the custom to carry out burials at low tide. As the canoes neared the island, men from Pelemo's house jumped out and dragged the canoes through the shallow water till it berthed in a mud patch. They tied the canoes to a protruding tangle of mangrove roots. The body, wrapped in woven raffia netting, was lowered into the grave first. Then two small baskets, containing copper manilas were placed on each side of the corpse. As a mark if his personal status, and a parting gift, Jaja placed an elephant tusk at the head of the grave and two specially-made gold manilas on each side of the grave. Lighted brands illuminated the procedure.
The priest then slaughtered the fowl, spilling the blood on the ground and around the grave. The gods of death thus appeased, members of the Okperri society took up hoes and began covering the grave, as the priest's sacred chants rose in crescendo and reverberated in uncanny echoes through the ancient mangrove forest, puncturing the still night around them.
By morning, the formal mourning days had begun. The Priye family house, which was the centre of the Pelemo household, was filled to overflowing by visitors. The Pelemo household was well-established and was one of the most respected in Bonny kingdom. Some visitors had arrived overnight by boat, coming from as far as Degema and from Brass to pay their respects. Among the dignitaries that came to commiserate and congratulate Jaja as the new leader of the Pelemo household was Prince Hillary Bori of the Kalabari kingdom. He was Jaja's bosom friend, but then, little did he know that their special relationship will greatly affect Jaja's future in years to come.

They came for him at night.
Rowe, his personal servant and bodyguard heard the commotion first. Then a shrill scream pierced the night, as the marauders broke into the female servants' quarters, which was located near the back of the compound. Jaja's men were ready. Ruwe gave the signal and the resistance came out in full force to repel the intruders. It was Osaro's men against Jaja's.
The latter had got wind of Osaro's scheme to get himself on the traditional stool of Okoloma. The latest being a plot to assassinate Jaja culminated in the invasion of Jaja's home.
News of the plot had filtered to Jaja soon after it was hatched. He had time to prepare well in advance. He had also received the support of his Kalabari friend, Hillary Bori, who supplied him arms and some of his best fighters.
The battle was short-lived. Jaja's men, supported by his Kalabari mercenaries, prevailed and pushed the attackers out of the compound. The attackers were taken by surprise by the sheer ferocity of the resistance. Seeing the large number of Jaja's force emerging from the night, the morale of the attackers quickly waned and they hastily took to their heels in retreat.
When daylight came, the toll was taken. Jaja lost four men but the attackers lost over thirteen and six captives. Osaro himself got wind of his defeat and fled Okoloma before he could be apprehended by Jaja's men.
*
Lord Whitcliff was drenched in sweat.
The meeting was called at the insistence of Lord Whitcliff, the new Captain who was representing British interests in the Bight of Bonny. Sitting in a carved wooden stool and wearing a tight cravat, knee-high leather boots and a boiler hat which he refused to take off even in the shade of Jaja's expansive courtyard which was amply shaded by imported almond trees, he was ridiculously trying hard not to look too uncomfortable -despite the thirty something degrees of heat that seemed to add in no small measure to his predicaments. Underneath his cool demeanour he was fuming. Despite presenting his quite elaborately exaggerated credentials and an entourage which included military officers and British merchants to impress this local King, Jaja seemed more difficult to bend than he had envisaged. He knew Jaja held the upper hand no doubt based on a pre-existing agreement but he, Lord Whitcliff, being saddled with such enormous affairs as protecting and expanding Her Majesty's interests and supposedly with the powers behind him will be damned if he was bogged down by this mean-looking, smart-assed negro chief who fancied himself an emperor in his little backwater domain.
�King Jaja, we need to review the tariffs on Palm oil. We also need access to trade directly with the hinterland traders to avoid delays to our supplies. We urge you to review our treaty and make some concessions.�
There was a pause as Jaja looked up from the new draft Lord Whitcliff had presented to him. It had been two years since he had assumed leadership of Okoloma.
He studied his visitor carefully. A young and pompous British aristocrat. Newly arrived from London as a replacement for the former pro-consul, Sir Winslow, he already fancied himself lord of the region. Jaja had been on friendly terms with Sir Winslow who, after a protracted bout of malaria, had been forced to retreat from the white man's grave, to the safety of his country. Jaja suspected that Whitcliff may have been unwittingly dragged to the negotiations by the greedy merchants now hovering like vultures behind him.
�I have lots of hungry mouths to feed,� Jaja replied, patronisingly. �I have a territory to protect; I have our young men becoming restive and a growing population to keep engaged in honest labour. These fresh demands of yours to allow your traders to by-pass us and buy oil from our suppliers put our livelihood at risk. You offer nothing conciliatory in return so we could fall back on. We'd simply be overrun and trampled to the ground by your merchants. Your people owe us taxes to sail on our waters, use our piers, trade in our territory and even for sleeping with our women.�
Whitcliff glanced at the small group of merchants and British soldiers behind him. His courage climbed a notch. He decided to be a bit more direct.
�The odds are against you, Jaja,� he resumed, trying to instil authority -the authority of the Crown in his voice. �We could either negotiate these new terms peacefully or we could tear through this kingdom and control the trade ourselves. We have a formidable army and weapons at our disposal, you know. We have....�
�Are you threatening me, boy?� Jaja suddenly bristled in a voice that quickly made a few attendants on both sides bolt upright.
�Em....Oh no, not at all,� Whitcliff grew red in the face. He didn't want to appear fazed.
�I assure you, that's not what I meant,� he managed a nervous smile, seeking a way to ease the sudden tension. Damn it! He was getting carried away by this man's obstinacy. Diplomacy, he reminded himself, diplomacy for now, or at least a semblance of it.
�I was simply hinting at our options, which I must admit and you know, based on our existing agreement, we are not at liberty to employ,� he continued.
�Neither is it in your best interest to consider even the remotest possibility of mentioning your options while the treaty holds, which, as I recall and as a matter of fact, governs your general conduct too. I suppose you realise that the French and the Portuguese have regularly offered us more incentives to deal with them. Yet I continue to respect the treaty your people signed with us. I expect you to do the same,� he glared at Whitcliff.
Whitcliff's eyes snapped shut and then flew open again. His fingers curled into balls of fists under the table.
Jaja did not give him time to recover.
�And while we're on the subject, pro-consul, you should please always address me as Your Majesty. The treaty acknowledges that.�
Whitcliff could have burst an artery. First he had been kept waiting for an hour by this king and now he was being systematically humiliated. He had known that it would be difficult to convince Jaja to agree to fresh terms. The pressure from the British merchants had been growing. Jaja's decision to impose surcharges on every barrel of palm-oil as well as review the price and quantity purchased directly from the natives had infuriated the merchants. They argued that it was detrimental to their businesses and would undermine British authority in the region. Worse still, he had hinted at an alliance with their French and Portuguese rivals.
Whitcliff felt he had to do something. After all, his orders were to improve and expand trade and administrative interests on behalf of the Crown. Such obstinacy could not be tolerated. He could either woo or push out Jaja and cajole the rest of the houses controlling the oil trade into line. Cut off the head of the snake and everything falls in place.
But he would have to go about it very carefully. Other protectorates were watching.
But the question was how? For the moment he had to play this out and project himself as harmlessly as possible. He also had to consider his personal safety. After all, he was in this man's territory. The longboat was still a long way off and the naval ships were, at least, a day's sail away -a day's sail away!
Then an idea hit him. Genius! He almost smiled as he savoured the simplicity of a strategy that was forming in his mind. He, Whitcliff, he assured himself, will single-handedly see to it that Jaja's days were numbered.
With a wicked gleam in his eye, he excused himself to consult privately with his entourage.
Moments later, he returned, looking quite sober.
�Your majesty,� he began, �On behalf of my countrymen, I apologise for our needless and ill-advised demands. I've now been made fully aware of your sovereign rights as regards these matters and I wish to assure you that we will keep to your new terms as we have no desire to break our long standing treaty. The prosperity of our English merchants equally requires the protection of the commercial interests of the Opobo people. Your Majesty, we will agree to your new terms. All we ask of you is to keep our dialogue options open and, of course, keep the French and Portuguese out of our mutual interests.�
�Well spoken,� a few voices chorused after him.
�We have heard you, pro-consul,�Chief Priye replied him. '�I assure you that the household of Pelemo and the leadership of all the houses of Opobo equally have every intention of respecting the treaty your predecessors so wisely signed with us many years ago, unless you give us sufficient reason not to.�
�There's none, whatsoever. In fact, as a proof of my goodwill, I shall personally prepare a new treaty and include your new terms -to which I have no personal objections. And if your majesty will be so gracious as to allow me invite him on board my ship to sign the treaty, I beg for the honour to use the opportunity and employ our finest British hospitality so as to erase this unfortunate debate from memory.�
�I may indulge you,� Jaja responded.
�Then we may safely conclude that we have reached an understanding, mayn't we?�
�Indeed, we do,� Priye responded, sporting a satisfied smirk on his wrinkled face.
The meeting was over.
As Whitcliff was escorted by his retinue of hangers-on towards the waiting boat by the pier, Jaja sat brooding, wondering what had caused Lord Whitcliff to capitulate so suddenly. How exactly had the merchants persuaded him to accept his terms -the very terms they themselves had been complaining about? Or perhaps Whitcliff was looking for an excuse.... an excuse for what?
 He knew something was not right.
He prayed the fish should bite.
The next day, there was a secret meeting at Lord Whitcliff's cabin, onboard the Fortune, Whitcliff's flagship.
�Jaja has crossed the Rubicon. We cannot accept his terms whatsoever,�Lord Whitcliff was addressing the gathering of merchants and his military advisers.
�We'll be ruined,� Sir Maxwell, an aging merchant with a high-pitched voice, whined. �How could you concede to Jaja's outrageous demands? We can neither afford nor accept his conditions.�
�I must admit, you are right,� Lord Whitcliff concurred. But I agreed to the king's terms for a purpose -a higher purpose, I assure you, gentlemen. Very soon, you will resume your businesses without interference from this man. Right now, we need to replace him. That's why I've called you all here today, to ensure that my plans succeed.�
�What's your plan?� asked Rudwell, a beefy merchant with a sad face. He had been the most silent so far among the group. �We cannot kill him outright; there'll be anarchy all along the coast.
�I have a beautiful plan. I've invited the king onboard Captain Doorwell's ship. He expects to come and sign the new treaty. Once he arrives onboard, he'll never set foot on this land again.�
At that moment, a ship's officer entered the cabin and whispered into Whitcliff's ears. Soon, he was seen nodding approvingly. Thereafter, he straightened up and addressed the gathering,
�At this moment, I've been informed that we've found a replacement for Jaja. An old foe of his, has agreed to handle any fallouts that may follow Jaja's absence. He, of course, will oblige our interests to the fullest.�'
�Sounds brilliant,� Maxwell hesitatingly chirped.
�Is there any objection to our installing the new King of Opobo?�
No one showed any desire to object.
�In that case, let's not waste time, gentlemen. Let's prepare to welcome the King on board.

*
�You could have died in exile.�
�Is it worse than dying a Pelemo, under Iron Jaja?�
Alaibe roared into another round of mirthless laughter. That was his third jab at Osaro that afternoon and none, so far, had as much as tickled Osaro's fancy.
Osaro was frowning as the latter, unperturbed, took a long sip of the freshly-tapped palm wine from the gourd Taribo had brought, wondering for the third time: �What on earth is Alaibe doing in my house?� Surely he had not been roused from his siesta to listen to idle talk and stale banal jokes from Alaibe. Since Taribo had insisted that his visitor claimed to have important information, he had reluctantly indulged him. He made a mental note to have Taribo whipped, later. Alaibe, on the other hand, was in a mood of sorts. He had done nothing but drink and drool since he arrived. He did not seem to be in a hurry to leave. Soon he launched into another narration.
�There's this story about Udey, from Brass, who had a slave, named Koko. Koko was an expert boatman but was often ill-treated by Udey, his master. One day Udey bought a new boat and invited three of his friends to see it. It was a covered boat, the first of its kind in Brass. Udey was very proud of it.
�In due course, he decided to take his friends for a ride on the river. As expected, Koko was chosen as the boatman for the day. The group filled the boat with delicious food and were eating and drinking merrily in celebration. None of the food or drink, of course, was shared with Koko despite his complaints of hunger.
�As they were leaving the beach, Udey, Koko's master, let out a fart. For sport, he blamed it on Koko, accusing him of polluting the air. All four men in the boat then took turns to give the poor boy a knock apiece in punishment. Koko bore it calmly with a straight face.
�Not too long after, as they were heading further upstream, Udey had the urge to pass gas again. He did so loudly. The sport was repeated, leaving Koko with a splitting headache. Still Koko didn�t say a word.
�As the gods saw fit, soon it started to rain. Determined to show off his new acquisition, Udey ordered Koko to cover the boat, so that none of his guests onboard would get wet from the rain.
�Koko, of course, complied. The rain fell quite heavily and the inside of the boat, being covered for a long period, became quite stuffy. The occupants were sweating but would not open the boat covering else they would be drenched.
�That was when Koko's stomach saw it fit to start rumbling. After an awful moan, Koko himself flinched as a ball of gas escaped nether regions in a long, quiet hiss.
�For a moment, no one onboard seemed to perceive what was amiss. They thought it was one of Udey's cruel jokes until, suddenly, the foul air from Koko's insides hit all four men in the boat.
�It was so obnoxious that Udey's friends could no longer remain in the boat even after opening the cover. They had no option than to jump into the river and swim wildly to the nearest shore.
�However, Udey, who could not swim, had to remain in the boat and suffer through it all, till Koko eventually rowed him ashore.�
Alaibe erupted into another session of monotonous laughter. Osaro condescendingly smiled. After a polite spell of playing the gracious host, Osaro's patience and curiosity got the better of him.
�Ala, Ala, my friend,�' he teased. �I was told you had some serious matter to discuss. I trust you wouldn't travel all the way from Okoloma to this sad place just to drown in my palm wine.�
�True, my noble friend. A toad does not run for no reason in the afternoon. Either it is after something or something is after it,� he proceeded to pour himself another generous helping.
�So tell me, Ala, what's bothering you?�
�Good news,� Alaibe took a longer sip. �I have good news. The gods have answered your prayers.�
�How's that?�
�Jaja, that usurper, will no longer fart and give you headaches at the same time.�'
�Stop speaking in riddles, Ala.�
�I'm here to tell you that our arch-enemy, who was imposed on the house of Pelemo by that no-good son of a bad mother, Enebo, will soon be gone. The better part of the news is that you, our son, our blood and my friend, has been chosen to take over the affairs of the house of Pelemo, from henceforth. It is high time you returned to Okoloma and claim what is rightfully yours.�
�Alaibe, do not taunt me with your tasteless jokes, please. Had the elders of the other families stood by me, instead of crossing over to hustle for favours and trade alliances with Jaja, I'd have been the head of the Pelemo house by now.�
�You needn't worry anymore. That bunch of old fools will be gone, especially Ndume who opposed us from the onset.�
�By the gods, please Alaibe, tell me you're serious!�
�The gods have indeed decided to bless you. An emissary from the new pro-consul arrived my house yesterday.�
�Lord Whitcliff ?�
�The same !�
�What did he want?�
Alaibe lowered his voice conspiratorially.
�He wanted me to endorse a possible replacement for Jaja.�
Osaro's eyes grew wide.
�Wait, wait, Ala.� He leaned closer. �What's he done to offend his friends? I thought he was, as they say, wining and dining with the white men?�
'Apparently, he fell out of their favour. I heard he refused to negotiate on the trade agreements brought by the pro-consul.
�So they sent for you?�
�No, the representative sent for me. When I met him, he simply asked for my opinion on the matter of finding a replacement, perhaps counting on the leverage that I have with the other houses of Opobo, besides the well-known fact that I hate Jaja's guts.�
�And...?� Osaro asked, rubbing his hands with child-like glee.
�Of course, I had only one worthy name to recommend -my noble friend, Osaro !�
�May the white man's gods and ancestors and everything he holds sacred reward him.�
�Those are my very prayers, my friend. A kingdom awaits you. Prepare to return to Opobo at once. But you must remember that the white man, of course, expects your full allegiance in return for his support, especially in those areas where Jaja has been found wanting.�
�Come, my friend. That isn't a difficult task. Let us put our minds to rest. Sometimes I used to hate the white man. But today, I love him like a brother!� Osaro concluded.

*
It was easier than they thought.
Jaja stood on the open deck and watched, helpless and heartbroken as the coast receded into the distance. Sweat broke out from his forehead. He clutched the wooden rail of the ship tightly, as dizziness swept over him. He could not take his eyes off old Priye, waving frantically from the swaying boat and growing smaller and smaller as the wind filled the ship's sails, or Ruwe his faithful servant and bodyguard who, seeing Jaja hoisted and roughly shoved onto the ship's deck, had flung himself into the water and swum furiously towards the ship. He was shouting and calling out. No one, however, could hear him.
It was a quiet day in May. Few fishermen's canoes and trading boats were about. All were oblivious of the monarch's kidnap.
Ruwe continued to shout, choking on water himself. No one paid him any attention. The ship, now on full sail, was gathering speed and heading out towards the open ocean.
A lump had formed in his throat. Jaja knew he had been irreversibly trapped the moment he arrived on board. He recalled with a sad sigh the beautiful face of his young wife, Unwanne, who had playfully said to him this morning, �Daa, please don't enter the white man's boat. It's too big. It'll swallow you.� To which he had playfully responded, �Let me be, child. You worry too much. Remember that I'm Jaja, King Jaja. I'll swallow the boat myself.�
How had the tide now changed!
He feared as he stared at the golden sun hanging low over the horizon that he might never see his daughter again. For the second time in his life, he was heading towards the unknown.
�Your majesty, sir,� the ship's first mate was at his elbow, nudging gently. �Lord Whitcliff requests your presence below.�
Jaja ignored him briefly. He knew he was a prisoner and the voyage will not likely end soon. He gazed long and hard for the last time at the land which he had called home all his life -a land in which he had arrived with nothing but his bare skin and the looming prospect of a dark, uncertain future.
Now, decades later, and a sizeable quantity of his sweat and blood spilled, an enviable kingdom lay beyond the receding shoreline, half concealed by the gathering mist. No conquest, treachery, or authority could possibly erase his name or legacy from the land he was now leaving behind.
Somehow, Jaja resolved he will not give up. He may yet rise again. He had risen once before when his odds were down.
Hope, he mused, was a luxury he certainly could well afford.
With a heavy heart, he finally tore his gaze from the shore and was escorted without ceremony below deck.

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