by Okey Ndibe
“A great friend of mine,” Jideofo said with a flourish when he was done talking. “He’s interested in running for the Senate and wants me to see if the road is clear.”
“They are all rogues, these politicians,” said one of the men.
“All they know is grab, grab, grab,” said another. “They grab whatever is within sight.”
“And a lot of what’s not in sight,” the first man added.
“Let’s not deceive ourselves,” Jideofo said in a magisterial tone. “Who among us will spit out the sugar that is put on our tongue?”
His challenge was met by a spattering of inarticulate grunts and muttered protests.
“Let’s not lie to ourselves,” he insisted, slipping the two phones back in his trouser pockets. “Everybody likes his sugar.”
“But the thing that is sweet also kills,” one of the men said.
“We have to break a kola nut,” Osuakwu announced, stilling the argument.
He washed his hands in an earthen ewer, then selected a kola nut from a wooden bowl. He shifted in his chair, his gaze focused on the statue. The nut cradled in his fingers, he began to make invocations, fluidly moving from ritual language to proverbial statement.
“Ngene, you’re the hand of splendor, the hand of riches! You’re the breast that suckles the baby! Crab’s head that baffles the world! Ngene, you said you prefer scrambling to sharing. It’s that scrambling that we’ve started already. When it comes to talk, any man can boast he’s the equal of another. It’s in the test of strength that we know the man of valor from the weakling. Ngene, you’re the one who swallowed the thing that swallowed an elephant. You’re the one who pried off game from the lion’s jaws. The majesty of the lion and the majesty of the man of wealth are of a kind. You’re the lion that guards the hearth. The lion may be alive or it may be dead, but may no man pull its tail. Do we scold a lion to his face? We throw words at a lion asleep in his lair; when the lion awakens, his slanderer must fall silent. The brave man goes to war, but the coward owns the story. A brave warrior is saluted twice, once in life and once in death. Ngene, you’re the chief warrior among deities. The hunter may be brave, but can he bare his eyes to the porcupine’s quills? The mouth said the head should be cut; when the head is cut, the mouth goes with it. Ngene, you’re the ukwa pod, full of amazements. At birth, the pod is as small as a baby’s thumb. Mature, it’s heavier than a man’s head. Falling from a tree, the pod smashes the tortoise; rolling, it squashes the python; the old woman stoops to heave it up and falls squat on her bottom; speared open, it smears the hand with sticky, slippery sap. Ngene, you said if your enemy sues for peace, then you become a dove; provoked, you become a hawk. Pushed to fight, you spare no foe. You said if your foe stands in front, you will afflict his front; if he stands behind, you will menace his back. You said it’s not good when a man eats igbagwu and eyes akpu. Ngene, you’re that flood that defies swimming. You’re the deluge that razes ramparts. Your rage sweeps away the homestead.”
Osuakwu paused, his face set in the cast of a man in the throes of deep mysteries. His rib cage swelled and contracted from the exertion of an invocation spoken with force and rapidity. The torrent of words had struck Ike with a mixture of awe and an oppressive sense of terror. It was as if Osuakwu had sloughed off a familiar identity to become a different being, human still, but only barely. The transformation was most evident in Osuakwu’s eyes.
Ike shook with fear at his uncle’s eyes. They’d assumed a vapid, strangely distracted quality. They seemed able to pierce the membrane of secrets concealed in Ike’s heart. They could penetrate his remotest thoughts and grasp his invisible schemes. It was as if they could discern the invisible hieroglyphics of desire embossed in his soul. They seemed no longer capable of functioning like ordinary eyes. It was as if they no longer focused on things with fixity and solidity.
Sweat ringed Osuakwu’s eyes. Streaks of it coursed down his face, then dropped onto his shoulder and bare chest. He surveyed the room. His frightful, vapid eyes settled briefly on each man’s face. Their blank gaze seemed at once unseeing and all seeing. Eyes that plumbed beyond the surface, drilled past the superficiality of concreteness. Ike felt dazed as those eyes gazed at him. He could hear the sound of his chest exploding inside him. He began to feel drowsy.
Another phone began to ring, the tone a vaguely familiar melody. Osuakwu grabbed a sleek, black phone from a low bamboo table. “Allo!” he barked, a disconcerted look on his face. He told the caller to call back, he was in the midst of breaking a kola nut, and then hung up.
The intruder dismissed, Osuakwu held the kola nut to his face, his eyes trained on it. He spoke in a less fevered voice, his tone calmer. “Ngene,” he said, “when the sun blazes, we know it’s time to offer you the nut of noon. The palm of a hand cannot conceal a pregnancy. The palm does not conceal the sun. We beg you to come and eat this nut. May other deities of Utonki come and take their share. Our fathers, your nut is here. May the powers embedded in the earth come and take their seat. The mysteries that inhabit the rivers, come for your due. A good cheek should never be slapped.”
“Isee!” chorused the men.
Osuakwu continued: “It is no trouble to hand a gourd to a monkey. The question is, how do you get the gourd back?”
“The truth!”
“He who wants to be like an eagle should not fly with turkeys.”
“Isee!” the men punctuated.
“The sighting of a deer surpasses the killing of it. The doe and her offspring wear the same skin. A masked spirit always sets its sight on sunset.”
“It’s as you say!”
“Surprise is what defeats a warrior, yet surprise is the test of a warrior.”
“Eh!”
“Our meal is cooked. We’re only waiting for it to be taken down from the fire.”
“Isee!”
“May our eyes not see what has never been seen. And may we never have a story we can’t find words with which to tell.”
“Isee!”
“May we be like the sun, shining on friend and foe alike. May we be like wind, traveling the world without any foe to bar the door.”
“Isee!”
“May we be like truth because truth is like noon.”
“Isee!”
“Truth is naked.”
Lifting his face, Osuakwu cast his eyes at the rafters. Then he continued: “Chukwu, you who hold the sky, we offer baskets filled with thanks. You who nestle your head on the clouds and use the earth for a footstool, we offer you kola nut. You created the coconut and gave it water to drink. We pray that you may give us the luck of the coconut. The tree whose breaking crack we hear, may it not fall on our heads.”
“Isee!”
“You have looked after our son here,” he said, motioning in Ike’s direction. “You guided him as he traveled through seven seas and seven hills to return to us. You made sure that his toes struck no stone or stump. We thank you for being awake when we sleep.”
“Isee!”
“May we not die premature deaths; instead, may our troubles be limited to pangs of hunger. A man with life will find food to put in the stomach. If death doesn’t kill the penis, it soon eats bearded meat.”
“Isee!” the men exclaimed, chuckling.
“May we never be afflicted by ten malefactors at once.”
“Isee!”
“Chukwu, we look up to you in the clouds, and we show you the nut in our hand. You should eat in wholes that we may eat in bits.”
“Isee!”
“May we not be like yesterday, for yesterday shrivels and dies. May we be like tomorrow, because tomorrow is never exhausted.”
“Isee!”
“May we not resemble the path to the firewood den; the path is abandoned as soon as the den boasts no wood. Instead, may we be like the path to the spring; the path is forever trod by human feet because a spring never dries up.”
“Isee!”
“When I chew and spit on a neighbor�
�s chest, may he not chew and spit into my eye.”
“Isee!”
“May fish have life and may the river have life.”
“Isee!”
“He who pollutes a stream must remember that he drinks from the same stream.”
“Isee!”
“Our people, may this nut bring us the good things we dream about. And may it chase off the evil things our enemies dream for us.”
“Isee!”
“May my guest not stifle me; when he leaves, may he not have a hump.”
“Isee.”
“Our people, we shall live.”
“Isee!”
Osuakwu broke the nut. He spliced two tiny pieces and threw one at the statue, the other outside. He put the other lobes in a wooden bowl. Suddenly, his eyes widened in excitement. Gazing at the lobes, he wore an expression of intense fascination. “Look,” he said, leaning forward so that Ike could see the bowl. “They’ve given us four lobes! Four, for the four market days—Eke, Oye, Afo, Nkwo. Four, the sign of prosperity. It means that hunger will never dog you; your journey will always be filled with success.”
Ike’s eyes flitted toward the statue, and he quickly withdrew them. He smiled wanly at his uncle, struck by the cold irony in the old man’s prophecy.
A puff-faced man called Don Pedro was the youngest in the circle. Standing up, he spliced the four lobes into smaller pieces. He held out the bowl to Osuakwu. The priest pinched a piece and began to chew slowly. When it came his turn, Ike pitched a piece of kola nut in his mouth and crunched it down. Its sharp bitterness made him smart.
“So you still know how to eat kola nut?” Iji asked.
“Why not?” Osuakwu said, frowning. “If Ikechukwu has forgotten how to eat kola nut, do you think he would have found his way back home? Next thing, you’re going to ask if he still eats akpu and ofe onugbu. That a man lives among white people doesn’t mean he’s become a white man.”
“Osuakwu, let’s thank Chukwu that our son here is not like ofeke who flies away to any new song,” said Agbusi. “I tell you: some of our sons and daughters, once their feet touch the white man’s soil, forget their hearth. One of them came home recently and told his mother that he no longer ate akpu. It smells, he said, forgetting that the sweetness of akpu is in its smell. And he said he no longer liked ofe onugbu—it was too bitter. When his father offered him palm wine, the rump turned up his nose. The wine was dirty, he said. For food, he ate uncooked leaves! Uncooked leaves, as if white people had turned him into a goat. He even took to speaking to his parents in the white man’s tongue, even though neither his father nor his mother ever broke a slate or learned ABC. He spoke through his nose, too, just like the white man! That’s why I say, let’s thank Chukwu that our son here still knows the ways of his people.”
“The man you described is efulefu,” said Osuakwu. “Mark my words, efulefu. He’s the type who would sell a parcel of land and buy a mat. There’s a difference between efulefu and nwa afo. My son here came from good loins; he’s nwa afo. He may go from here to the moon, but he won’t ever forget the path back to his home. Where he stands, no efulefu can stand beside him.”
Ike sat with a strained smile as his uncle and the shrine’s habitués praised him and castigated mimics of white ways. Seizing on a lull in the seesaw, Ike said, “Osuakwu, I didn’t know you had a cell phone.”
His uncle laughed. “I have two. A man must dance the dance that reigns in his time. The dance of today is cell phone.” He pronounced the words as cellu phony. “Every puppy now carries one. That’s the latest thing oyibo brought.”
“I would have been calling you from America.”
“It’s not too late to start. Tabu gboo,” Osuakwu replied. “I’ll give you my numbers. and you can start calling.” He paused and rubbed his palms together, producing a soft chafing sound. “Masiolu told me that you’d like something to eat. They say that surprise is the doom of the warrior. Still, I think both Masiolu and her mates can scrape up something to fill your stomach.”
The mention of food triggered long-forgotten memories of prandial delights at his uncle’s. In his younger days, Ike used to salivate at the prospect of eating at his uncle’s. Osuakwu’s wives—there were four of them, the youngest younger than Ike—spoiled him. The four women were such excellent cooks that Ike used to marvel at his uncle’s culinary luck. When Ike ate at his uncle’s, each wife brought a cuisine, sometimes two. Primed by the aroma, Ike’s appetite always roared, keen as parched earth. He’d fall to with gusto, his shoulder looped over the variety of steaming meals, head fixed on the mini-banquet. He looked up only after his belly was bloated, stretched to a bursting tautness, so that the least movement was agony.
One part of him yearned for that, but a different part of him demurred. Nostalgic memories imperiled his mission and had to be kept at bay.
“I’m not hungry,” he said. He clasped his hand, steeling himself against the quest that agitated within.
“But you told Masiolu you were going to eat.”
“I spoke in jest.”
“In jest?” Osuakwu quizzed. “Is that what your white hosts have taught you, not to eat food but to make jokes about it?” He scrunched up his face and regarded his nephew. “That little tummy of yours looks unfed to me. Have your white hosts been starving you?”
“I eat,” Ike protested playfully, rubbing his unprepossessing paunch with wide exaggerated arcs of the hand.
“Well, I know that Masiolu was putting a few things together for you. You have to go into the house and see what she’s prepared. Even if you’re not hungry, dip a finger in the soup and lick it. We have all kinds of drinks here, but it’s better to have oil in your stomach first. Go and see Masiolu.”
Ike rose, relieved that the decision had been made for him, and headed for Osuakwu’s homestead.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ike returned to the shrine forty minutes later. He had overindulged in a delicious meal of pounded akpu and ora soup. “Did Masiolu find something for you to eat,” Osuakwu asked, “or did she send you away hungry?”
Ike gasped and rubbed his taut stomach.
Osuakwu and the other men laughed at the gesture. “Odi nma,” Osuakwu said, “now you’re ready to drink. Don Pedro, give him what he wants to drink. We have gin, we have beer, and we have palm wine.”
“Gin,” Ike said.
Osuakwu reached to the left of his cane chair and picked up a bottle of Schnapps. He used his hand to wipe off a thin film of dust from the green bottle. He twisted its cap, and the muscle in his arm tautened until it came open. He rose, holding his waist at a slightly bent angle, then walked to the statue.
“Ngene, we come with something to drink,” he said. He tipped the bottle and let three drops fall on the statue’s head. Straightening himself, he walked to the shrine’s wide entrance. “Our fathers, we have something to drink.” Then he allowed a tiny stream of gin to drop to the earth. Osuakwu handed the bottle to Don Pedro, then reclaimed his chair.
Pedro picked out a large glass tumbler from a clutter on a carved table. He raised the tumbler, blew twice into it, and then flipped it. He handed the cup to Ike and readied the bottle, pouring until the tumbler was nearly full.
Ike brought the glass to his lips and braced himself. The gin’s fiery power exploded in his mouth. He winced, then sucked in air.
Osuakwu burst out in laughter, slapping his thighs. “Has it woken you up?”
Ike nodded.
“That’s why it’s called you-push-me, I-push-you,” Jideofo said.
“Hot water that only strong heads can carry,” Osuakwu said. “Don Pedro, pour me some wine—or did I throw a stone at your father?”
Pedro laughed, then obliged.
Ike gathered himself and downed another helping. His tongue, better prepared, was less scalded. Impressed, Osuakwu said, “Now, you’ve shown yourself a match for it.” The other men spoke their praises.
They fussed over Ike for a while, then drifted to oth
er topics. One man talked about a land dispute that had wound through the courts for nine years. And then the judge, having accepted a bribe, had ruled for the impostor. Another man related the scandal of a young woman from a neighboring town who had eloped with a man, an osu. The young woman’s grief-stricken mother had drowned herself in a well.
“The young man must know a special way to pleasure her thighs,” Don Pedro suggested. “A dibia must have given him a powerful love potion.”
“Yes,” Iji concurred. “I know a dibia whose potion has never failed. Not once! Touch-and-follow, that’s what it’s called. Touch a woman with it, and she’ll cling to you as a snail clings to a leaf.”
“Would this charm work on white women?” asked one of the younger men, casting a mischievous glance in Ike’s direction.
“Kpom kwem!” Iji said, as if affronted by the very question. “Are white women not women? Let me tell you, a woman, whether black or white, carries the same thing between her thighs.” He looked at Ike, seeking corroboration. Ike kept a straight face, as if oblivious. Osuakwu began to laugh, and the others joined as well.
Ike leaned back, his head pressed against the cool earthen wall. The glass of gin held in both hands, he sipped intermittently and squirmed as the men traded ever-edgier stories. Sometimes a verbal fight would break out between two or more of the men. The antagonists trumpeted each other’s scandals. How long, Ike wondered, before one of them went past the point of restraint and threw a fist? But it never got to fisticuffs.
A dull pain sat in Ike’s lower belly. He’d made a mistake, he realized, by drinking such strong stuff after eating spicy ora soup and a bowl of pounded yam. He felt giddy; the edges of things seemed to shift, testing his sight. Gin fumes now wafted from within him, the air in his nostrils leaden.
“There’s nothing worse than a man who buries his senses in drink,” Jideofo said.
“Except a man who raids wombs,” Iji riposted.
The two men seemed experts at needling each other, their taunts acerbic and casual at once. Were they, Ike wondered, as tipsy as he? Did alcohol beat a conga in their full, sated palates? He drank again. Then he stole a glance at his uncle. If Osuakwu was worried, he hid it well, his face imperturbable. He was sunk in his cane chair, hands twined behind his head, eyes slightly shut. He wore a wistful, incurious expression, as though indifferent to the bitter propulsion of stories and insults.