by Okey Ndibe
“Tell me,” Ike said.
“Open your ears and I will. In the days of old, when lizards were still in ones and twos, our ancestors knew that gods are not far from humans in kind. Like us, gods can fall asleep, shirking their responsibilities. Their heads can swell with pride. Filled with bitterness, they can turn against the very one who feeds them. Full of spite, gods can bite both foe and friend alike. Our ancestors knew this; that’s why they insisted that gods must have bodies. You should ask me, why bodies?”
“Why bodies?” Ike asked.
“Because bodies die. Did you know that our people sometimes kill off a recalcitrant god?”
Ike had a vague sense of this practice, but he wanted to hear his uncle flesh it out. “They do?” he asked.
“Yes. When a deity leaves what it was asked to do and starts doing something else, when it turns on the community it’s supposed to protect, or when it begins to thirst for too much human blood, the people snatch up its body—its wooden body—and set it afire at the boundary of the clan. That’s one way of killing a god.”
“So there’s a second way?” Ike asked.
“Yes, in fact there’s a simpler way. A deity is like you and me; it needs to eat and drink to live. That’s why we offer sacrifices to deities. When a deity doesn’t receive the kind of sacrifice it needs, it dies.”
“These things are deep mysteries,” said Iji.
“Yes,” Ike said.
Osuakwu ran his wrist against his forehead, smudging the droplets of sweat. “My son, that’s why, when they told me that your mother now belongs to a church whose god is invisible, I knew that there was trouble. I put my ears to the ground, curious about the madman who brought in this church. What I found out almost deafened my ears.” Seeing two of the men whispering, he paused. He resumed when the whisperers ceased their muttering. “I found out that the man was born in Amanuke. I also found out Uka was not his real name.”
“It isn’t?” Ike asked with awakened curiosity.
“No. He chose that name, and he chose it to hide something. Listen and I’ll peel it open for you. This madman’s grandfather was a feared robber whose name was Okaa Dike—”
“Okaa Dike?” exclaimed the old man.
“He’s Okaa Dike’s grandson?” Iji asked, whistling his amazement.
“Yes, Okaa Dike,” Osuakwu confirmed. “Most of you hear the name today, and it means nothing to you. That’s because you’re too young. But there was a time when you didn’t mention the name Okaa Dike unless you were well fortified with ogwu. In his time, Okaa Dike struck terror in the hearts even of brave men. There was no barricade he could not breach, no fence he could not sneak through. He had one ogwu that was called Ikuku, because he could turn himself at will into wind. That way, he entered any barn and squeezed underneath any barred doors. If Okaa Dike wanted to steal from you, you tried to stop him in vain. In his heyday, he was better known as Efi Epeka, for he could hoist a stolen cow on his shoulder and carry it a long distance to his home. Nor did he hide his nocturnal activities. Okaa Dike was known to send a message to his victims that he was in possession of their property. If you wanted your goods back, he gave you the option of trading in something else of value, or giving him the price he named. He openly boasted about his thieving. It was said that, once, a fellow robber challenged him to a contest to decide who had the superior prowess. The two decided to visit each other’s home and steal whatever they could. Okaa Dike asked the other man to start. That night, while Okaa Dike slept, his adversary sneaked into his barn and stole two goats and some tubers of yam. The next morning, the successful robber thumped his chest, showed off his loot, and made a mockery of Okaa Dike. Okaa Dike thundered out in laughter at the other robber’s boasts. ‘My friend,’ he asked in genuine surprise, ‘this is the best you could do? You still steal goats and yams? Shows that your stealing arts are those of an infant.’ That night, the other robber made certain that his cows, goats, yams, and other possessions were taken inside his hut. He then bolted down his door. Satisfied that Okaa Dike would be a frustrated prowler, the man went to sleep. When he awoke the next morning, he found himself in Okaa Dike’s home! And Okaa Dike had also hauled home the man’s two wives and all his children. That day, the whole world knew Okaa Dike was a robber without equal.” Osuakwu paused again. A wicked grin lit up his face.
“Tell me how he ended up,” Ike said. “How did he die?”
Osuakwu thrust his gaze at vacant space, his face screwed to an expression of unyielding nonchalance.
“Did he die a normal death?” Ike prodded.
Turning sharply, Osuakwu looked at his nephew. “A normal death?” he muttered, his forehead creased. “A man who didn’t live normally, how could he die normally? But I haven’t finished telling how he lived. When Captain Park, the white conqueror, arrived in these parts with his new ways and laws, Okaa Dike recognized him as a threat. It is said that he tried to rob the white man, but Captain Park proved that he knew what the old rogue knew. Okaa Dike thought hard and long and then decided it was best to befriend the white man. Their friendship paid off, for Okaa Dike was soon made a warrant chief, with power to judge cases among his people. Imagine making a thief into a judge—that’s one of the ways oyibo muddied our water. Captain Park was like a man who doesn’t know how a corpse was buried; such a man exhumes a corpse from the leg. You can guess what kind of judge the rogue became. He could make right wrong or wrong right. In his mouth, white became black; black turned white. You won only if you stuffed his pocket. If you depended on the straightness of your case—if you thought your case to be as clear as noon—then disappointment awaited you in this man’s court. Two men appeared before Okaa Dike feuding over a bewitching damsel. The judge dismissed their claims, then forced the woman into his harem. In one land case, neither party saw fit to grease Okaa Dike’s palm. He denied both claims and took the disputed land for himself! Once, he ambushed another beautiful woman on her way to the stream. He carried her home and ravished her. He swore to jail her husband if she let out a scream. That ambush became his undoing. The woman’s husband knew everything there was to know about spells and malevolent charms. He pronounced a terrible curse on Okaa Dike. His male offspring would ever be wifeless. If they had children, it would be with women of the road, women who spread their thighs to the manhood of strangers.”
Osuakwu’s lips parted in a malicious smile. A whirl of thoughts crisscrossed Ike’s mind. Head cradled in one hand, he secured his depleted glass in the other. He remembered how he’d been struck by the oddity of finding the pastor’s home bereft of a wife’s presence.
“You have seen the pastor?” Osuakwu asked.
Ike nodded.
“Then you’ve seen how old he is. A man his age without a wife—tell me that something isn’t wrong there.”
Iji cleared his throat fussily. “The man has changed his name, but he can’t shake off his curse.”
“And he can’t,” added Osuakwu with finality. “I don’t care how much he bleats.” To Ike, he asked, “Do you know he’s been to jail?”
“Jail? No. What for?”
“Well, anything born of a snake will never fail to resemble a rope. He used to live and work in Lagos. He sneaked in at night and stole the money kept for the salary of fellow workers. He went to jail for five years. He fled the city after his discharge—too many people knew him there. He landed here and began his church of madness.”
For a minute or two, Ike quietly digested the welter of information about the man he knew as Pastor Uka. Unable to decipher what was true, what concocted, he tottered between acceptance and doubt, illumination and lingering darkness. As he harvested heaps of details about the pastor’s past, dim as well as remote, he was riled by an awareness of a decided slipperiness, an elusive quality to it all. The more stories he heard, the more questions were agitated in him. Some of the questions were fragmentary, unformed, impossible to articulate; others he chose not to ask. As his thoughts swelled and ran in disparate
directions, he remembered a simpler question. “You haven’t told me how Okaa Dike ended up,” he said.
“How else? Dead!” Osuakwu said. “And at the hands of the white man.”
“They quarreled?”
His uncle’s tone was at once deadpan and oblique. “Captain Park found the rogue on top of his wife. Okaa Dike’s charms could not still the fire from the white man’s gun.”
“And today, his snout of a grandson takes insane aim at Ngene,” Jideofo said. “You can heal a madman, but you can never take away that occasional mutter from him.”
Don Pedro took the bait. “Indeed it takes an insane man to threaten Ngene with fire. A child sees two fighters who’re separated, and he hungers to fight.”
Osuakwu’s words scalded, but he spoke in a flat voice, free of bile. “The madman’s mouth may crackle like the ukpaka pod, but when his eyes see something greater than madness, nobody need warn him to take to his heels. A child becomes sleepy only after he eats the thing that keeps him awake. Okaa Dike’s grandson is a man blown about by the wind. An efulefu.”
For some time, the old man seemed to drift in and out of sleep. Suddenly, his head snapped forward. He jerked awake, yawned, and began to speak.
“If oyibo had not spoiled the day, a man like him would never dare utter one word in the face of Ngene. He would not live to see another sunrise; his anus would have been sealed up for him.”
“Do you think he’s got away scot-free?” Osuakwu asked, a frown darkening his face.
“How can?” answered the old man. He took a moment and looked around the shrine. “Let me ask the young men here a question. Can any of you tell me the story of the village of Hiho?” He looked around, his gaze pausing questioningly on each younger person’s face. “I didn’t think you’d know,” said the old man. “Do you know why? Because the story is older than you. Only Osuakwu and one or two others here can tell it. So listen.
“Once upon a time, there was a small, remote village in a patch where nothing remarkable ever happened. One day, the young men of the village met to talk about their village. Speaker after speaker said he was tired of living in a village where nothing grand ever happened. They resolved to do something dramatic, something that would put salt into their tasteless lives, something that would make the rest of the world hear about their small village. So they decided that all the villagers, men, women, and children, old and young, must gather to cut down an iroko tree. Once the tree began to topple over, all the villagers must line up and catch its massive trunk with their bare hands. At first, the village elders balked at this insane plan. The iroko, the mightiest of the mighty trees, was not to be caught by bare hands, they warned. But the young men were not about to accept the defeat of their dream. They insulted the elders, calling them corpses on stilts. Day and night, they taunted the oldies until, finally, each one of the elders agreed to queue up. Hearing about the plan, the village children were seized by fright. The iroko tree, they cried, would crush them into the dust. Again, the young men were not going to accept no from anybody. Puppies, they called the children. Puppy, puppy, puppy. Tired of being insulted, the children agreed to line up. The women wailed and said they were not up to catching an iroko tree with bare hands. They, too, were teased until they agreed to the plan. The appointed day came. The entire village, men, women, and children, old and young, stood in line. From early morning to late afternoon, sweat poured out of the young men who sawed at the majestic iroko. Finally, a crack warned that the tree had begun to fall. A shout went out to catch it. In unison, everybody in the village of Hiho raised a hand. As if rejecting their handshakes, the tree smashed their bodies and crushed their bones into the earth. Since then, no human voice has ever been heard in Hiho. But the village had given the world one big story. A big, cautionary story.”
“That’s what will happen to the madman who calls himself pastor,” Osuakwu said. “He has thrust out a hand of challenge—and Ngene never shies away from a fight. If an adult lizard doesn’t show what makes him an adult, children will roast him for their meal. Uka may think his madness has fetched him profit, but let’s wait. A house constructed with spittle is always demolished by dew.”
Falling silent, he gazed vacantly, gnashing his teeth. He looked in time to see Ike draining off his gin.
“Give him more,” Osuakwu said.
Ike made to protest, but Don Pedro was quick to the task, pouring until Ike made a motion of ducking his glass.
Ike cast a resentful eye at his refilled glass, as one might an intractable task. His stomach growled. As each moment passed, his body seemed to grow denser, and yet he was a man blanketed by a cloud.
If he was going to drink the gin, he had to drink it like a flagellant. He readied himself and threw back his heavy, swirling head. He twirled the liquid around in his mouth, letting it scald his gums. Then he swallowed in one brisk gulp. It was akin to pouring liquid fire down his gullet.
His legs chafed with the stiffness of cramps. Sitting still, he gently kneaded his thighs and calves. Gradually, the cramps lost their sizzling power. He rose to take his leave. For the first time, he looked fixedly at the statue, for inebriation had scuttled his scruples, emboldened his gaze. The statue—its white paint smudged with sacrificial blood—returned his stare with stiff indifference.
“You must visit again before you leave,” his uncle said. “Masiolu has fed you today. My other wives must also cook for you.”
“Yes,” Ike said. He momentarily peeled his eyes from the statue. “I’ll come again, in a day or two.”
“Come the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon. You’ll meet a man of learning who knows everything about John Stanton.”
Ike brightened. “Stanton?”
“That’s the one. None of us here had been born when this man arrived on the bank of River Utonki. He was the first man to challenge Ngene to a duel. A man who teaches at our big school has written the story of what became of him. That man will visit me here in two days. He’s the man who rang me on the phone as I was breaking kola nut. I’ll ask him to bring you a copy of his book. You know the story of what happened to the white man who trifled with Ngene. You will now read it in a book.”
A shiver lashed Ike’s body. His lips parted in a weary smile. He cast a sideward glance at the statue. He saw it—he could swear—wink at him, a quick, insidious wink.
He looked at his watch. “I have to go,” he announced. Then a lie: “I’m expecting somebody.”
He scrambled to his feet. Alcoholic fumes floated about in his head. He tried to stand still but had the sensation that the ground shifted, spinning slowly.
“Shake my hand again,” Osuakwu requested.
“And ours too,” Iji said.
Ike went from person to person, pumping hands. He wore a fixed, mirthless smile. The most imperceptible gesture seemed overly exaggerated, tiresome. His feet could not coordinate well with his eyes. He misjudged the elevation of the single step that led out of the shrine. He staggered back for an instant, but rallied just in time. Then he hoisted himself over the step, sapped by the effort.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ike’s mother sat outside the house, a corn-filled basket between her legs. She stopped husking as he entered.
“What took you so long?” she asked. Her eyes animated her sweaty face. “I was about to send Alice to the pastor’s house with food for the two of you.”
“I left the man’s house a long time ago,” Ike said. “Mama, what do you know about this man you call pastor?”
She sat up. “He’s a holy man of God. And he’s going to bless you.”
“How about his past?”
“How about it?”
“Do you know he’s the grandson of a terrible robber?”
She sprang to her feet, clenched arms placed on her hip, a fighter’s posture. “Ikechukwu, who are you talking about?”
“Pastor Uka,” Ike said gruffly. “But Uka is not his real name.”
“My ears won’t hear your sic
k words.” She raised both hands and plugged her ears. She sat back down, her face an expression of pained bewilderment.
Ike waited until she removed her thumbs, humming a religious song.
“I heard things today about Uka.”
“Why are you listening to Satan that wants to deceive you?”
“I went to visit my uncle.”
She made a swift sweeping movement as if something had stung her. “Which uncle?” she asked, drawing up her legs as if about to rise once again to her feet.
“How many do I have?” He was unfazed, his temper shortened by gin, ready for a fight. He then spelled it out: “My only uncle. My father’s brother. Osuakwu.”
It was as if the very devil had materialized before her. In an instant her eyes flared, filled with ire. Her face scowled up, took on a shape of menace. The air was combustible. She released a deep, disgusted sigh and a grunt. Then she hunkered back down on her husking task. A vanquished foe, she’d skulked away from a duel.
Ike felt a fleeting pity. In his younger days, he’d lived in terror of her. Cross her and he—or his sister—courted flogging. Her instrument of flagellation was a cane so sturdy it lasted for years. She hurled rebukes as the cane crashed against the flexed muscle of the buttocks. She caned like one possessed, impervious to any pleas for mercy. There was no relenting until she was drenched in sweat, her victim’s buttocks on fire, raw with welts. Afterward, the beaten skin swelled so hideously that for the next few days sitting would be out of the question.
It was now years since she had last caned anybody. For all her indignation, he knew she dared not raise a hand to him. A perverse, fractured sympathy flowed out from him toward her, the sympathy of a man who still savored every bit of his victory. He was just sorry to see her wilt so easily, dominated by her child. She was a hurt, hampered lioness. His sympathy was that of a hunter taking aim at a lioness hobbled by age and injury, a cowering, feeble foe.