But she snaps back at him before he can even finish his self-exaltation and apparent enunciation of how large or mighty he is. “Why won’t I, Dike, when you have lost all your honor?” she fires, more like a bombshell this time. Then she pauses a little again, this time to gear up more energy in articulating herself. Afterward, she again shrieks, “Murderer!” putting all her emphasis in it. She goes on to ask, “Does a murderer have any honor? Tell me.”
When neither Dike nor Onochie replied, she continues. “It took a boy, a little boy, to get you out of your secret schemes of wickedness and murder!” Then more maliciously, she adds, “Dike, you have your own children. Go home and use them on your farms. Dike, leave my house! Go home and go to Onwukansi; let him give you more charms. You killed my sister, Dike, all of you. Wicked people! Leave my house, and let the vengeance of the gods catch up with you.”
Without giving them the chance to respond to her direct accusations, Christy says all that, rushing through her words without pausing to really think through them. She only stops to catch her breath or to stress a point in her remarks. Both she and the men never knew she could be this mad.
Only the gods can tell what suddenly possesses her.
The men are standing bewildered at all she has said. But she is not even done with them yet. She continues until she
has exhausted all the evil bits she knows about Dike and his brothers. She finished the men verbally in one piece of time, and actually left their bloated egos in pieces.
As is very typical of many such verbal firing squads, the men are mute now. They are also evidently ashamed, as much as they struggle not to show it. She now commands them to leave her house, which they eventually do in utter stupefaction. But not without promising her that they will deal with her, and that she would have to explain herself before the council of elders concerning those grave allegations. However, their last words are contrived threats that simply bear the sting of wounded pride. Christy knows as much and will not allow it bother her, because after all, she is about to flee.
Dike and Onochie are astonished and laden with heavy hearts as they now leave. Almost reluctantly and morosely, they walk back and out through the main gate without as much as a glance at the two bags by the gate, or at Christy’s few neighbors that have come out at the sound of their voices. Surely a new rumor will soon spread out in this town! And all these stories being thrown around in town are not good at all for the already heavily tainted reputations of these men. They keep walking toward home, without stopping or looking back.
They wonder at her very words, her sudden courage and the confidence with which she threw words at them without mercy or fear. They are the terror to others, but right there, a woman just gave them a greater terror, which rather came as a surprise to them and is far beyond their anticipation of her. They feel morally and verbally whipped; it is a great disappointment for their mission.
Instead of physically assaulting Christy as planned, they were assaulted with words that unsettled their consciences. Reduced to nothingness, they stride along the charred pathways, overcome by both shame and guilt. They never knew they are this small to Christy—and even more painfully, this helpless at her confrontation.
Back at her house, Christy is waiting patiently for almost an hour before she finally leaves. Even at that, and out of some instinctive precaution, she will be using the small backyard gate. She is even considering leaving behind the two bags outside at the main gate, just to be sure she never steps to the frontage. This is in fear of the lingering thought she is having about the possibility of Dike and Onochie hovering nearby and stalking her movements.
Finally set with her other bags, she shuts the rest of her doors and windows and leaves through the back gate, passing through the narrow paths in the suburban farmlands and shrubs. With the main gates outside still standing ajar, she deserts her home.
She journeys straightaway to the nearest village, where she has a very close friend and colleague from the market. She will pass a night here, so that by tomorrow morning she can leave as early as possible with the first bus to the city. Her friend, worried at the sudden departure of such a good friend, is debriefed of everything that has just happened. They talk into the late evening. Her friend sympathizes deeply with her and enjoins her to continue on her mission to the city, to both save her life and find her sister’s kids. Some documents and other items that Christy had earlier sorted out at her home, are hereby left in the reliable hands of her friend, whom she believes would return them appropriately on her behalf.
It is in a state of total disappointment and utter disorientation that Onochie and Dike return home in the evening. They are particularly disturbed by the poignant remarks and revelations Christy made of their sordid and murderous involvements and schemes. Before that row, they thought their activities were secret. They erroneously thought they were very smart and skilled in covering up trails of their sinful interceptions. But Christy surprises them. They never realized Christy knew so much about those deeds, and even more! They marvel at her in endless shock—and at themselves too, for how suddenly they have become weak! With a large sense of defeat, the event of this day finally makes them think back on their life’s conduct.
Life always revisits people with suitable returns in the long run. Some may call it punishment if bad, or reward if favorable. But in all, it is usually the song of what goes around, comes around.
As for Mama Ngozi, she has her own account to render to the heavens. She alone knows what to reply if nemesis catches up with her. Maybe it’s a reward, but she surely must have received her due returns, albeit a diminishing return.
Dike had a strange scrotum elephantiasis that eventually claimed his life. His wife, Ugomma, had to go back to her maternal home when the village condemned her for the many atrocities she confessed. This was after she contracted a prolonged illness and finally confessed her dark secrets; she made many women barren with juju charms, and some people died from her food poisoning. It was a dying woman’s confession. The village banished her instantly, and she was taken back to her old mother, where she lived the rest of her days bedridden. She later died there, and afterward, Onochie’s wife, whom Ugomma named as one of her barren victims, conceived at her old age.
Onochie’s wife gave birth to a son and a daughter. The boy is named Obiefuna, and the girl is Oluchukwu. The coming of the babies at their old age is seen as a sign of forgiveness from the gods, by both Onochie and his wife. Onochie has long been appeasing the gods to forgive him his sins and remove the guilt he still feels in being part of the conspiracy that killed his brother’s son, Fredrick, and his wife, Susan—Cynthia and Okechukwu’s parents. He regrets his mistakes, as he calls them now. Every day, the faces of his victims keep flashing to his memory, and like the haunted man he is, burdened by guilt, he keeps paying his oblations and sacrifices to appease both his conscience and the gods, hoping to be forgiven. The disappearance of Okechukwu and Cynthia in particular keeps tormenting him. He does not know what to do or who to go to for help in finding them, since their aunt, Christy, is still missing, too. No one in the village has seen or heard of them since the day they left. No one can tell their fate or what finally became of them.
Onochie lives his days in this obscurity and guilt, hoping that one day he will be pardoned and allowed an opportunity to meet the missing ones before he eventually leaves to join his forefathers. He knows by his age and rapidly dwindling health, he is drawing closer to his grave, and he is now senile. Every day he hears the little prattling voices of his twin boy and girl, and they make him happy still, but the cheery, care-free young voices only often remind him of Cynthia and Okechukwu. He imagines they were just as young when they went missing. When this happens, his heart sinks deeper into frailty.
“Who knows where they are now or what happened to them?” Onochie keeps wondering, praying for his obscurity to be alleviated so that his guilt might b
e assuaged.
“Chai! Amadioha biko gbaghara m o!”, meaning “Amadioha please forgive me o!”; and Amadioha is a general name for the Almighty in a traditional African religion practiced in the eastern part of Nigeria.
Sixteen
“Francis! Francis!” calls Reverend Father Phoebus. He is an Irish man of French paternity, and he is the parish priest. Francis is a lad that lives with him in the parish house.
He was calling to leave a message with Francis before going out on a sick call. He has just received the distress call on the phone a few minutes ago. Now, he is walking hurriedly toward his Pajero Jeep parked in front of the priests’ residential, one-storey block. Francis is now emerging from the building carrying with him a smaller version of Phoebus’s mass box.
“Yes, Father, your mass box,” answers Francis, now standing in front of Phoebus and raising the mass box toward him.
“Mon Dieu! I forgot that, too?” quips Phoebus reflectively as he receives it from the boy.
In his hurry, he made sure he picked all he needed and came to the car with only his handy crucifix and stole, hoping to pray for and hear the confession of the distressed person for which he was called. He didn’t envisage any possible immediate need of an extreme unction, which would require some holy communion and some anointing; and the communion and anointing oil are in the mass box. But gratefully he has Francis, who is always in assistance and usually anticipates what will be done or needed.
“Thank you, Francis. Mon habile et ingénieux assistant!” he says very appreciatively, exaggerating his compliment and smiling at the boy. “Merci bien.”
“Merci, Father,” Francis replies with a heavy bow of his head in ostentatious but well-intentioned servility. He obviously appreciates his easy understanding of Father Phoebus’s frequent mix of the French and English languages, which has improved excellently over the years.
“Ah là là! You don’t have to do that again. We will talk more of it when I return,” Father Phoebus says quickly, putting the box in the car. He is referring the bow that Francis gave him.
He has always shunned him or anybody else bowing unnecessarily, as he calls it; because he naturally believes it is not the zenith sign of reverence, holiness, or humility, as the people’s sentiments demonstrate. He feels it connotes low self-esteem instead, which he does not condone for any reason at all, except when it is an organized and official decorum and a mutual form of greeting. His personal understanding or perhaps, his own mix of Irish-French origin and culture of self-dignity considers it timidity. He is an ardent believer of his favorite slogan, “Souci de soi,” which means “Care for oneself in every way,” and one of his many ways is healthy self-perception and dignity. He believes his philosophy of “Souci de soi” will always be true and cuts across all, despite race or culture. Believing in it so much, it makes him uncomfortable whenever he notices anything contrary to real self-worth in people. Moreover, he is not a man that wants to be deceived by some ungraceful humility, timidity, or improper shyness; and neither will he encourage anyone to remain timid or live in the self-derision of false humility. But he won’t start talking about it again with Francis now.
Francis has lived with him for all these years, so it’s now rather appalling to Phoebus that Francis’ recurrent timidity might never depart from him. His efforts at training the boy seems constantly hampered by Francis’ larger exposure to his regular school and social interactions with others. Besides, the majority of whom live with them in the parish house are equally beguiled by similar dispositions and shallow perceptions. The effect of the majority force against his efforts are understandable, and thus even forgivable—but Phoebus won’t give up on his clarion calls.
He then remembers why he has been calling Francis, to leave some urgent instructions with him before leaving.
“Please, Francis, pass this instruction to Christy. She will have to prepare two rooms for two guests we are expecting this evening. Also, tell the cooks to include these two in the dinner plans. As I am leaving this minute for the sick call, I won’t return until evening, because when am finished there, I will be going to the cathedral. Comprends-tu?” He finishes in his rushed Anglo-Français accent.
“Yes, Father,” agrees Francis, this time without a bow.
“Okay, thank you,” says Father Phoebus once again. “Excuse-moi.” He dismisses Francis, dashes into his car, and drives off. Francis goes back into the house.
It is 7:30 a.m., some minutes after the end of 6:00 morning mass.
The head cook is a very smart elderly man whose experienced culinary skills are quite exceptional. He has served the priests for many years now, and it doesn’t seem he is going to be tired or retired any time soon. The woman in question who cleans the fathers’ house is Christy—Cynthia and Okechukwu’s aunty.
That morning, as she leaves her friend’s house in the nearby village, Christy goes straight to the park and boards the first bus to Lagos. She is feeling lucky now, not to have been followed or found at the park by Dike or anybody that would have jettisoned her plans. Her own life is fearfully at stake, and she needs to leave and stay far away from her enemies.
Isn’t Lagos the place she sent Cynthia and Okechukwu just two days ago? She will be going to Lagos herself, and she will meet them there—or so she keeps thinking to herself with assurance, as the bus takes her from the village to the city.
“Lagos, here I come,” is her resolve.
Now, she is on the streets of Lagos. She alighted from the bus at its first stop.
Lagos is a very large city, and she has never been there before. She is confused and gets lost very easily, and quite faster than a bird would in a dense forest.
Two weeks later
Christy is still with no idea of how to locate her beloved ones. Still, she believes in her faith, and she hopes she will meet her children here very soon. She merely walks from place to place, searching the faces of every child she sees. But this is an onerous task—she is without both a direction and an idea of how to find missing people in Lagos. It is a very hard impossibility, searching for someone in the midst of every other Lagosian, by mere facial surveillance.
Christy therefore wanders from place to place unshepherded, until she finds a church. It is a St. Augustine Catholic church, and a place she lives in secretly for about a week. She usually stays outside the church, only to slip back in at night when she won’t be seen.
Every night at 10:00, when he thinks everyone is gone, Francis, who is eight years old at the time, comes and douses the candles, switches off the light bulbs and fans, and bolts the doors of the church. He doesn’t know a woman is hidden in the pews, asleep.
Francis is almost twenty years old now to know better.
Then, when he was only eight, he thinks his precision is unmatched.
And it is only until this Saturday morning, as the younger boy Francis comes to open the doors of the church, that he sees Christy. Morning masses are not usually ordered on Saturdays at the parish, so it is usually until about 8:00 or 9:00 before Francis opens up the church doors for voluntary personal prayers or other activities. For a wedding mass, if any, it is usually at 10:00 a.m. But now, seeing a woman walk out of the church just a few minutes after he has opened it, and when he is very certain that no one else has entered it this morning except himself; it quickly draws his attention and prompts him to stop her and ask questions. Soon, Francis alerts the parish vicar, Father Gregory.
After the initial questioning, Father Greg eventually takes Christy to Phoebus, the parish administrator.
It is Phoebus that gets the long story out of her. Now in Phoebus’s office, Christy is telling him everything she longs to tell someone who cares to listen, including her mission in Lagos: she is set to find her sister’s kids, now she is lost. Looking at her through his kind and compassionate eyes, Father Phoebus’s worried suspicions are soon
allayed. He believes her story, sympathizes with her, and takes her in, promising to help her find her beloved ones.
This is how Christy comes to live with them, occupying one of the rooms in the parish’s comfortable guest house. She lives with them and among other people, most of whom are also workers in various capacities and beneficiaries. All of them here, except the priests, are generally referred to as brothers or sisters.
Here she feels very much at home, and every day she prays for her children. But Christy never sees them, and the years wear on.
The children have been at Isolo, where they lived with Mama Ngozi’s family, and now Cynthia lives with Dr. Paul’s family, and she is usually even out of the country. How can Christy have known where Cynthia is, and how can they possibly meet, when Cynthia does not even know Christy is in Lagos? Cynthia has no idea that her aunt has been in Lagos all the while, just two days after they arrived.
But Father Phoebus promises Christy that he will help her find them, so Christy lives by the hope of this promise every day as she prays. She is not a Catholic—the only non-Catholic in the parish house, actually—and already some of the sisters want her to become one. However, she never becomes one despite the sisters’ elaborate persuasions and stern convictions that Catholicism is the best thing that can happen to her.
But even with her being deprived of such linguistics, and many scintillating terminologies, dogmas, histories, and Bible citations displayed by the sisters, it doesn’t make sense to Christy when someone tells her that the only sure way to heaven is by “saying the rosary, receiving holy communion, and the recitation of certain slated prayers at slated times.” Yet the sisters are insisting and trying to push their views on her because, according to them, they love her so much that they wouldn’t want her “slip into purgatory”—or worst of all, miss heaven by sheer unbelief.
One Love, Many Tears Page 17