by Okezie Nwoka
Given the light tone of the murmurs spreading throughout the market square, Okoye knew that he had won the favor of the village men. Yet he returned to his stool uneasily, thinking that one man would be foolish and challenge him; he believed that man would distort the argument he had finished making, the same way he believed that man had distorted the heart of his lover eleven years ago. That man was standing.
“Men … of Ichulu …” Ọfọdile began, with his red rappa wrapping plainly around his legs. “We must remember … the responsibility we have to our sons. We sent them … on our behalf … and we armed them with machetes … machetes that are like chewing sticks … compared to the mighty guns of Amalike. Our fathers told us … that we cannot live among osu … Still … our fathers would never allow their children to be discarded like waste. As our people say … ‘When a corpse smells good, friends go home, but bad brothers come out.’ We as fathers … must do, what we must to protect … and keep our children.”
“Children of my mother, look at it!” said Okoye, standing again. “Ọfọdile, are your motives truly pure? Is the son of your dead brother not among the osu? And what of your daughter? Was it not the failure of your loins that produced a child who cannot speak?”
A few men began to chuckle, and Ọfọdile heard them.
“Men of Ichulu,” Okoye continued, after caressing the length of his beard, “do not listen to this titleless man, who wears no eagle feather atop his head! We have already suffered the wrath of Idemili’s flood for reasons unknown. Are you prepared to battle the other gods?”
“We understand, Okoye, but take your calm, take your calm,” said many men. “Leave the father of the mute alone.”
“Leave the father of Ijeọma alone,” one said.
More men began speaking, and more commotion spread across the market square, and Ọfọdile remained silent to Okoye’s insults. His lack of support among them made any response imprudent, and as he stared solemnly at the market square’s earth, thinking of those things he would have said to Okoye, he also thought of those ways he would have struck Okoye’s face, recalling that he had spoken because of a promise he had once made, a promise that Ụzọdị’s future would bring titles and chieftaincies—and that he had also spoken because of the men who birthed those killed as emissaries for Ichulu; those men, he knew, would blame him for the death of the ones called their sons, and would curse Ọfọdile’s name, and shame him. They would tell Ichulu of the dishonorable man, Ọfọdile, and all in the village would shame him—the father of the mute—and he would lose more honor and would no longer have a place to stand within their glorious village.
“Please! Let me bury my dead son!” said one of those men.
The space was quiet except for the rattling of Okoye’s stool.
“No, my brother,” said Okoye, standing. “You cannot.”
And as the meeting continued, most of the village men expressed their agreement with the bearded Okoye. They found no compelling word that would have them refute their tradition, and said among themselves, “Morality has been secured! We have pleased the gods! We have pleased them!” Some said the osu were lepers rejoicing in their own leprosy—an imprisoned people never—never—to be freed. Many argued that to protect the village, the anger of the gods was to be prioritized over the welfare of the young men. Those few who sympathized with Ọfọdile simply asked, “Where were the chis of those eight osu?” and accepted the retort that their personal gods were drunk, or sleeping.
And as Ọfọdile heard them say these things, he sat in the market square retrieving his containers of snuff, and watched the men permanently exiling two boys. The one called his kin had become an outcast, the one who would help him win titles was lost, and his breathing quickened when he told himself that he had failed Ụzọdị and had failed the promise he had given to the one called Ụzọdị’s father—and that he had failed himself, that he had failed. He believed now, as he sat snorting through his containers of snuff, that life was vanity, complete vanity, hopeless from the curse residing behind Ijeọma’s eyes.
PART I
A GIRL CAN FLY
1.
THERE IS THE FINAL TRUTH; and Ijeọma knew it resided within her, tinier than a speck, when the blowing wind became like wings and her feet shook the branches of the leaning orange tree, knocking Ichulu’s dust to the ground. It drew her upward, raising her like smoke from a burning fire, raising her to the nests of nza birds and the first scatterings of light from Anyanwụ, the divine sun. She rested there, suspended like fruit too precious to pluck or a thought too erratic to name. She rose to the sky, and nobody was there to see it.
The reasoning lay in her wind-blown wings. The pleasure lay there, too. And they joined with her spirit, to beat steadily, steadily, deep like the udu, deepening that which was lifted, that which her thoughts and body followed.
Her fingers stretched before curling inward toward her palms; her chest now rose upward, then fell to greet her heart—while the prickly dots, like a million rose thorns, flashed across her left cheek, then her lips, then her right earlobe; before passing into the air—returning to its abode—as she let out a sigh and magnified the wonder.
Tears were trembling in her eyes, and through them Ijeọma saw a single vision, printed past Igwe, the divine sky, with her lips moving: counting then recounting the faces of ancestors, and the faces of those unknown, celebrating their names, with promises guided by much hope. A promise of many prayers to those little ones, those whom she had not yet seen, those looking through her with truth and kindness, as she prayed and promised and felt more stilled than death itself, and in that stillness found the greatest of life—and in that life praised the Most Supreme for making any thing or one possible.
She closed her eyes. The sky closed, too: full clouds colliding within a moment. And Ijeọma found her feet touching the earth, and clutched her hands, now warm from the evening light; and she did not understand it all, not the faint vibrations in her bones, or the smell of sky-bound dust, or the rupture of what was thought to be known and understood as she heard Ọfọdile’s footsteps, and ran through the compound to hide and find understanding in Nnenna’s red-clay home.
“Ijeọma, where are you running?” Nnenna said, sitting airily by the house where food was stored. There was no response from the one called her daughter, and Nnenna turned her head, too tired to inquire after one child when another was latched to her breast suckling milk; she was nursing Chelụchi while resting in pleasant thoughts, while humming songs of peace, peace which would leave her body and enter that of the infant child to pursue and expel every kind of evil. And she stopped humming when she saw Ọfọdile mouthing words of shame, when she greeted the one called her husband, and he responded with offense in his glance—she knew that his efforts to save Ụzọdị had failed and she wanted to speak with him, to ease his frustrations, but his spirit felt cold when he passed her. So she stilled her lips, detached Chelụchi from her nipple, and dismissed those rising thoughts revealing her as the one telling Ezinne, the mother of Ụzọdị, that the one once called her son would not be returning to their home.
“Mama of mine, hunger is hungering me,” said Nnamdị, the one called Nnenna’s only son, while rubbing his belly with his right and left hands, looking at the one called his mother, who sighed a sigh, knowing she had little time to prepare a meal.
“My father, I have heard you,” she said to the one called her son. “Go and get Ijeọma.”
Nnamdị ran forward into Nnenna’s red-clay home and returned with the one called his sister in his hands, pulling her toward a standing Nnenna, who was wrapping Chelụchi around her back.
“Ijeọma,” Nnenna began, “go to the forest by the stream, and collect the firewood that I will use to make yam porridge … Have you heard me?”
Ijeọma nodded three times to Nnenna, with her eyes still and facing the earth, with her gaze focusing upon its dust as she nodded three times again, nodding yes to Nnenna,
then quickly leaving for the firewood. She hurried along, thinking of what had happened above the orange tree, losing breaths to the awe of what she had seen, holding its joy, wanting to spread it across Ichulu and past the mighty banks of Idemili. The feeling she held: it was so piercingly simple she deemed it greater than any tickle or touch, greater than the little rocks pressing beneath her feet, as she thought of how to sign for it, and wondered whether it could be signed for at all.
And her thoughts of wonder continued, following her along the narrow path that led to the stream, but dropping like dust once she saw the one called her kin, walking to the Place of Osu. He cannot see me! she said within herself, trembling at the thought of being blamed for his exile, believing he had lost any pity for her. So she ran; she ran as quickly as she could, hurrying her legs through the bush, letting the PAT-PAT-PAT of her feet raise the tempo of her frame, feeling her heart leaping in her chest, touching the ground under her feet, AH where is the ground where is the ground—
“Chei! What am I seeing?” Ụzọdị whispered, his voice pointing Nwabụeze to the sky. They stood bewildered, mouths peeling open; they could not speak. And they saw her. Under the parting clouds and beneath the rays of Anyanwụ, they saw Ijeọma accept the sun’s libations with her eyes—watched her reach toward the haze of Igwe and strike calm and ecstasy—witnessed her relish her welcome like a newborn dragonfly; watched her smile, watched the birds flap their wings in celebration of the wild image cast upon their eyes; heard the humble wind whistle and sing, then whistle and sing over and again.
“Who has given this girl the power to fly?” asked Nwabụeze as they gathered around Ijeọma’s dappled shadow. She was levitating: her body was dangling above the ground, near the fruits of a slender palm tree. The question was not answered; and the two very young men looked on, transfixed; and the two very young men beneath the slender shadow soon grew to a crowd swelling with awe, as many people were now looking upon Ijeọma, and asking how her flying could be; knowing that their rising curiosity was not the result of unprecedented history, since the tradition of Ichulu was built upon those who had accomplished the extraordinary: some who had spoken the language of the sacred python and others who had spat flames from their mouths. There was one, even, whom the village would sing of, one who had flown from beyond the banks of Idemili to return to the village of Ichulu. His name was Solomtochukwu, but Ichulu called him Solomto for short, and he was an ancestor who had died many harvests ago; he was an ancestor both honored and remembered.
Suddenly—Ijeọma returned to the earth, descending as gently as a leaf. And once her feet touched the ground, her eyes lost their transfixion to the sun, and she saw the people around her, then signed to them, pointing to her eyes.
“Who has made it so that the mute can fly!” they said among themselves. “Is it that Solomto has returned?”
“We do not know,” Nwabụeze said. “But what is she doing? Why is she showing us her eyes?”
“I do not know,” said Ụzọdị. “I do not know. Ijeọma.…” He held her arm, then quickly releasing his hand since it was becoming warm. “Ijeọma, who has made it so that you can fly,” he whispered, “And why are you showing us your eye?”
Ijeọma tried with much difficulty to answer, signing signs with her arms and hands and fingers, searching around herself, looking for translation as she held Ụzọdị’s arms, then held the arms of those around them. How can they know it, she thought while signing signs, tapping her chest, You do not understand, all of this, you are being told, understand my jumping, look at it, look, look. Touching their faces, all of their faces, the girls and the men, all of those gathered, she touched their faces, holding them, wiping them, letting her fingers lift, surprise, and ease them, watching their faces almost surrender to the words she so desperately wanted to give, watching some lull as if in a dream. She moved again, signing signs over and again. Still, she could neither communicate what she saw in the sky nor the fact that she did not fully know the power behind her levitations.
“I will take her home and show her to her father,” said Ụzọdị.
“That is wise,” said Nwabụeze, “Let me follow you.”
“That is beautiful,” Ụzọdị said.
And the crowd dispersed with questions and with wonder: two ingredients for crafting accolade and gossip. And they had forgotten—through new concerns—that their outcasts were reentering the village, as their little ones were running and jumping with glee, singing the song of Solomto:
Solomto, Solomto has found his home.
Solomto, Solomto has given us a path.
Solomto flew above the ocean and through the air,
Solomto, Solomto will emerge from his grave.
2.
IT WAS ONLY AFTER THE shadows in Ichulu grew long and thin and the nza birds returned to their sequestered nests that Ụzọdị, Ijeọma, and Nwabụeze arrived at Ọfọdile’s compound. Their journey there was silent. None of them had known what to speak, though Ụzọdị had recounted young memories of Ijeọma: the way she would mouth secrets into the ears of goats before their slaughter and would beg him to play at nighttime, running after him through the darkness of Ọfọdile’s compound. And he watched her now: her high cheeks rising higher, a joyful smile, fascination lacing her nighttime-colored eyes. And he wondered at her thoughts, if they danced as burningly and as wildly as the excitement she was causing in the village, and if she had known that he was hoping for this excitement to release him from the name osu. Ijeọma’s flying, he thought, could somehow break Amalike’s curse; he knew Nwabụeze was thinking the same when Nwabụeze turned to him and raised his brow, grinning with mild recklessness. But Ụzọdị stared him into a deeper silence to prevent hopeless dreams from being spoken, to prevent Nwabụeze’s verbosity from inciting another kind of death.
They arrived with Ijeọma when the evening had settled, and found Nnenna peeling the yams to be used for her porridge; they grew shameful when she dropped her knife and began staring at them in disbelief, because they knew she wanted them out of the compound on this day of their banishment.
“Our mother, we greet you,” Ụzọdị said. “Is my father’s brother in his obi?”
Nnenna remained silent, wishing that the very young man would not touch the one called her daughter—thinking of slicing Ụzọdị’s hand, away from that of Ijeọma—then thinking of the consequences of speaking to an osu: sacrificial atonement, prolonged exile. But something overcame her, something like a tear, as she sighed a breath—Ụzọdị—he was a boy, a boy from the same lineage as her beloved, a boy who had sucked at the breasts of her dear in-law Ezinne, a boy upon whom misfortune had grinned. She could not remain silent at his words.
“Ụzọdị, he is not here,” she said. “He is hunting. Why have you come? Ijeọma, where is the firewood?”
“There is no firewood,” Ụzọdị gently replied. “There is something that happened on the path to the stream. The two of us … we saw Ijeọma flying.”
“She was standing atop the air!” said Nwabụeze.
Nnenna remained silent, and her eyes began moving quickly—left then right, left then right—widening as if in search of something, seeing Nnamdị playing with sticks beneath the orange tree and Ijeọma holding onto Ụzọdị’s hand while gazing at the purple clouds—as two very young men had told her that her eldest daughter, the one called her Ada, could fly.
“That is impossible!” Nnenna said. “I have known this child since she was inside of me, and she does not even jump! Now you are telling me she can fly? You are lying lies—”
“Ụzọdị, is what you are saying true?” said Ezinne as she moved closer to the four, looking warmly at Ụzọdị, the one called her son. She had overheard the conversation from her red-clay home, and now appeared in the middle of the compound, gazing at Ụzọdị affectionately, as her clean-shaven scalp played with the evening light.
“My mother, it is true,” said Ụzọdị
, looking down upon the earth. “Many people saw her fly, and the word is traveling quickly. We came so that you would know before the entire village. Will you tell Ọfọdile?”
“Yes. I will do so,” said Ezinne.
“No, I will do it. If anybody will speak of my daughter to Ọfọdile, it will be me,” Nnenna said.
They all understood. There was nothing more they could civilly say, so Ụzọdị and Nwabụeze left the compound. But Ụzọdị left the compound with unspoken thoughts, feeling unable to speak them in the presence of Nnenna and Ezinne, wanting to believe that if the one called his kin could be given the power to fly, he could be given the power to be free again—released from the curse of osu. And as he moved away from his former home, he wanted to return once more and pronounce it—but knew that he could not, believing that his freedom would never reappear, marking the difference between a wanted truth and the good word.
Ụzọdị continued walking, but his stomach fell at the fear of tomorrow, and the tomorrow that would follow to the end of his life. And his mouth released sounds as if a sparrow were dying within him, as he heaved and heaved until tears shot forth and screams shot forth and he shivered down to his knees, to the spinning earth, and to his friend Nwabụeze holding him in silence, weeping to the gods, naming every sorrow he could name: he did not want to live in the Place of Osu, he did not want to be estranged from his aspirations, too young to let his deepest hopes die: to become a chief, bear titles, and marry a freeborn woman; to restore honor to his family—they would no longer happen because he had done his duty as a messenger for his village. Ụzọdị knelt against the dark path praying to his chi, praying that his chi would untie the noose his enemies had fixed around his neck, praying that one day he would return home, praying that the nza birds that now flew above him would sing those prayers to Ichulu’s gods and to Ichulu’s people.