by Okezie Nwoka
She hurried toward the tree, obeying her chi’s revelations, then hurried to Jekwu, smiling when he showed his little teeth through a smile of his own, watching him drink the sweet juices from the oranges as she thought of playing with him, of dancing with him, of tickling him like she did Chelụchi. She kissed him on his forehead while holding his little hand, and wanted to hold it for as long as nighttime would allow; wanted to whisper in his ear: you have not been forgotten, wanted to speak it beneath the forest trees until Anyanwụ had risen again; though, when Jekwu had begun to sleep, she returned him to the branches of the orange tree, and promised that she would visit again until he was returned home.
“Ijeọma! Come here!” Nnenna said the following morning, knowing her basin of rice was emptier than it should have been. She watched Ijeọma appear within a moment, her nighttime-colored eyes avoiding hers.
“Ijeọma, how much rice did I tell you to cook for Chelụchi?”
Ijeọma put her smallest finger into the air.
“Then why have I lost so much rice, eh? Did you take more than I told you?”
Ijeọma nodded twice while twisting her left ankle. Ijeọma nodded no.
But Nnenna saw that a lie was being told, and wanted to know why. She examined Ijeọma, inspecting her firstborn daughter—her Ada—with the precision of an eagle.
“Ijeọma … how did you cut your feet?”
Ijeọma raised a stone from the ground, and presented it to the one called her mother.
“Ehhhh-eh. And where was this stone that cut your feet?”
Ijeọma traced vertical lines from the corner of her oval eyes using the shortest finger on her left hand.
“The stone was at the stream. Those stones that are soft like akamu cut you.”
Ijeọma nodded her head three times, not seeing Nnenna looking at her quietly, waiting for silence to break deceit; and when Nnenna saw that Ijeọma remained reluctant to change her words, she flung her hands angrily, widening her eyes.
“Ijeọma, if I find that you are lying lies, you will not need to concern yourself with the warring gods. I will beat you with a thing, eh, you will you no longer remember how to sit down. Have you heard me?”
Ijeọma nodded yes, fearing the sound of Nnenna’s voice as she was chastised in a manner she had not been chastised before, with Nnenna’s eyes holding fury and sadness, punishing her preemptively because she had spoken a lie. And she feared what those eyes had held, and if Chukwu held it toward her, too, fearing it as she wept without the security of the good word, unprotected by truth, yet bonded still to the promise she had made to Jekwu in the Evil Forest. She called herself a failure. She called herself an abomination. And when the day had reached its hottest, she asked Nnamdị to flog her with thick branches in preparation for the beating promised by Nnenna’s hands; and when she found Nnamdị’s strokes to be soft and ineffective, she took from him the cane and beat her back herself, developing marks and sunburns within the heat, then covering them with egg yolk so that the wounds would heal properly.
And when the heat had left, and the day had found its dark, Ijeọma went out again to the Evil Forest, keeping her promise to Jekwu. She found him within a moment and brought him down from the orange tree, smiling with him when he opened his mouth to show his teeth; then removing the remaining rice and feeding him, and feeling his wet tongue licking the rice from her fingers, and loving that he did not cry when she was near: a sign she thought he gave to say that she was his sister.
What was that thing—Ijeọma heard a noise, and turned to see black, opaque figures growing larger and larger before the night; they have found me! They have found me! Jekwu, stay quiet … do not let them hear you, what will we do … what can, the rice and the water, we cannot hide them, what can, Chukwu, help us run, Jekwu, why are you smiling … close your mouth so they will not curse you … what are you … they are coming, chi … Chukwu, lift me! Lift me!
The plea did not raise her feet; and the forest was so thick, no paths were available; she trembled on the ground, raising one hand for Chukwu to raise her upward, clutching Jekwu with the other; and as the opaque figures moved closer, her hope of flying passed, and she thought now of punishment—floggings in the market square—flogged until her skin had peeled—until she had come to death.
“So this is what you have done with my rice?”
Ijeọma looked and saw Nnenna standing above her, feeling pleasure from the relief, wiping tears from her face and presenting Jekwu to the one called her mother.
He is beautiful, Nnenna thought, knowing she had not touched him the morning that he was born; but now, while he was in her arms, she confessed that Jekwu was beautiful; the clusters of hair atop his head were as delicate as the clouds of nighttime; his eyes, bright and wide like the moon of the New Yam Festival; his smile, as free as a miracle.
“Ijeọma, do you know what you have done? Ijeọma … do you … do you know?”
Suddenly, Jekwu began to cry, and Nnenna tried to silence him, placing her right hand over his mouth; but he cried even louder as she saw him, his hazel eyes now overcome by more light and more tears; and she quickly lowered her rappa and latched her breast onto Jekwu’s lips, feeling the milk flow out of her body, her anxiety following it as she tried to think of peace; then looking at Ijeọma, then the sky, then the trees, then the infant, her eyes growing wild as if a spirit had taken her, whispering, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” into the ears of the whimpering child, until Jekwu had found true ease.
“Ijeọma, no one can know what we have done. Have you heard me?”
Ijeọma nodded three times. Ijeọma nodded yes.
“We will come here every night at this time and feed this baby so that he does not die of hunger and thirst. Have you heard me?”
Ijeọma nodded and embraced Nnenna, burying a smile against her hips. They both cared for the infant throughout the night, then returned him to the tree once Anyanwụ began rising above Amalike, beckoning the arrival of dawn.
DIARY ENTRY #952 DATE UNKNOWN
Chukwu how long will I wait for you? I am lying here in the dark, writing to you, and praying that you will break this place open and remove me from this prison. You are the most powerful, more powerful than the pastor, more powerful than my hunger, more powerful than my thirst, more powerful than my dream of touching and holding Ikemba again … You are the Most Supreme. Yet it has been eight days since I breathed air which was clean and fresh. It’s been eight days since I’ve eaten anything except the hairs from my head and legs.
Where are you? I’ve seen you in my dreams. I’ve seen you even in the clouds of Igwe from my cell window. But where are you today? Did I upset you? I hope I have not upset you. I hope I have not vexed you and caused you to forget and abandon me.
But Chukwu look at me. Look at the stench. Look at my heart. What else must I do? What else must I do to be freed?
7.
IT WAS AN AFỌ MORNING when Igbokwe marched toward the Evil Forest carrying his iron staff. He had taken with him Mgboye, Nwagụ, and all of their kin; the rest of Ichulu had followed behind them. And with every step he had taken, the dịbịa had struck the ground with his iron staff, praying its bells would summon the attention of the gods. He had led them all to the orange tree where he had left Jekwu, and was now watching the infant’s body lying still between two tree branches. Then he turned, and saw the moment Mgboye saw Jekwu—hearing the jagged cries escaping her.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-yeh-yeh-yeh-yeh! Aaaaaaaaaaii!”
“Do not cry, do not cry,” Nwagụ said as Mgboye collapsed against his heart. “Your chi has power of its own; have you heard me, have you heard?”
“I will see if the infant has survived,” said Igbokwe, not looking at Mgboye but through the gaze of the eldest elder in Ichulu.
“Do so quickly,” Ụzọkwesịlị said, “so that we can leave this accursed place.”
Those who had followed expressed their agreement with Ụzọkwesịlị as Igbokwe m
oved to the infant, slowly climbing the orange tree, then bringing the infant down with him. The dịbịa knelt before the child and placed his smallest finger below his nose, looking upon Jekwu, knowing the power the child was holding, knowing that even a flutter of his eyelashes would make what was known no longer be known, and make the village truth an unanswered question. He exhaled, feeling his stomach trembling, feeling the infant breathing against his shortest finger, asleep, life not abandoning him; and Igbokwe believed it to be so: Chukwu and Anị were fighting a vicious battle and Anị was entering defeat. No longer would Ichulu be obligated to sacrifice its children to her, since everything she had was being reclaimed by the Supreme Being. His stomach was trembling as he knew that the goddess of the earth would no longer be a goddess, knew that Anị was going to die.
“He is sleeping. The infant is sleeping,” Igbokwe said as he turned the infant toward those who had come.
“My chi! My chi has not forgotten me!” said Mgboye. “Idemili has not forsaken me! My ancestors have come!”
She rushed to Jekwu and fell at his feet, her buttocks sticking straight into the air as her lips met the forehead of Jekwu, who began to cry, and whose cries caused Nwagụ to begin tearing and thanking the Supreme Being with his hands outstretched—none of them hearing the people of Ichulu calling Nwagụ the luckiest man in the village, declaring the life of Jekwu further evidence.
“I will slaughter a cow for Ichulu!” said Nwagụ. “People everywhere must celebrate the miracle that has taken place in my household.”
All the elders agreed, except Ụzọkwesịlị, the eldest among them, who turned to Igbokwe and spoke to him in fascinated terror.
“This means that we will no longer make sacrifices to the goddess—”
“That is so,” Igbokwe said.
“I trust your medicine, Igbokwe, but we must have a meeting and decide if we will simply abandon Anị, lest the goddess of the earth destroy every living thing in this village.”
“That is a wise decision, Ụzọkwesịlị … to a goddess like Anị, we are nothing more than worms.”
“It is true,” Ụzọkwesịlị said, watching Mgboye latching her breast onto Jekwu’s lips, then teeth. “But from what I have now seen … if human beings are worms, love must be a merciful eagle.”
Before Anyanwụ had climbed to the center of Igwe, the people of Ichulu knew that Jekwu was alive. Several people flocked to Nwagụ’s compound to see the child who had escaped the machete of Anị; and they were welcomed by both Nwagụ and Mgboye, who displayed Jekwu as if he were coveted land, marveling at him; Jekwu: ten fingers, ten toes, one head, eight teeth; and they lamented their incredulity in denying the beauty of such a child, and mocked Anị’s hunger for desiring a child she could not have.
But ridicule could not silence the severity of the earth no longer being deified, and before evening, the village men gathered to discuss the fate of Anị. The earth of the market square carried hundreds of men, sitting on wooden stools, with the hum of their chatter resounding like the beginnings of a thunderstorm. Nobody among them knew what the meeting would bring. Killing minor gods had happened before, but such had not been done to a god as great as Anị. Ọfọdile sat in a far corner, away from the center of the square, knowing that Ijeọma’s flights made him a cause of this confusion. He greeted some of the men with rhythmic pats from his palms, and then he sat with his chi, waiting for the meeting to begin.
“Ichulu, kwenu!” Ụzọkwesịlị said.
“Yah!” said the men.
“Ichulu, kwenu!”
“Yah!”
“Ichulu, kwenu!”
“Yaaaaaaah!”
“Igbokwe, the descendant of the most powerful lineage of dịbịas, has made something known to us,” Ụzọkwesịlị said. “The daughter of Ọfọdile, as many of you have witnessed, has been flying among us. Many of us did not know where the child received her power; but Igbokwe implored the gods for knowledge, and they answered him. He was told that Chukwu and Anị were fighting a war. To determine whether this word was good, Igbokwe placed Nwagụ’s newborn child into the Evil Forest for one week to see if Chukwu, the Supreme Being, would sustain his life. Chukwu did so. The child is alive. Children of my mother … how are we to act?”
There was silence. The men held their heads low, avoiding one another’s eyes, staring at the ground somberly.
“We should abandon Anị,” one man said at the corner of the market, glancing at Igbokwe before continuing.
“Ichulu’s dịbịa has always protected this village. Why should we not hear his words now?”
“Have you forgotten the curse?” said another. “Igbokwe was unable to protect us from a curse, a curse! My child was killed in Amalike, and now you want me to listen to his words, words of a weak man? Yes. I said it. Igbokwe might have been powerful yesterday, but what of today? The dịbịa is weak!”
“Close your mouth!” a third began. “Do you know how to talk to a god? Were your ears not working when Igbokwe told us of Amalike’s curse? All of us know that Igbokwe cannot break the power of a god from another land—”
“Does Igbokwe not get his power from all the gods, including Anị?” asked a man while standing. “Should we then not stay loyal to her? What will happen if the other gods discover that we have rejected their sister and wife? What will Igwe, Anị’s husband, do?”
The men began to chatter loudly, each expressing his opinion on the matter. Friends became opponents. Brothers became boisterous. Then a man wearing a cloud-white beard, and an eagle’s feather needled through his domed red hat began rising. His name was Nnabụenyi, and he was the second oldest man in Ichulu.
“It is enough,” Nnabụenyi whispered, as he brought the room to silence. “I know more of these things than any of you, maybe even more than Igbokwe himself. I have worshipped and served Anị all my life. Do you know how many children I have lost to the Evil Forest? Eleven. Eight boys and three girls. And I know many of you have lost children, brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers to the forest. I am not blind to the changes that are happening in this village. A girl can fly; a boy has lived. If anybody ignores these signs, let him call himself a fool. If anybody forgets our ancestor Solomto, who flew across an ocean greater than Idemili, who flew to Ichulu after he was taken to be a slave … let that person call himself a fool. We are the ones whom the gods should fear. Without our sacrifices, they would starve in the heavens, lonely and powerless. Without the blood of our children, they would perish. Answer me, what has this child done, except be born with teeth? Did his father say that the teeth made him appear like a wild animal? Did his mother complain that he was biting her in the womb? Is his mother, or any woman who has given birth, here to speak for themselves? No. My brethren, my children, the time has arrived, and we must meet it at its face. Now is not the moment to fear a dying god—but to heed wisdom as wisdom.”
Nnabụenyi eased onto his stool—softly, like the wind—and the men received his words as if they themselves had said it. The assurance of the elder, his shrewd audacity, drove fear from their eyes. Their hearts lightened. Their minds gained clarity. Their unspoken truth had been spoken: Anị could not be worshipped. Slowly, each man expressed his agreement, beginning in whispers, then rising to the tones of fired guns. They had prepared to finalize their growing consensus when the bearded Okoye began rising.
“Men of Ichulu, the words of Nnabụenyi are indeed very good. But we have forgotten to examine one possibility. How do we know that Nwagụ and his wife did not go to the forest and nurse their child? Do you—”
“Eat shit!” yelled Nwagụ, who was sitting at the very front of the crowd. “I will break your neck for accusing me of tampering with the work of the gods.”
“If you did not disturb Igbokwe’s plans, then you and your wife should not be afraid to swear your innocence upon the Stone of Anị.”
“My wife and I will take the oath this moment!”
“Someone go and
fetch Nwagụ’s wife.” Okoye smirked as he turned his eyes to Igbokwe. “You must lead the oath. The rest of us, let us go to the stone.”
All the men began scurrying. And Okoye was happy to see it while dwelling in thoughts against Ọfọdile—knowing Anị’s demise would bring glory to the one called Ọfọdile’s child. “It will never be,” he thought aloud, while walking boldly among the men, using law to stop love from finding its way toward his enemy, demanding over and again that the oath be taken, reminding them of their honor, reminding them of their devotion to the gods and the trickery of the desperate and the lies of the wicked, among whom he counted Ọfọdile.
The good word traveled throughout the village and soon all in Ichulu gathered around the Stone of Anị. Ijeọma and Nnenna were there, too, with their lightly colored rappas and their tightly plaited hair; because of the fear of the Ichulu noting their absence, they came, and neither could look into the other’s eyes; and neither could stand steadily, questioning which gestures would inculpate them. They were both guilty. They had both deceived. And if Igbokwe exposed their evils while in his state of possession, they would both be killed.
And Ijeọma looked at the one called her mother, with her eyes wide, with her mouth open, with her hands pulling at Nnenna’s rappa, tapping her waist, then pulling her rappa, then tapping again, worry taking her, fear taking her, then feeling Nnenna’s hand touch hers, pulling it upward and taking it past a little tree as they watched the beginning of the oath away from Anị’s jagged, gray stone, avoiding the dịbịa as he chanted ancient chants and moved fiercely before the people of Ichulu.