by Okezie Nwoka
“Alaaaaaaaaaaaaa-ay-yay-yay-yay-yay-yay-yay! Alaaaaaaaaa-ay-yay-yay,” Igbokwe sang as Ichulu watched in silence.
Igbokwe struck the sharp stone with open palms, his hands wide and red, blood coloring his arms—his wounds reminding everyone that Anị was a fearsome goddess. He showed his blood to Mgboye, who stood beside Nwagụ with tears falling from her eyes as she cursed Okoye for throwing Jekwu’s life into greater jeopardy.
“Nwagụ … Mgboye …” Igbokwe said in a voice high and heavy, swirling like the waterspouts of Idemili. “Put your hands on the Stone of Anị.”
The husband and wife obeyed.
“Nwagụ and Mgboye, do you swear upon the Stone of Anị that you did not aid your infant child while he was in the Evil Forest, that you did not send anyone to aid him, that you did not use any medicine to sustain his life?”
“We swear,” they said.
“The goddess has heard you. If it is that you are lying lies, let your bodies betray themselves. May sickness and disease fall upon your household so that you may be punished and shamed. Let Anị cause your stomachs to swell and your hearts to burst; may she cause you to crave madness. And then when you have faced all suffering, may a merciless death fall upon your heads.”
The couple removed their hands from the stone, with innocence resting on their faces: the village had seen the truth, but the truth could not be pronounced within themselves or within the market square until a year had passed. No one in Ichulu, except Ijeọma and Nnenna, could declare the good word with certainty: that in a year’s time Nwagụ, Mgboye, and Jekwu would be alive, and Ichulu would cease to worship Anị.
8.
SEVERAL WEEKS AFTER MGBOYE AND NWAGỤ took their oath, Ichulu held a thanksgiving for the gods. The preservation of their lives from Idemili’s flood had compelled them to show gratitude to the pantheon. Every neighboring town, except Amalike, received an invitation to the feast, though a few from the eastern village, using disguise and deception, entered through the market square. Ichulu had not known of it. The village was filled with joy. There were heaps of gold-colored pounded yam sitting next to pots of every kind of soup—soup that was ruffled and browned like egusi, thick and green like onugbu. Four cows and twenty goats had been slaughtered for the occasion: they were cooked and seasoned with ụzịza, salt, and black pepper. The sweetest palm wine filled hundreds of gourds. The sounds of the drums lifted thousands of spirits. Young dancers dressed iridescently as if shot forth from heavy rainbows—then danced the dance of the Atilọgwụ, shaking their bodies like the beads of the ụyọ—kicking and turning to greet each cardinal direction, vibrating along the flute’s light tones to build human pyramids that reached the top of mango trees.
And the ancestors left their anthills that day, adorned with bells and colorful feathers. They paraded the orange paths, chasing anyone who stood idly before them, reminding everyone of their power—power residing not in their canes or machetes, nor in their pristine fans, but lying in their swelling voice: the risen dead, crying that nothing is forgotten.
Some women sang songs of praise, as some men drank and ate until they became tired, as many children ran and played in the fields of the market square, raising dust to the heavens, to the belly of Igwe. And many said that the earth of the market square could have sunk from their weight, so that when Ijeọma and her family arrived, there was no place for them to rest. Ijeọma saw Nnenna placing Chelụchi on her back with her purple rappa, and saw Ọfọdile pulling Nnamdị closer to his side. She looked around her, growing amazed at the festivities that lay before them—watching some girls atop a hill playing a hand game that was popular in Ichulu, seeing one pat the other’s hands to the rhythms of a song being sung—and watching the others sing the song faster and faster, so that the two might fail to meet their hands and another pair could have their turn. Ijeọma could hear them singing:
Mgbeke and Okeke went to the market.
Mgboye and Okoye sold a loom.
Mgbafọr and Okafọr caught a rat.
Mgbankwọ and Okonkwọ made some soup.
She began mouthing the playful lyrics to herself—smiling at the rhymes opening and closing each phrase.
“Why not go and join them?” Nnenna said.
Ijeọma nodded her head twice.
“Ijeọma … I said go.”
Ijeọma refused again.
Nnenna gave her a sorrowful stare, thinking of how the one called her daughter did not have any friends her age; she will not survive my death like this, Nnenna thought, as she turned to look at the group of girls, examining their faces, then recognizing one as Mgboye’s third daughter. She seized Ijeọma’s hand, leaving Nnamdị with Ọfọdile, then walked along the hill to the group of girls, abruptly interrupting their game.
“Chinwe, how are you?” Nnenna said to Mgboye’s daughter.
“I am doing well,” Chinwe said.
“That is beautiful. I see you are playing our game.”
“Yes! Me and Nkiru are winning,” Chinwe said while smiling.
“Ehhhh-eh. That is beautiful, too. Would it not also be beautiful if my daughter joined you?”
Ijeọma saw the girls turn toward her, some with ridicule resting in their eyes; and she wished Nnenna had respected her desire not to join them in their game.
“It is beautiful,” Chinwe said. “She can join us.”
“Thank you, my child! Where is your mother so I can greet her?”
Chinwe slowly pointed to the western end of the market square, then watched as both Nnenna and the baby on her back left them atop the hill. She turned to Ijeọma, and let out a fearsome laugh.
“Why do you look so afraid,” Chinwe said.
Ijeọma’s head was lowered, and her eyes were fluttering wildly.
“What is your name?”
Ijeọma squeezed her eyes and softly signed her name by inverting two fingers and resting them on her left hand’s palm, then brought them to her heart, then to her palm, over and again.
“Come,” Chinwe said. “You can play with me.”
Chinwe took Ijeọma’s hand and told the other girls to sing, knowing that some did not like Ijeọma, knowing, too, the words many said of her: that the mute girl may not have been thrown into the Evil Forest, but she was surely not a girl for them to befriend; she knew they hated the way her hair was plaited, the presence of her muteness, the fact that she could fly—and that some were now turning their eyes away from her, passing grins to their friends to remind them of those things they said of her yesterday.
Ijeọma saw what they were doing, and her heart began trembling and her eyes began to tear, until the touch of Chinwe’s hands made her turn from her loathsome thoughts. She took those hands, and became deaf to what their eyes were saying: ugly hair, ugly mute, ugly bird, ugly fool; and she watched Chinwe ask the girls to sing, patting and clapping Chinwe’s hands to the rhythm of the song, striking her hands with a forceful speed as the others sang faster and faster, their hands beginning to burn, the words of the song welding onto one another.
MGBEKE AND OKOYE WENT TO THE MARKET.
CLAP CLAP PAT PAT PAT CLAP
MGBOYE AND OKOYE WENT TO THE BUSH.
CLAP CLAP PAT PAT PAT CLAP
MGBAFỌR-AND-OKAFỌR-CAUGHT-A-RAT.
CLAP-CLAP-PAT-PAT-PAT-CLAP
MGBANKWỌANDOKONKWOMADESOMESOUP.
CLAPCLAPPATPATPATCLAP
They fell on the grass laughing together, clasping their hands as their eyes faced Igwe, not noticing the others staring and whispering at how they lay on the ground. Ijeọma turned to Chinwe, her heart racing from the thrill of the game, feeling Chinwe’s palms against hers, the child who could not speak, me, the mute who now flies; she smiled, wondering if Chinwe would remove her hand, come and visit me, come be my friend, and she smiled and smiled because their hands were still joined, even when Chinwe looked into her eyes, we will play until tomorrow, we will, even in the morning time, we can take our baths together, in Idem
ili, and even go to paint uli, but we cannot, not by ourselves, not on our thighs, but we can climb the other hills, keep my hand in yours, keep it, please keep it, so that we can be friends—and not blame me, please, do not blame me—but, you are still seeing me, are you still seeing me, you are, you are, keep my hand, keep my hand, love me always—and she let the idea stop, and thanked her muteness for keeping it unsaid; she averted her eyes, seeing now the mango-shaped birthmark sitting beside Chinwe’s ear, and feeling the presence of Chinwe’s eyes on her; and when she felt new pressure squeezing against her hands, she sighed, believing Chinwe had not ridiculed her.
“Do you hear that?” Chinwe said, as she released Ijeọma’s hand, as Ijeọma began raising herself to look down at the market square, seeing more than fifty very young men with bushy, unkempt hair walking into the thanksgiving festival. She recognized one to be Ụzọdị despite his pale skin and sunken eyes.
“What are the osu doing in this place!” asked one of the girls, one who had not seen Ijeọma’s eyes growing insecure and silent.
“I do not know. Let us go and hear what they are saying.”
Chinwe, Ijeọma, and the rest of the girls ran down the hill and stood amid the crowd where the ones called osu had gathered. They heard many people anxiously cursing at them, demanding that they quickly leave the market square.
“We have chosen not to leave,” said a person called osu. “We know that the gods are battling, and that even Igbokwe does not know which gods are living and which are dead.”
“You animal!” barked a freeborn man, with his brow highly raised, turning from the muscles of the very young men. “How do our affairs concern you!”
“If you do not know which gods are alive or dead, how can you say that we are dedicated to gods?” continued the person called osu. “What if the gods to whom we are bound are dead? We admit that some who live among us want to remain as they are. For them, we do not speak. But for those of us who have been forced into this slavery at the hands of our enemies, we seek to return to the land of our ancestors. You—all of you who challenge us—name the god. Name the god to whom I am bound, and I will hold my tongue.”
Nobody in the market square answered the tall, fair-skinned person. And Ijeọma, who did not care for the words being spoken, left the side of Chinwe—and moved closer to the ones called osu—wanting to be near Ụzọdị—moving through the crowd—pressing through the spaces between people taller than her—hoping that Ụzọdị would not leave the place where she saw him—moving and moving until she walked into the legs of Ụzọdị’s mother, Ezinne, who was standing next to Ọfọdile and Nnamdị.
“Ijeọma, where are you going?” Ezinne said.
Ijeọma pointed at Ụzọdị.
“Stay here,” Ezinne said. “You cannot go to him. Nnamdị … come.” She beckoned to Ijeọma’s younger brother.
“Nnamdị, go to that table and get me those groundnuts.”
“I will go,” said Nnamdị.
Ijeọma saw Ezinne patting Nnamdị’s head before he began running toward the table. She looked upward and saw Ezinne’s quivering lips and could hear her whispering curses at the people challenging those called osu, then praying for Amalike’s death and condemning Ichulu’s prejudice. She knew that Ezinne wanted to be with Ụzọdị—that from the terror in her voice, Ezinne wanted to hold him as if tomorrow would never show itself again, as if the moment would last for the duration she wanted—for it to last, as sleep is wished to last before confronting a burdensome day.
“We will not go until the good word is spoken,” said another called osu.
“The good word can never be given to a slave!” said another freeborn man.
“Please, people of Ichulu … listen to us.”
Ijeọma began jumping over and again as Ụzọdị began to speak.
“Please, listen, list—”
“Shut your mouth, you animal!”
“Please, please. We do not want to make trouble with you,” Ụzọdị continued. “All of us know that something is changing in our land. We have witnessed events that even our ancestors could not have imagined … We have seen miracles. Everybody gathered here, you know how I became an osu. I was made one by those wicked people in Amalike. I became one when I chose to serve our village. Now I am here, in my father’s land, welcomed not with jubilation but with insult. Do not become blind to the signs the gods are sending you. Do not …”
The eyes of all in the market square faced the sky. Ijeọma’s feet pointed toward them, and her arms were opened as though embracing Anyanwụ and his sun. Ichulu and its visitors stood dazed—stuck in their disbelief and fascination. No one could deny Ụzọdị’s claim. They had all become witnesses to his words. They saw his good words and they were beautiful. They saw Ijeọma and she was beautiful. And Ichulu looked upon the one called their daughter, many seeing her flight for the first time, and began praising Chukwu for what Chukwu had done, and smiling at Ijeọma, each heart and each spirit, expecting her to send their joy up and through the sky.
And as Ichulu looked upward, Ọfọdile’s hands began shaking. He looked about himself, hoping nobody had recognized him as the titleless man called father of the mute, deciding unequivocally that he would return home, turning to take Nnamdị, but Nnamdị was not there, and Ọfọdile began searching throughout the festival, looking for the one called his son, checking through the bushes and inside the market sheds, still he could not find him, wanting to scream his name, but fearing Ichulu would see him and shame him and his chi.
There: next to Ijeọma’s foot was a branch of a cashew tree, and on that branch was Nnamdị. He had climbed the tree so that he too could join Ijeọma in the heavens. And when Ọfọdile saw him, he rushed toward the tree, hoping he could reach it quickly—running, before Nnamdị decided to leap off the branch. There was a moment when those watching Nnamdị in the air believed he, too, possessed the gift of flight. But the faith which sustained that belief quickly vanished—and within the moment, Nnamdị laid unconscious on the market square’s ground.
“Move from my way! Move from my way!” Ọfọdile screamed as he rushed to Nnamdị’s side. Blood was oozing from the side of Nnamdị’s head, and his arms were limp when Ọfọdile lifted them. “Where is Igbokwe? Someone call Igbokwe!”
The message traveled that Igbokwe was wanted, and only a few had noticed Ijeọma’s return to the earth. Nnenna was among them—seeing Ijeọma descend—as she pushed through people to get to Nnamdị’s side. And when she saw Ijeọma moving toward Ọfọdile, she moved into Ijeọma’s path, stopping her, the root of Ọfọdile’s frustration, from entering his path.
“Ijeọma,” she said, “come with me. Let us allow your father to take care of Nnamdị himself.”
Ijeọma obeyed, not understanding—but heeding the wisdom of the one called her mother—even as she heard bells ringing, and saw Igbokwe walking toward Ọfọdile and Nnamdị.
“Igbokwe … I have died! I have died! My enemies have come for my only son!”
“Ọfọdile, there is still life in your child. I will heal him.”
Igbokwe asked two very young men to carry Nnamdị to his compound as he and Ọfọdile followed behind them. And Igbokwe tempered the anxious spirit in Ọfọdile, saying over and again, “For us it will be beautiful. For us it will be beautiful.”
Nnamdị was laid before Igbokwe’s obi when they arrived, and Igbokwe entered his obi to retrieve some medicine. And Ọfọdile was left with the body of the one called his son, tears capturing the oil and sweat dripping from his face; and like a man seized by the rapture of every god, he raised his hands as if to thrash the sky.
“Chi of mine! Chi of mine! Is it me that you have forgotten? I have prayed to you every day of my life. I have never asked you for the impossible. You have given me a family, and a harvest, but this child … this child of mine. I do not know! I do not want to know! I have fed her, played with her, loved her … but I canno
t tolerate the curses my enemies have made. They mock me … they have called me a failure because I have won no chieftaincies or titles, and now look at my son! If this is because of Chukwu and Anị, tell them to resolve their quarrel. I am an innocent man. I have not harmed any person in my life. Why should this happen? What have I done? Chi of mine … if there is anything I did to offend you, please turn your eyes from it. But if this misfortune has been caused by a common man … let him never see a good day. Let his children die. Chi of mine, I beg you. Give my son his life. I love my son. I love the name of my son. Please, please, give my son his life.”
Ọfọdile cast his arms by his sides and returned himself to Igbokwe’s compound. Then, within a moment, a smile found its way onto his lips—and a breath came into his heart. Nnamdị’s eyes had opened.
PART II
ANOTHER TOWN
1.
“JESUS IS …”
“Lord!”
“Jesus is …”
“Lord!”
The pastor of Precious Word Ministries called the Son of God’s name so loudly, his congregation thought the church louvers would burst and shatter. To prove its faith was no less fervent, it, too, screamed with force—matching his tones as if crying hip, hip, and hooray—as though their chests held bombs.
The pastor was Innocent Nwosu: a bona fide man of God in the congregation’s eyes, one who was tall and slender, with fair skin and a bushy mustache and spectacles balancing on his arrow-shaped nose. Those spectacles often slid down his face when he contorted his body to bring emphasis to his preaching, as he bent backward to support his guttural amens, tilting to his sides as stiffly as bone, marching forcefully in his lord’s army; and when he was finished, he pushed his spectacles up the hill of his nose, and cried out again, amen.