by Okezie Nwoka
i hear them the children. they say it to but me me Chukwu! mercy! it cannot each believe, for it too be separate, even separately.
2.
TAME WATERS FROM THE RAINY SEASON, and gentle winds from the dry, had visited Ichulu and left—so, too, had a passable harvest—and the Stone of Anị rested amid the towering necks of slender grass and reeds. A year had passed since Nwagụ and Mgboye took their oaths before the village, and as they moved throughout Ichulu, filled with health and joy, nobody doubted the goodness of their words. Jekwu was a son to be kept, a son for his parents, and a son for Ichulu. He was saved on the fourth day from his birth, and was circumcised on the eighth, and was given ichi so thin his scars healed in twelve days. He was sung to by many women before Anyanwụ had risen, and was sung to many times before Anyanwụ set in the evening time. And after being washed by Igbokwe on the banks of Idemili each night, he was given those blessings that only Igbokwe’s prayers could give.
But there was a lingering fear among many in Ichulu: how could Anị be lost? The promise of no longer losing loved ones to the Evil Forest was enticing, but not enticing enough to erase the memory of last year’s damages. The flood had eroded much of the village, making it difficult to rebuild red-clay homes and red-clay obis, making it difficult to trust the days when Igwe, the husband of Anị, sent his rain. The harvest of that year had troubled them, as it had not been as bountiful as those of the past, and it caused the people to wonder if the goddess of the earth had made it so—cursing them like the eight osu—because her death had come through the life of a little child. The village slept disquietly—knowing that a goddess whom they served from their remembered beginnings was now dead—murmuring, “How can Anị be lost … How can the great Anị be dead?”
It especially bothered the bearded Okoye, who was carrying his cutlass to the Stone of Anị. He moved with the desire to upkeep the sacred grounds, and to give life to a thing which had fallen. And upon his arrival, Okoye saw Igbokwe standing above the stone, wearing a look that betrayed the dịbịa’s confidence.
“Even the great Igbokwe is doubting this decision,” Okoye said.
Igbokwe looked at Okoye with disinterested eyes, then turned again to the jagged stone.
“If you are certain that we should kill a god whom Chukwu has rejected—why do you stand over Anị’s stone with sorrow?”
“Okoye, what is it that you want,” Igbokwe said.
“I want you to deny what you have told Ichulu! Tell them that your word was not good! Tell them that Anị is not dead, but alive! We have worshipped her since the first day our people could even know a god, and now because of children we abandon her? Igbokwe, what you are doing—it will anger the goddess who provides us with harvest and posterity and will anger our ancestors who speak to Chukwu on our behalf.”
“Okoye, it is not so. I have read my shells, and you … have you not seen the power these children possess? A child has survived the forest. A child is flying to Chukwu.”
“That child is an abomination! She should have never been born!”
Igbokwe’s near concession was a silent one; and as he looked through the black of the bearded man’s eyes, he remembered how Okoye was once engaged to Nnenna, how the two enjoyed a romance, to which the children of Ichulu crafted songs, dancing a dance of passion that left the others in the village troubled with envy. Nnenna would wash Okoye’s clothes at the banks of Idemili, erasing their dirt and stains with the pruned touch of a zealous lover. Okoye would catch hordes and hordes of game, hunting tirelessly, demonstrating that he could care for Nnenna and the family they both wanted. Names of children were already decided. The first boy was to be named Ifeatụ, and the first girl Adaakụ, and the remaining children were to be called from the dead, given the names of ancestors.
They planned to marry. And their plan to marry bore no threats, until the day Okoye and Ọfọdile had an argument. Okoye had gone to see if his traps had yielded any game when he found Ọfọdile moving away from his traps with a carcass strung across his shoulders. He hurried toward the man whom he thought to be a thief, and quickly seized the dangling animal.
“Ọfọdile, you have now become one who steals?”
“Steals? What are you saying?” Ọfọdile said.
“You have stolen an animal from one of my traps!” said Okoye. “I saw it with my eyes!”
“Are you steering madness? This is the game I caught from my own trap.”
“Are you saying that I am lying lies?”
“No,” Ọfọdile said, “I am saying you are a fool!”
The accuser dropped the carcass; the carcass was still dropping when blows were exchanged, the first blows coming from Okoye’s fists—with blows being returned by Ọfọdile’s stout arms—the betrothed too slow and too close to dodge the bachelor’s fists—both fighting with the volatility of a growing flame—Okoye tackling Ọfọdile to the earth—using his body to press him down—but Ọfọdile finding his way upward, delivering more vicious strikes—even as Okoye tackled him down—he rose again, even when tackled again, he rose over and again, until he was subdued—and Okoye scratched his tired face—stealing from him, dark skin and beauty. He let out a scream and released himself from under Okoye’s body as the people moving around them asked what had caused this terrible fight.
“It is enough!” Ọfọdile said, blood moving down his cheek. “Okoye—you have accused me, an innocent man, of stealing from you; then you found the courage to attack me as if I were a wild animal. But let these people be witnesses. You, all of you … mind your ears. If I stole game from Okoye, let my eyes go blind and never see the morning light, and the land of my father. But if I did not steal from this man … Okoye, if I did not steal from you, let everything that you cherish and that you love abandon you; I swear this on the head of my chi!”
Okoye watched Ọfọdile depart without game, and watched as the morning light glistened upon his back. He did not fear the curse, believing Ọfọdile was a thief and that in time he would lose his sight and become an outcast. But by the fourth week, Okoye believed that it was he who had experienced much sorrow and hardship. The one called his father had rebuked him for not improving his compound, the one which Okoye was to inherit as the firstborn son. “If you do not repair these crumbling houses,” the one called his father would say, “you will never inherit my obi … bush animal! You are not my son, but a titleless bush animal.” Then, as Okoye began repairing the houses to appease the one called his father, the ones called his younger brothers despised him, as he was to inherit their red-clay homes; and they insulted him without shame, calling him a selfish dog, a selfish dog that would rebuild the compound’s houses while his younger brothers still lived within them.
The insults continued; the isolation broadened; and like the others, Nnenna ended her affection. When Okoye asked her what he had done, she said that she hated his shaven face. When Okoye grew a beard, nothing changed in her; and when he heard her call him the man whom she used to love—incapable of satisfying her affections—and saw her flee to another—the one whom the village said spoke to her, and listened to her, and filled her with the powers of romance and zeal—hearing that he held her like a hunted animal trapped in a corner, which made her acquiesce to lust—watching her accept the lashes of the scandalous affair, saying after four rousing weeks that she would keep her betrothal to Ọfọdile—Okoye swore himself to a life of righteousness, forever tending to the gods for protection against human wickedness.
“Igbokwe,” Okoye said, “because of that thief, I do not have a wife, or children—but I have my gods. If you respect what is holy in Ichulu, you will resurrect Anị.”
“Okoye—my power is not to resurrect the gods. I am their messenger. I am not their leader. If you want to worship Anị again, then you yourself, go ask it of Chukwu.”
The dịbịa moved away from the stone, though doubt had flown into his mind, shaking it with vigor. How, he thought, will we survive—the realit
y of declaring Anị dead striking him like a blow, disturbing him as it disturbed all he was to protect; even with the evidence of Jekwu, and the evidence of Ijeọma, how would Chukwu provide the way Anị had provided, bearing children through divine fertility, holding the bodies of our people dead, forging the boundaries of evil and good, producing crops for eating and sacrifice, will it be the Supreme Being who will tend to the affairs of the living, when the harvest of this year was not as bountiful as those before it, when eight of our sons have been cursed, six of them shot dead—
Igbokwe let out a mournful sigh, and another one, over and again. Why have they done this, the dịbịa thought, why have the gods gone to war?
3.
NWAGỤ AND MGBOYE WERE APPROACHING the four-home compound of Jekwu’s deliverer, with offerings of yam, palm wine, and palm oil stacked atop their heads. They considered the discomfort of their load remuneration for all they owed the household, because if not for the flying one, Jekwu would be dead. The year-old infant was fastened to the body of the one called his sister, with a thick, purple rappa tied tightly around Chinwe’s back. His head bounced with each of her steps, until he saw the clouds and trees spinning in uneven circles, until he vomited upon her sweaty shoulders, and let out a piercing sigh.
“Chei!” Chinwe said, quickly peeling Jekwu from the curve of her back, then using the purple rappa to wipe them both clean. “Jekwu—I will beat your buttocks if you vomit on me again!” she said before her irritation paused, fleeing from her, when she looked at his plain face, watching him laugh at clouds gleefully.
She was amazed—realizing how quickly he had grown in a single year. He was taller than the distance between her foot and her knee, and was heavier than a basket of mangoes; his head was as proportionate as a garden egg, and his voice had begun making soft sounds as if made from the purest metal. Chinwe lifted him and placed him again on her back, warning through a joke that he would eat his own vomit if he vomited on her again. And at once, she heard him laughing a laugh—as if acknowledging that he had understood.
When they arrived, Nwagụ, Mgboye, Chinwe, and Jekwu were waiting at the mouth of Ọfọdile’s compound, waiting for a response to Nwagụ’s call, listening for an answer to, “Compound of Ekwueme, the family of Nwakaibie has come.”
“You have arrived?” Ezinne said, after sprinkling river water on the ground; after standing to Nwagụ’s call, as she prepared to sweep Ọfọdile’s compound.
“Yes, we have arrived,” Nwagụ said, smiling.
“Welcome, all of you welcome. Ọfọdile and Nnenna are in their homes. I will go and call them for you.”
Ezinne walked toward Ọfọdile’s obi and then to Nnenna’s red-clay home, her smooth scalp playing with the sunlight as she went. And within the moment, she returned with her in-laws near her side, and continued sweeping the compound.
“How are—”
“Ehhhhhh-ehhh! Ehhhh-ehh!” said Nnenna with a smile, interrupting Ọfọdile’s words. “Is this the one who has birthed eight children, and is still looking like a young woman! Where are the others?”
“They are at home cooking food,” said Mgboye. “A woman with five children is not to be in the kitchen, or you did not know?”
The two laughed together and moved toward Nnenna’s red-clay home, after putting aside the yam and other gifts. Ọfọdile had asked Nwagụ to break kola in his obi, and as they moved, Chinwe and Jekwu remained close to Ezinne.
“Our mother,” said Chinwe, “do you know where Ijeọma is?”
“She is on the other side of the compound, near her mother’s home.”
“Thank you,” Chinwe said, while moving to meet Ijeọma.
“Chinwe! Chinwe!” Nwagụ’s voice was coming from the mouth of Ọfọdile’s obi.
“Make sure you take care of Jekwu. Let nothing happen to him! Have you heard?”
“Yes.” Chinwe said.
“No, no, give him to your mother. That is greater in beauty …”
Chinwe nodded, and Nwagụ watched as she entered Nnenna’s home with Jekwu on her back; and he watched as she emerged without him. Then he entered the obi and sat across from Ọfọdile—not seeing the unease of his host, but speaking the purpose of his visit once the two had broken kola.
“Ọfọdile … even the sky! above us! cannot hold the gratitude I have for you and your family … If you could hear the joy of my chi! or the exclamations of my forefathers! then you would know the extent to which I am indebted. Without your daughter, there would be no hope, no peace, no balance in my household. I would have killed all affection for my newborn son, and would have been forced to refuse the affection he has for me. Do you know what would have happened if he died in that forest? I would have cursed the goddess who brought him into the world—only to remove him from it days later. I would have cursed the woman who I call my wife for birthing a child who is an abomination to our people. I would have cursed my own chi for not obeying my will, for if a man says yes, so must his chi! ỌFỌDILE! I know Ichulu has called me lucky—my traps are always full, my harvest always abundant—never have I lacked; but this thing called luck only exists if a village makes it so, if a man’s chi makes it so—”
“Nwagụ …” Ọfọdile began, “you should not, be grateful to me … or any member of my household. It is true, that my daughter is the reason … your son is alive today … But the very fact … that she flies … like some animal, makes her an abomination, whether or not Anị is dead. Anị is no longer worshipped … and the people of Ichulu, now see the results. Look at how people … complained of their harvests.”
“What are you speaking? The harvest was acceptable.”
“My yams, that used to be … the size of large stones, were smaller than my forearm,” Ọfọdile said.
“But my yams of this harvest were the same as my yams of last harvest,” Nwagụ said.
“So you, do not see? That, too, is a problem,” Ọfọdile said. “If Chukwu … the Most Supreme … has taken the place of Anị … should our produce not be, greater in beauty? And what of … the children? Were there not less born … this year, than the last?”
“Ọfọdile, I have listened; but have you not heard what Ichulu is saying?”
“What, are they … saying?”
“They are saying that they do not know; whether we will survive without Anị, whether Chukwu will govern the harvest, whether your daughter is to blame … Ichulu does not know.”
“Can you say … that there have not been, men … who have blamed … their misfortunes, on our names? Can you, say it?”
“Ọfọdile, let those foolish men continue their gossiping. Do you know how many of them have committed abominations against Anị? The harvest is still growing, and the children are still being birthed. The people of Ichulu know in their spirit that what our children have brought is good. Even if it is not said, all of us, from the greatest man to the smallest child, know it.”
“Nwa—have you become foolish! Ichulu is great because it has never changed! Great because we have followed every tradition, given by our fathers, all of them without failing.”
“Your word is not good,” Nwagụ said. “Ichulu’s greatness comes from how we move with change and difficulty—just like our god Idemili. We honor our traditions, but when they can no longer serve us, we drown them in the deepest river.”
“But, if we continue, to discard our traditions … what will remain, for our children …”
“My friend, I do not know, but our children and their children will uncover it.”
The two men sat in each other’s company, bearing their discord. They could hear the laughter of their wives jumping across the compound, and they wondered if the women, too, discussed the meaning of their children’s lives. Neither knew what to do with the silence. They barely noticed the sounds of goats bleating at the mouth of the obi. Nwagụ stared at his host. Ọfọdile suppressed his irritation, wanting to douse his nose in a container of snuff; the two were
neither enemies nor friends.
Ijeọma and Chinwe were not the same as the ones called their fathers. Since last year’s thanksgiving festival, Chinwe visited Ijeọma as much as she could, bringing with her stories that Mgboye told and songs which the older children composed. She learned to speak Ijeọma’s language, partially through her own intelligence, and partially through the intelligence of Nnenna’s teaching: raised eyebrows and endearing gazes—arms swinging and motioning in the air—all of them now bore meaning to Chinwe; and, as she sat in the middle of Ọfọdile’s compound, savoring the company of her friend, Chinwe used her eyes to listen.
“Ijeọma, I like the color of your rappa … It is as if they dyed it with the brightest palm oil.”
Ijeọma smiled, and clasped her palms, presenting them to Chinwe.
“Even your father’s rappa; I like his, too … It is even redder than yours.”
Ijeọma presented her hands again.
“Do not thank me, my friend! Because of you, Jekwu survived death. My youngest brother would have died if not for you.”
Ijeọma fell rigid—guilt pulling at her insides—knowing that Chinwe’s profession was true in two ways. Her friend knew of the flights—but did not know of the second: bold secrets, hiding in the Evil Forest; and it became for her a terrifying fear—speaking the good word—even if good words were true, even if they are, she thought, good words can kill friendships, and if Chinwe knew that Jekwu’s survival was not from the gods, she would cast me away—your brother was saved by my hands—she thought loudly—thanking her muteness for keeping it unsaid—he licked rice from my fingers—and drank milk from my mother’s breasts—but you would not understand, if I told you, you would not like it, and you would tell me to go, and befriend Chukwu and the gods, and cast me away, like the girls in the market square; can you hear me? Is that why you are looking at me in that way … why are you, I am sorry, I am sorry, I am nodding, three times yes, two times no … I am pointing to my stomach, I am sorry … do you understand, I am pointing to my stomach.