God of Mercy

by Okezie Nwoka

  “Who are you?” said one of the children, who had stopped his happy game—and looked plainly at the sky, then the girls, his eyes rolling softly as if counting the many threads of the wind—as if there was never yesterday, as though tomorrow were not to come.

  “You are both freeborn,” said the child. “Is that what it is?”

  Yes, said Ijeọma and Chinwe through sight and sound.

  “Then go as you go, and come as you come.”

  “But we are looking for a person,” Chinwe said. “Will you help us?”

  “If you are to be helped, help will come.”

  And the boy turned away and continued playing with the others, as Ijeọma stood waiting—unnerved by the child’s words, upset that the children began erupting into laughter—irritably watching them clutching their bellies and revealing their missing teeth—feeling insulted that they did not assist them, angry at the child, angry at the osu, believing that they all deserved to be cast out for not helping her find Ụzọdị—then regretting the thought, with remorse and uncertainty, yet feeling insulted still.

  “What of this person walking before us,” said Chinwe, “Perhaps they know where we can find Ụzọdị.”

  Ijeọma nodded three times and hurried to the person timidly, then began tapping on their bare back.

  “Who has come?” the person said, turning downward, knowing by Chinwe’s plaited hair that she was a foreigner.

  “We are looking for someone,” Chinwe said, having followed behind Ijeọma. “His name is Ụzọdị.”

  “I know a man they call Ụzọdị,” the person said.

  “She is his kin! She wants to see him … We have brought him water from Idemili.”

  The person stood on his toes. And he looked down into the girls’ water pots, watching the water move, right to left, knowing where it was from as the light danced upon his undulating face. He had forgotten the taste of Idemili’s water and had forgotten, too, how it touched the skin; and as he looked into the girls’ pots, and then looked back at them, a single desire moved his heart.

  “I will show you where he is, but give me water to drink.”

  “Yes, we will do it. We will give you water.”

  Chinwe brought her water pot down from her head, then watched the person kneel to the pot’s height—watched him dip his cupped hand into the water, and bring it to his face—drinking the water slowly, as if it yielded pure hope. He was from Ichulu, and as he drank, he recalled his time in Idemili, remembering how Idemili’s water would cleanse him in ways other water could not. And as he drank, he prayed to Idemili, thanking the river god for returning to his lips.

  “In the morning time, the one they call Ụzọdị farms,” the person said, lifting his face to Chinwe, “Begin your search there, at the farms. It is not far from your hands. Move along this path and take it all the way, until you see the farmland.”

  “We thank you,” said Chinwe, as she reached for her water pot and returned it to her head—joining Ijeọma in leaving the person with assured farewells as they continued their search for Ụzọdị, as they moved down the path—passing the ones called osu, watching what they thought to be harrowing eyes sternly following them. And as they moved through the Place of Osu, enduring the thought of feeling menacing stares, they dared not speak—not by tongue nor by actions—seeing the ones called osu as they, too, were clearly seen, watching them heating spears and sharpening machetes within their homes, believing them to be in forced restraint, subdued by ancient laws and hierarchies as they walked quickly, in a gait of subordination, appealing to the mercy of the osu and praying for the mercy of the gods, reaching cleared earth with fewer eyes upon them—then putting their hands in their water pots and rubbing the water on their chest and legs, hoping for Idemili’s protection.

  They continued walking while searching docilely for the farmland and found the man’s promise to be true. The farm was not far. It was not long before the heaps of earth lay beneath their feet. And in a distant corner, Ijeọma and Chinwe saw a man tilling the soil with muscles protruding from his body like large stones. They saw no one else on the farm, so they reasoned that this man would know where Ụzọdị could be found; and they walked closer to him, his muscles growing larger to them as they walked closer still, until their footsteps brushed against the weeds and reached the ears of the farming man.

  And he turned to them, with Ijeọma nearly weeping, not knowing what words to sign or think, trembling at what stood before them. What has happened, thought Ijeọma, what has happened to him, wondering at the stories that made his face forlorn. Sadness has followed him … has pursued him … And it has changed his eyes: and she saw them to be even gloomier, duller, than when she saw them at the thanksgiving festival, with the hair about his face much wilder, bushier than that atop his head, with his lips no longer pink and wet like moist kola, but dry and gray and cracked.

  And they cracked again as his mouth stretched open—Ụzọdị feeling uneasy that they had violated Ichulu’s creed, traversing the border between free and slave to come to the Place of Osu—wanting to chastise them for disobeying a law that would ensure both a beating and exile. But he did not do it. He turned to Ijeọma with gratitude overtaking his dark red eyes, and kissed her on her forehead; and turned to Chinwe, and kissed hers, too.

  “You have put yourselves in trouble by coming here,” Ụzọdị said.

  “We desired to come,” said Chinwe. “Ijeọma wanted to see you!”

  “I wanted to see her, too,” he said, kissing Ijeọma’s head once more. “Let us go. I will take you to where I live.”

  They followed him and watched him move. His way of moving had not changed: it was as calm and measured as it once was. And Ijeọma began believing that beneath the walls of his brawny frame, Ụzọdị was who Ụzọdị had been: his chi had remained within him. Though she wondered at the cause for his body’s change, and feared it somewhat—wondering if the curse of osu had truly changed his being.

  She trembled from the thought as she followed him inside his home. It was a small home, made with crumbling clay and discolored palm leaves. Its color was dull, paler than a dead goat’s tongue. And she saw that Ụzọdị was not only an outcast, but a poor man, too; he did not have very much in his little home. There were no mats, no pots, no art; and Ijeọma wondered if he tilled the earth relentlessly to erase the presence of such poverty—looking through the black of his eyes—wondering if that was why his body had become what it had become.

  “Ijeọma, you now see how I live,” Ụzọdị said, reading the signs she did not sign. “You have seen it. I am an osu now. The one who was to earn titles of chief and restore honor to our family is now an outcast to those in Ichulu. Every child that I conceive will be a slave. There is no hope for a man like me. So I farm. I farm fifty rows of yam because what am I to do? I will never be remembered in Ichulu as anything … not a hunter, a chief, or an elder … but if anybody were to come to this land of outcasts, and see my rows of yam, they would know that a powerful man has lived here.”

  Ijeọma looked at Ụzọdị. She saw the way he rubbed his dry arms, up and down, up and down, the breathy sounds of it whispering those things he could not say. And Ijeọma began to sign how sorry she was that he could not return to the village; and she began to sign how sorry she was that he would never become a chief or an elder. And she was going to sign how sorry she was for being a reason he was sent to Amalike, when Nwabụeze, one of the eight emissaries, walked into Ụzọdị’s home.

  “Chei! What are my eyes seeing?” said Nwabụeze. “Ụzọdị, you did not tell me that these people were coming. What are the two of you doing here?”

  “Nwabụeze, keep your calm. They are only small children.”

  “Lie! Was it not this small girl who put us in the hand of our enemies? Is it not because of her that we are here? And this one … What is your name?”

  “It is Chinwe.”

  “Yes, this Chinwe, she must
be a fool if she thinks she can simply enter the home of an osu without punishment.”

  “Nwabụeze, friend of mine, you know that the story is not as you say. Many things happened that even the great Igbokwe could not understand. Now, do not give my kin trouble … for if a person attacks a child, they attack all to whom that child belongs.”

  “Ụzọdị, you are not an elder or a dịbịa! I do not want your proverbs! I only came to your home so that I could collect the snuff that I forgot here yesterday.”

  “It is there,” said Ụzọdị, pointing to a small pouch sitting against a wall and watching Nwabụeze walk toward it and collect it.

  “I will return to see you,” said Nwabụeze as he left Ụzọdị—saying nothing to Ijeọma and Chinwe; ignoring the westward flying birds singing toward Ichulu.

  “Do not heed your ears to him,” Ụzọdị said. “None of this is because of you, Ijeọma.”

  Ijeọma did not sign any signs, believing within her chi that she was a culprit, believing that she was to be blamed, for everything, she was to be blamed; that all which had failed, had failed because of her; because she was mute, worthless, as Ọfọdile had said.

  “I am not an osu because of you. Do you hear me? Or are you the person who cursed yourself and made yourself a mute? It is nonsense!”

  Ijeọma nodded three times. Ijeọma nodded yes, hoping to believe him, hoping not to be the cause of his fiery voice.

  “Nwabụeze is always talking and talking and talking,” Ụzọdị said. “He is angry because he has not learned to live with his wife.”

  “Nwabụeze has married?” Chinwe said.

  “Yes, he has married an osu woman … and he keeps giving her trouble, because he has not accepted that this woman is not from Ichulu. His wife does not live as Ichulu lives. She is from the Place of Osu, and so lives as though she were a cloud, or the wind. Though I believe Nwabụeze will learn. He will learn, even, how to shut his wide mouth.”

  Ụzọdị saw the girls laughing, and began laughing himself—feeling as if he were traveling to a different day, one where he was not enslaved, one where he would always believe that Ijeọma loved him—calling it love if she left the compound of the one called her father to find him.

  “Ijeọma, does your mother know you are here?

  Ijeọma nodded her head twice.

  “Do you know the kind of trouble you will see when she discovers you have visited the Place of Osu? And your father … he will give you a serious beating.”

  It is not my concern, Ijeọma signed.

  “She loves you, Ụzọdị. She loves you more than she fears punishment. She loves you, and that is why we are here.”

  “Ijeọma … I love you, too.”

  Ijeọma smiled at him, remembering her memories, shattering the lie that the person before her was not Ụzọdị and wondering why she had believed the lie at all. He was not the Ụzọdị of yesterday, thin and plain and youthful; and then she remembered—yesterday is not the king of truth; yesterday has its lies. And she looked at him—seeing beauty and life, both from Ichulu, both from outside of it—seeing him—and not looking elsewhere, even as Ụzọdị looked through the black of her eyes.

  “Ijeọma, I want you and Chinwe to visit me when you want to visit me. You can even call this small obi of mine your home. But I do not want you to be punished by anyone in Ichulu because you have come to see me. What lie did you lie to leave the compound of your fathers?”

  “We told our mothers we were going to fetch water for the compound.”

  “That was not a clever lie. It does not take this kind of time to fetch water.”

  Ijeọma and Chinwe both sighed, knowing that their parents would not believe their words.

  “Here is what you can do. Break your water pots and tell your mothers that you feared coming home because they were broken. That will keep your word good.”

  “We will do that,” said Chinwe.

  “You must now go because I do not want your mothers and fathers to begin looking for you. You have already taken much time to arrive at this place, and it will take you time to return.”

  Ijeọma agreed, pointing to her heart, then to her mouth.

  “And when you come again, tell your mothers that you are going to care for Nwabụeze’s grandmother, Mgbeke. She lives in the compound of Nwabụeze’s father. She is very old and her memory has left her. Do you see? Tell your mothers and fathers that you are going to take care of Mgbeke. Then go to her house and care for her for a short time, so that your word is good. Mgbeke will not know when you have departed because her memory is lost. Only come on the day of Nkwọ because that is when Nwabụeze’s father travels north, leaving Mgbeke with her chi.”

  The girls nodded, letting Ụzọdị know that they both understood.

  “That is what we will do!” Chinwe said.

  “It is good. Now you must go. I believe that your mothers are already searching Ichulu for you.”

  The girls agreed, nodding their heads, and leaving Ụzọdị with smiles and assured farewells. They moved quickly, running down the path and cutting through the Forest of Nta, knowing that Ụzọdị was right in saying that Nnenna and Mgboye would not believe that they had only fetched water. So they broke their water pots as he told them to do—letting the water of Idemili spread across the dry earth of the Forest of Nta. And once they left the forest and returned to Ichulu, and the roads leading to the compounds of the ones called their fathers no longer stretched together, they left each other with assured farewells.

  And Ijeọma walked atop the yielding path on her own, then walked through the mouth of Ọfọdile’s compound. It was silent. Only the goats and chickens seemed to be in her company. She walked around Ọfọdile’s obi; and saw the burning firewood; and saw the black pots sitting atop them; and knew that Nnenna was cooking. And she lamented that she had returned when Anyanwụ was west of Idemili—nearly tucked beneath the brim of the glistening river.

  “Ijeọma. Where have you been?”

  Nnenna was coming around the obi with logs of firewood mounted atop her head; and she saw Ijeọma signing to her, that her water pot had broken and that she was afraid to return home after breaking it, because she did not want to be punished.

  “Ijeọma. It does not concern me if you have broken ten water pots. I can make one hundred more with these hands of mine. I have told you many times to come to the home of your mother even if the world is at war. I was here cooking ọgbọnọ soup without my Ada to help me.”

  Ijeọma nodded three times.

  “Where did you and Chinwe go after you broke your pots?”

  Ijeọma pretended not to have heard the question.

  “Ijeọma, have you lost your hearing? Answer me. Where did you go after you broke your water pot?”

  The compound of Chinwe’s father, Ijeọma signed.

  She saw Nnenna grin, and did not know what it could mean—considering that her smile could now have many meanings: joy at her new friendship, satisfaction with her independence, memories of their secret in the Evil Forest. Ijeọma did not know, and she looked closely at the one called her mother—watching as Nnenna began stirring the large pot of soup.

  “Ijeọma, when I was young like you I played with a girl named Yọbachukwu … I would call her Yọba and she called me Nne, and everybody thought that we were sisters, from one mother and one father.”

  Where is she? Why have I not seen her, Ijeọma signed.

  Nnenna’s eyes watched the bubbling soup, not needing to discern Ijeọma’s signs.

  “She found a lover. She found a lover, and he gave Yọba a baby before giving Yọba’s father a dowry. It was an abomination, and they banished her from the village.”

  Nnenna stopped stirring the soup, and turned to her daughter, gazing at her fearfully.

  “Every day I see you, Ijeọma. You are becoming more and more like a woman. Your eyes have lost their apple shape; they are now narrow—so I must war
n you. Never give to a man that which you cannot retrieve. You must be a woman of sense, not one that runs about like a fool because she wants to fornicate. You are my Ada. Remember that you have a mother, one whose greatest hatred is against those who abandon integrity. I am the one who carried you in my body. Never disgrace these breasts you have suckled.”

  Ijeọma swallowed the saliva rising behind her lips, and listened to Nnenna—now knowing that she considered her to be like a woman, and trusted her with womanly things. And she stood before her, not wanting to defile this trust, not wanting to make it the kind that could rot, the kind she sometimes saw between Nnenna and Ọfọdile; but wanting to keep it, and have it turn into greater secrets and finer sensibilities. But then her heart remembered: it loved Ụzọdị; and she told the one called her mother that she and Chinwe would be taking care of Mgbeke on Nkwọ days, and was not surprised when Nnenna said it was a beautiful thing for her and Chinwe to learn from the elderly, and not to treat them as outcasts.

  She smiled. And Nnenna smiled, too; and she kissed the one called her mother, then took from her hands the stirrer and began mixing the bitter leaves, and crayfish, and palm oil in the boiling ọgbọnọ soup and watched a large bubble—expanding—in the pot—pop, from the fire beneath it.

  DIARY ENTRY #919 31 JANUARY 2000