by Okezie Nwoka
Chukwu, tell me what is true? Please, whisper it in my ear. Is it not I who has come from a village that murdered its own, one which declared those murders as being in the name of a god? And from that village, did I not learn that a person can be told NEVER to walk upon the land into which they were born? This, after Uzodi put his life in danger to protect the village from the greatest calamity it knew. They discarded him like filth, threw him away like trash! Even to be born into the village with teeth, simple, small, and straight, meant death; then saving Jekwu meant death; then loving him meant death.
Then Amalike, AMALIKE, who has held so many of us as prisoners, with many others disappearing as though they had never existed. They beat and burned me as a child, and now I witness the same horror as they desecrate another set of young ones. In the name of Jesus, is what they are declaring, in the name of another god. Yet, somehow, they have read through ink and paper to see nothing except nothing, and make the smallest of children prisoners and slaves by the misapprehension of their holy bibles.
Chukwu what is true? Tell me what is true. For whether it is in Ichulu or whether it is in Amalike I see falsehood, so much falsehood, leading us all into suffering and death. It is as if the one who commits them has no sense that he has killed another, as another will have killed him by his very sensibility. For if I tell a child, “You will not eat,” that child would die within the night. And if that child dies, what recourse will I have to her ancestors? And if I speak to a child crassly, that child will not know of the joy of the Most Supreme. And what recourse will I have to you, Chukwu?
Then what is true? Are you true, Chukwu? I learned of you from the place of an error-ridden Ichulu. Are you a lie like the other lies? For I must say of what is keeping me from disowning you as my god is the simple joy which comes when I am risen to the sky
5.
ON NKWỌ DAY, ỌFỌDILE DID NOT SPEAK to the one called his daughter. Things had become as they had been when she had lost her voice. He heard many in Ichulu say that Ọfọdile’s household should be sent to the Evil Forest if Anị was not truly dead; that Ọfọdile had produced a child that threatened Ichulu’s prosperity; that Ọfọdile’s words were no longer good—that he no longer does what he says. And he blamed Ijeọma for it all—not wanting to speak to a mute and the murderer of a god, hating that she kept flying in the market square and in his compound—flying even in the middle of Idemili while the village children bathed; and he swore that he would fix her, taking her each day to Igbokwe’s compound, hoping that the dịbịa’s medicine could cure her so that one day he would earn a title.
But Ijeọma, too, was silent—no longer hoping for Ọfọdile to love her, but wanting instead for him to remember Chukwu—and the vastness of the Most Supreme. She prayed for him to remember it since she was told that Chukwu had taken her to be Chukwu’s own. And she walked through the foggy path—knowing that she was given a vision, a vision greater than the people who wanted her removed from the village—greater even than Nnenna, and Chinwe, and Ụzọdị. She knew her purpose to be true, and examined that truth thoroughly—like the lines from a new tale or the patterns on a mottled butterfly; examining it—until the labor of her mind found new ease.
And she remembered Igbokwe, and she believed that in all of Ichulu Igbokwe most understood the gifts Chukwu had given her. While the people of Ichulu worshipped Idemili and the other gods of the pantheon, she and Igbokwe gave what they could give to the Most Supreme. She smiled—when she remembered the prayers he taught her—prayers that he prayed to Chukwu, prayers that she prayed every night, giving thanks to Chukwu, giving thanks to Chineke, giving thanks to her chi in the warmth of Nnenna’s red-clay home, reciting those words the dịbịa had given her: “If the word of Chukwu is not good, then whose word is good? Who does one believe? Who can one believe,” mouthing the prayer, over and again, as the dịbịa asked her to remove her rappa—then traced her nakedness with his thin, dark fingers—breathing warm breaths as he searched for the message of the gods.
And as she felt Igbokwe’s touch that Nkwọ day, on the day she planned to visit Ụzọdị, she began thinking of the words spoken at the thanksgiving festival, remembering the challenge of the one called osu—the one who demanded that Ichulu name the god to whom they were bound. If Chukwu has killed Anị, Ijeọma thought, perhaps the gods enslaving Ụzọdị, and the seven others, have also died.
Return them, Ijeọma signed to Igbokwe.
“Who?”
Ijeọma brushed her fingers against her hair.
“I cannot.”
Why?
“Because I do not know where Amalike gets their power. It is dangerous.”
No. Return them—return them.
“I cannot.”
You must!
“I cannot.”
You must!
“Ijeọma …”
Suddenly Ijeọma’s body began to ache; her head spun wildly; her stomach began quaking, as if filled with tumbling stones.
Return them—return them!
Her body shook again, her legs vibrating as if filled with seeds from the ụyọ; her eyes lost their focus; her stomach rumbled as if holding the mighty waterspouts of Idemili.
And then she saw the blood—moving down the inside of her thighs, and then dropping—leaking onto the earth of Igbokwe’s obi; she watched it, placidly; looking for words, one at a time, to name what she was seeing: injury, she thought, who has injured me, she thought, sacrifices for the gods, a sacrifice for Chukwu … inside of me; she faced Igbokwe, then turned her eyes and saw the blood gathering atop the earth like palm oil, knowing that it would continue falling until the trickling against her thighs had stopped.
“My daughter can now bear this village children.”
She looked at him again.
“That is what the blood is telling you, Ijeọma. You can now have a child.”
Her eyes began fluttering—not knowing the child—or its name—or whether it would have teeth or talk or fly like me; who will be the father—or who will be my husband—and if our child will have a chi—or ichi, and how long their marks would go—or would they come from the gods—from the good word of the Most Supreme—
“Ijeọma, Ijeọma. There is nothing that can happen in your life without Chukwu first permitting it. Chineke has brought you to womanhood … Do not fear it. Do not mourn it. You, my child, will become a mother of this village; and your children will bless you, just as you will bless them.”
Ijeọma smiled at the dịbịa so that he would know that she believed his words; then she sat with her back along the obi’s walls—watching as Igbokwe left his obi and returned with a mound of orange earth in his left hand, and a cluster of broad leaves in the other. Her heart was pulled by an unnamed heaviness, a heaviness which had her believe that she was to be blamed for the bleeding—seeing Igbokwe covering the blood while feeling the weight still: gloomy, shadows from a growing doubt, wanting to take the blood with her and not abandon it there on the floor, beneath the orange earth. And Igbokwe gave her the leaves—and told her to wipe herself—and place some in her garments; and she obeyed—placing the leaves firmly in her garments, then collecting her rappa from Igbokwe—to join him in meeting Ọfọdile outside.
“Has she been cured?” Ọfọdile said.
“We have already known the answer,” said Igbokwe—while thinking of telling Ọfọdile that Ijeọma had begun to menstruate as he watched them both turn and leave. Her entrance into womanhood would make him more hateful, he thought; so he chose not to follow him or tell him anything, but told Nnenna of what had happened later that day. And when he did, he watched her throw herself into her own excitements. “The time has come!” Nnenna said. “My daughter is now a woman!” Nnenna said. “Let us praise Idemili!” she bellowed over and again. “Let my family praise Idemili!”
And after being hugged by Nnenna incessantly, Ijeọma met Chinwe at Nwagụ’s compound. It was one of the largest in Ichulu, bearing wi
thin it twelve red-clay homes: five homes for each of Nwagụ’s five wives, homes for the ones called his children and the one called his mother, an obi, and spares for visitors, and storage—all of which came from him being a titled man.
“Friend of mine!” shouted Chinwe.
Friend of mine! Ijeọma signed by tapping her wrist, then her eye.
They embraced—eager to be with each other—eager to begin their journey again to the Place of Osu.
Have you told your mother of Mgbeke? Ijeọma signed.
“I have told her. Let us go.”
Machete?
Chinwe nodded, and pointed to the wooden handle protruding from her knotted rappa. Ijeọma smiled as they both left Nwagụ’s compound and traveled to the compound of Nwabụeze’s father. It was very close to them—five compounds from where they stood—and emerged along the orange path leading to the market square. Upon entering it, they saw Mgbeke—lying flat atop the compound’s earth, not reacting to their presence—but watched her eyes: gray, and dimly lit, as she lay at the mouth of her red-clay home with fat flies sitting on her yellow-toned skin.
“Who has come? Who has come to watch me die?” Mgbeke said—within a whisper.
“Our mother, it is us … Chinwe, the daughter of Nwagụ, and Ijeọma, the daughter of Ọfọdile.”
“Ehhhh-eh. The daughter of Nwakaibie, and the daughter of Ekwueme, have come to watch me die. You think because I am old, I do not remember? I was present when your mothers gave birth to you … Have you not brought goat meat for me to eat?”
“Our mother, we do not have meat,” said Chinwe as she moved closer to Mgbeke to better hear her words. “We came to care for you.”
“Who is that talking? I said who is that? Who is speaking to my mother?”
“Who is that? Who has come to watch me die?” Mgbeke said.
“Our father,” Chinwe said, “it is us; Chinwe, the daughter of Nwagụ, and Ijeọma … the daughter of Ọfọdile.”
“Children of my mother, why have you come?” asked Nwabụeze’s father, as his eyes rolled softly with the wind.
“We came to care for our mother,” Chinwe said.
“Because of what?”
“Because we were told that it is a beautiful thing.”
“That is well … I am traveling north to Etuọdị today, and I usually leave her with her chi …”
Nwabụeze’s father looked toward Mgbeke as he spoke and saw that her illness was worsening, and that she could benefit from the help of Ijeọma and Chinwe.
“Mother of mine,” he said, “I am going to Etuọdị … Ijeọma and Chinwe will care of you.”
“Why?”
“I know you have always cared for yourself … but today the children will care for you.”
“Who are you,” she said, looking at the girls.
“They are our daughters,” said Nwabụeze’s father.
“Who has come to watch me die …”
“Do not be afraid, Ijeọma and Chinwe. She forgets what is happening because her memory is sick. Care for her as you can.”
The girls nodded twice and watched Nwabụeze’s father leave his compound. And Ijeọma saw that he still walked as confidently as the other men in Ichulu; and wondered if he mourned the loss of Nwabụeze as an outcast; and wondered the same of Mgbeke, when she turned to face her—watching her lie on the earth—wondering, if Mgbeke bled, in the way she had, that morning, in Igbokwe’s obi.
Suddenly there were knocks behind her; and Ijeọma turned to see two rams running into each other’s heads. She believed they were finished when the white rams had turned again, huffing beneath their tired breaths; but the two rushed again, colliding, turning, then colliding again, turning and colliding, over and again; until the rams soon enclosed themselves—following each other, head to rear, head to rear—forming engraved circles with their pattering steps.
“How much time should we remain here?” Chinwe said.
Let us feed Mgbeke, Ijeọma quickly signed, believing the quickness came from the dictates of her chi.
“What should we give her?”
Ijeọma signed for the cashew tree on the path to the compound.
“I have heard.”
Chinwe ran from the compound and returned to the path where the cashew tree was swaying. She grabbed the handle of the machete at her waist and pulled out the hidden blade—knowing that she was not allowed to climb the trees in the village and pluck the fat, maroon-colored fruit at the top. Such allowances belonged to the boys and to the men. So she settled for the greener fruit on the lower branches and cut two branches down with the machete’s blade before quickly returning to the compound of Nwabụeze’s father.
“Here they are,” Chinwe said.
Ijeọma nodded three times, then removed five of the cashew fruit from the first branch and placed them in front of Mgbeke with a smile, signing for her to eat. And she saw the elderly woman take one fruit and softly devour it—eating quietly, as Ijeọma plucked more fruit from the second branch and placed them by Mgbeke’s hands.
“Let us go, Ijeọma,” said Chinwe.
What of Mgbeke?
“We are only here so that our word is good to our mothers and fathers. We must go to Ụzọdị quickly.”
Ijeọma knew within herself that she was to stay longer—that her chi had obeyed Chukwu’s words: to stay longer and nurse Mgbeke. But she nodded three times and followed Chinwe—leaving with a piercing heaviness.
“My daughters, where are you going?”
“Our mother we must go,” Chinwe said.
“Who has come to watch me die?”
And the girls did not answer but left the elderly woman with the fruit—wanting to believe that she would not recognize their absence. They traveled slightly northward, toward the market square, then eastward, and soon they were again in the Forest of Nta. And as Chinwe swung the machete against the interlocking branches, Ijeọma placed a finger on her thigh, searching for any residue of blood from the morning. There was none. And she took her hands and rubbed her stomach—pushing it to see if there was more pain hiding, or if her stomach would rumble again. It was quiet. But she thought it would return, a thought both she and her chi could not carry; so she turned to Chinwe, and tapped on Chinwe’s shoulder.
“Ijeọma, what is it?”
She signed for blood. She signed for blood leaving the space between her legs, and Chinwe understood.
“You are becoming a woman,” Chinwe said.
I do not like the blood, she signed.
“Yes, the blood may seem bad, but anyone with sense knows that it is a beautiful thing.”
Why?
“When was the last time you saw blood? Was it not when someone was injured and hurt or crying? This one is not of the same kind. This blood is for jubilation—some women, the very, very old, pray for it; some dance when it finally comes. It is blood which the strength of our bodies can know, and every elder in Ichulu honors it.”
Ijeọma looked around her—wondering if the stones and trees would agree with her friend—wondering if they would give her those secrets every woman in Ichulu seemed to be keeping; when they would say, “This is not for children,” or “Return to your sleep,” when they would share those secrets that made their ways seem mature. She thought of them, and wondered if that was why they bathed at a separate time from the children in Idemili, and if that was why they argued with the ones called their husbands—loudly, loudly, then softly—retelling their secrets in the nighttime, between the firm walls of red-clay obis.
What else will come? Ijeọma signed.
“You will grow breasts like those of your mother, and hair will sprout from your body.”
I already have hair, Ijeọma signed, pointing to her head.
Chinwe smiled, and loosened the knot of her rappa—unwrapping the cloth from around her legs. And Ijeọma now saw where the hairs would grow, and became nervous and unsure of where she was going—turning her face from Chinw
e’s body—understanding that Chinwe’s hairs and breasts and her own bleeding were signs of womanhood, and trusting, with hope, that she would be guided through them all, and welcomed as a woman of the truest kind.
What of the other girls, Ijeọma signed.
“Whom do you mean?”
The ones from the thanksgiving festival in the market square.
“They know of the bleeding, too. Many of their bodies have already begun changing … But why do you ask of them?”
Ijeọma nodded three times, too embarrassed to tell Chinwe of her shame, as she remembered the girls laughing at her atop the market square’s hill; too afraid to ask Chinwe why she had befriended them, when they had treated her with such cruelty. She simply nodded three times, then nodded three times again, promising herself that Chinwe was a good friend, promising—because of Chinwe’s kindness—because why else … she is here, is she not? because of what else—leaving Chinwe with a grin, then a smile.
They continued to cut through the path as Ijeọma doubted quietly, and soon they again found themselves in the Place of Osu.
“You, are you the kin of Ụzọdị?” a person said—moving toward Ijeọma, after rushing from their home—carrying a dead fowl in their hand.
Ijeọma nodded three times as Chinwe answered, “Yes.”
“We did not know who you were … when you came before. And why were you being so fearful then? Was someone chasing you?”
Ijeọma and Chinwe both looked at each other, nervously, shamefully.
“I saw you flying in the market square when I went to support the protest of my siblings, but I did not recognize your face because you were so high in Igwe … I wanted to speak to you when you descended, but when that little child fell, the market square became too wild.”
“We thank you,” Chinwe said, as Ijeọma sighed from the thoughts of Nnamdị’s accident—wanting dark clouds to hover and consume her.
“It is well, children of my mother. My name is Chika, and these ones …”
Chika waved their arms—bending them in the direction of their clay home—until four small children appeared.