by Okezie Nwoka
There were people moving through the streets in their vehicles: metal rams and gliding pots—which Ijeọma believed, cooked their foreign clothes—she watched them move on paved roads, and in newly styled hair—seeing no one look down to help her, giving neither recognition nor greeting—believing they mocked and sniggered—Chukwu, please … Chukwu, come, please, please … but there she was still, in the town of foreign things; in the town which smelled of diesel, with its open sewage filled with thick-green waste, smelling of corpses and sulfur; in the town she felt abandoned, considering those things she was unable to do: no speaking; no signing; no journeying to the river god; nor holding onto Chinwe’s palms; no dancing with Chelụchi or resting with Nnenna—keeping her search for the one called her mother, but seeing only vendors selling groundnut and green bananas—hearing only music playing from small shops: no Nnenna, no home—as tears began falling.
“Pastor Nwosu will not like that you are crying. Stop it,” John said, “Please, stop it now.”
But Ijeọma did not understand him, as her tears continued falling.
“It is enough Ijeọma; it is enough,” John said in a hushed Igbo.
But Ijeọma chose not to stop, ignoring the commands of John, which felt as senseless as asking the wild beast Nta not to hunt its prey—or telling those six dead emissaries not to mourn their deaths; she continued crying—yielding tears, and scalding pain—revealing that hope was in jeopardy of leaving her eyes, opening her heart to the morose, to the rejection of her existence, weeping and crying that she was no longer home, and that how could it be that Nnenna did not come, how could it be life, how could it be … trying, then punished like a worthless animal, trying to please Chukwu, then beaten like a fleshless rat, how could it be so, working each day to the love the Most Supreme, to love my mother, to love my father, then to be punished with this punishment—weeping as though dying from the fire in her tears.
And John was confused. When adults spoke he thought children obeyed; and at once he realized he had forgotten his own childhood’s sensibilities—he chose then to squat next to Ijeọma, and to accept that she would stop crying whenever she would stop crying. He checked his watch for the time, and checked it again; and after two minutes he began watching her wipe her eyes with the back of her left hand, then took that hand and squeezed it softly before leading her inside the church edifice.
They walked into the large cement building, entering first the church sanctuary, seeing its wooden benches aligned in neat rows with its green streamers thrown from one end of the wall to the other, and with its altar adorned in purple linen and a picture bearing a portrait of Jesus the Christ.
“This is a holy place,” John said in a hushed Igbo, “And it should be revered by anyone who enters it.”
Ijeọma nodded her head three times; Ijeọma nodded yes, but she listened to very little of what John was telling her; and wondered how the face of a human being could remain more still than a corpse—staring at the picture and the person within it—thinking of its long, brown hair as the veil of a masquerade—noticing that as she walked behind John—its gray eyes seemed to follow her, and as they did, she wondered why the head of a white man—lay at the center of the holy place—monitoring it—haunting it like a spirit.
And when she saw the dark rectangles—resting in midair, appearing to her to be vessels—through which she could go to where she wanted, she thought she would pass through them, and reemerge in Ichulu on the other side—staring at their softly dappled corners—expecting their power to transport her to Nnenna’s red-clay home.
“We call them speakers,” John said less quietly in Igbo. “Those are where our voices come out loudly.”
And he recalled within himself that Ijeọma was from a foreign place and began explaining all that lay around them: the light fixtures hanging against the church walls, the fans spinning beneath the church ceiling; and as they passed the center of the sanctuary’s back wall, he explained the wooden cross that hung upon it.
“Ijeọma, this is the cross of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. He died on a cross like this for you and me … to save us from our sins. If you believe in His cross you will not perish, but will attain everlasting life. I know you will have questions about what I am saying … Do not worry, do not worry at all. The pastor will help you understand and believe.”
Ijeọma did not know what John was saying; and did not know the meaning of attaining everlasting life, as if Ichulu did not already have it; and could not understand why a man had died for people who had not asked him to die. She looked at John—knowing his words were strange, feeling each one of them carry her further from Idemili—as she was led out of the church sanctuary and along a set of stairs emerging up to the office of Pastor Nwosu.
“Ijeọma, sit here,” John said in English, while pointing to a chair next to the office door. He knocked on the door, and upon hearing a response, he entered the office quickly, leaving Ijeọma to herself. Her body was shaking from the cold; her bare feet—not used to the cool of marble tiles; her arms—not liking the winds of the ceiling fans; and she rejected the smell of Amalike, which smelled neither fresh nor green but bore a strong odor from burning fuels—fuels from the cars she deemed gliding pots, and the metal rams, and the fluttering generators—fuels from many running things, when will it go, she thought, this thing that smells, when will it go; and she stopped asking and buried her nose inside her green rappa—inhaling what remained of her village, breathing into her rappa deeply—remembering from where each smell had come, seeing the round, black pots—atop Nnenna’s firewood—the honey-smelling, honey-colored brown of Igbokwe’s palms—the ebbing waters of the god Idemili—filling her deeply—blocking the smells of Amalike, and allowing her to remember home.
Her prayers emerged as she began rocking her body before the pastor’s office—praying to many gods for many things—an undivided will, and her belief in the Most Supreme—Nnenna’s arrival and Ụzọdị’s, too—please, Chukwu, and my friend Chinwe whom I love: Chukwu, answer—Chineke, answer—so that Chelụchi and Nnamdị may grow to know me—and my mother’s heart, may it carry her to this place—may they journey soon—so that tomorrow—he may love me.
“Ijeọma, come,” said John in English, opening the office door and beckoning her with his hand.
She rose from the chair and met John at his side; and she could see the pastor rubbing his eyes, then saw his large eyes flickering when he lowered his hands, before covering them with a thing she deduced was for the blind.
“So this is the little girl who is stealing my flock from me,” Pastor Nwosu said, while putting on his spectacles. “I have been told that you cannot speak. This, of course, does not surprise me, since the witchcraft of your people is very dark and evil. You should consider yourself lucky that the good Lord only deprived you of one of His many gifts. Tell me, would you like to speak one day?”
“Pastor Nwosu …” said John. “She does not …”
“I know that she does not understand English! But I will not speak any Igbo to her, and neither will any of you. I’m sure you know that it is against my regulations.”
“Yes, yes … I do,” John said.
“Good,” said Pastor Nwosu, inspecting Ijeọma from behind his spectacles—watching her as if disinterested but relishing her appearance as a skinny girl who seemed more nervous than a sinner confessing her sins—believing that the demons living within her were trembling at his authority. And he smiled at her because he wanted her to receive the peace of his Christ—seeing her nodding—as if already touched by the fire that he believed his growing church would deliver.
“Now, Ijeọma … I have also heard stories about how you can fly in the air. Tell me, are you a witch or a human being? Are you a demon, or are you human like us?”
Ijeọma did not know how to respond, but from the way the pastor spoke she knew she was asked a question; and she believed it was the kind of question one could not directly answer, like the kinds
in old dirges and distant proverbs; and she believed it could not be, not exactly as the two, as he was neither singing nor speaking Igbo; and she believed that she was to sign something in response, then looked upward, and saw his eyes sitting behind his spectacles, more fully than before—knowing they were the kind of eyes which had not brightened in very long, as if they could no longer be surprised or enthused or happy—believing that such eyes saw contempt throughout the world.
The pastor had asked her another question, but she did not answer—carrying fear, not trusting his eyes nor words. She did not know the sounds of English, and the language appeared aggressive to her—as if it were meant to provoke a war—there is no music in it, she thought, no rhythm to which one could dance—and her eyes began fluttering as she stood by John, knowing only to nod her head when the pastor had finished speaking, hoping that he would finish his speaking soon.
“As far as I am concerned, you are nothing short of a witch,” Pastor Nwosu said, “and in the name of Jesus, I will remove every demon ravaging your body so that you will grow into a God-fearing woman. As of now you are a daughter of darkness and a child of evil spirits. When the prayers I have prayed over you have settled, you will surely become a child of God.”
The pastor stood from behind his desk and came to where Ijeọma was standing. He laid his right hand atop Ijeọma’s head and raised the other into the air.
“John, join me in this prayer.”
“Yes! sah!”
“Heavenly Father,” the pastor began, “we thank you! for this day, and for all of the blessings you have bestowed upon us thus far. We thank you! for bringing your lost daughter into our care … so that we may bring her back to you. We ask that she loosen herself from the grip of Satan! and that she follow the commands of JESUS! I said we ask that Satan leave her, and that JESUS YOUR SON enters her soul! As she partakes in the fruits of Precious Word Ministries may she never hunger! May the enemy never find her! And may the world come to call her a child of God. In the MIGHTY NAME OF JESUS we pray.”
“Amen!” said John.
“Now, it is time for Ijeọma to settle in at the Manifestation Quarters. John, go and escort her.”
“Yes, sah!”
John removed Ijeọma from the pastor’s office, then the church edifice, and led her along the gravel path that led to the Manifestation Quarters. He wondered what Ijeọma was thinking—not knowing that she thought now of the path’s unusual lack of color, which bore little resemblance to the warm orange of Ichulu’s earth and instead looked as Ichulu did after the terrible storm—with the feeling of the gravel beneath her feet not bearing the smooth of Idemili’s river stones; and as she kept walking, she fell from the pain of the rough gravel and cut her leg against its jagged edges, wondering if the wound would now bleed; there was no blood as she felt John lifting her upward and saw him smiling as he put her in his arms—as they began walking again on the gravel path.
Ijeọma nestled in John’s arms as he carried her, then looked at him and began examining his features. She thought his nose was stout and wide—and his lips plump and thick, almost like Ụzọdị’s—with his face looking as innocent as the infant Jekwu. She liked John, and thanked the gods for making him a kind man; and when the gravel path ended at the mouth of the low, blue bungalow, she knew they had reached the place where they were going. She climbed out of John’s arms and looked at the blue house—holding on to John’s right hand, seeing the bright blue of the building, the metal bars on the window, the rusty zinc roof sloping downward; and immediately believed that Amalike was a hateful place that could not build a building.
“Ijeọma, this is where you will be staying,” said John in English, while leading her along the bungalow’s steps.
He used his left hand to try to sign his words, and knew that she understood when she let go of his hand and entered the blue bungalow.
“Remain next to me,” John said with a smile. “I am making arrangements for you to stay here in the quarters.”
Ijeọma smiled with John’s smile, then saw him tapping on the shoulder of a female attendant wearing a pink-checkered dress and wondered why they began whispering to each other when she could not understand their words. She watched the attendant glance past John’s shoulder, then look at her with disgust on her lips—and immediately turned her eyes and began staring at the marble floor with a design of tiny blue and black dots, waiting for the two to finish speaking.
“Okay, Ijeọma, it is time for me to leave you,” John said. “Be a good girl … I will see you soon.”
He patted her head, turned toward the doorway, and returned to the gravel path—leaving Ijeọma with the attendant.
“So you are the one who can fly …” the attendant said, looking at Ijeọma hatefully. “Let me tell you now, I will not have any of that demonic activity on the premises of this holy church. If I catch you performing any of that witchcraft, I will flog you to pieces. I will beat you silly! Do you understand?”
Ijeọma did not look at the attendant as she spoke; she was entranced by the ground, tracing the pattern on the marble floor with her eyes: the dappled black and the dappled blue, crowding atop each other like sleeping gnats, bounded by the deep crevices between each tile. She ignored the harsh tones being spoken at her and watched only the tiles, waiting for the sleeping gnats to fly again from where they came.
And as she heard the attendant’s voice still, she thought of John; and wished that John had not left; and remembered how John carried her in his arms; remembering his care; remembering his smile, his advice; the story that he told, the farm, the lie, the new sound: the new word: eye; remembering his kindness, his face; wide nostrils, wide lips, his home, his laughter; him playing by Idemili before the sun had set; him saying, “If you whisper into a goat’s ears before they die—you will not like the taste of their meat,” his love and hope for greater things while being an osu, while having his father dead, his—SLAP—SL-SLAP—SLAP!
“I said do you understand me,” the attendant said, while striking and squeezing Ijeọma’s face.
“All of my questions require answers! I don’t care if you are mute, and I don’t care if you cannot understand my language! Once we are done removing these demons from your body, you must understand … stupid child!”
And the attendant—swiftly raised Ijeọma’s head and slapped it again, and began dragging her—through the main corridor of the Manifestation Quarters—without Ijeọma knowing what she had done—believing she had offended the woman, as she raised her own hand to her cheek; feeling the dull heat from the slap, then quickly turning her head; preparing for another strike, but meeting instead the stench of the hallway; and being carried by its smell—odorous, like the Evil Forest, where festering carcasses seized nighttime’s air.
“This is where you will be staying,” the attendant said, as she opened a squeaking door and shoved Ijeọma into a cell. It was a tight space—smaller than the shed where food was stored—with very little light passing within it. She saw rusted iron bars blocking the narrow door, and saw the narrow window appearing across from it—with the ground more seared and stony than that of the forest of Nta.
“When you are tired, sleep on the floor. When you have to ease yourself, use the small bucket. The large bucket is for bathing.”
When the attendant shut and locked the barred door, then moved away from the tiny cell: Ijeọma understood. She saw rats scurrying atop the cell floor, one of them slow and heavy and sitting by her foot; she watched it lifting its large body and gnawing at her ankle, tugging at her smooth-dark skin; then she lifted the rat before pushing it through the metal bars of the window—not seeing if it had survived the little fall, and praying it had not—wishing it dead, and wishing for it to become an ancestor to its rat brethren—wishing for it to send them strength and power from the land of spirits, as she prayed: looking toward the black ceiling of her prison cell and asking Chukwu for courage, for the strength to peacefully live in exile—for a
stronger devotion to the Most Supreme, and Ụzọdị—what of his loss of freedom, that to be forced from home and become an outcast is a death—and to be forced from home is to be a corpse and a slave.
Old proverbs filled her heart as she prayed for Ụzọdị, praying that he and the other osu would find refuge in Chukwu—that both he and they would one day be free, for Chukwu to show it, reveal it now, Chukwu—and believing a sign was given when the wind blew inward—past the bars, and into the cell—smelling of Ichulu, smelling like the roasted yam Nnenna would cook for the evening meal—smelling like Igbokwe’s obi where the ancient medicines were kept—smelling like home. And in it, Ijeọma found solace to lie on the stony cell floor, and close her eyes, gently, gently, gently, to sleep.
DIARY ENTRY #927 14 FEBRUARY 2000
Why have I not been taken? Chukwu, tell me; why have I remained? It is a fact. Night after night children disappear. I’ve seen it many times how they go at night and take some children, then lead them into a car and drive away. We do not see them again.
Where is the pastor taking them Chukwu? When will they come back? Still I want them to come back, even if this is a terrible place.
Then what of me? Please do not consider me selfish for asking, why am I still here? Why have I been selected to stay like those very few others? I do not know. I don’t know; and my heart says that it shall not be permanent. My heart is thumping like a rusty generator. I’m finding it difficult to write. I’m finding it difficult to breathe. I wish I could be given palm wine a whole jug of palm wine, so that I might consume it all at once and go to sleep.