by Okezie Nwoka
Pastor Nwosu quickly dropped Ijeọma on her seat and left before the children were ordered to the cells. They all were all inspired by Ikemba, allowing his defiance to fill them with glee, some calling Ikemba a prophet and understanding his words since the pastor had confused miracle for mistake, believing a young girl could never be given the gifts of holy men. They had not known Ijeọma, but they did not believe her to be a witch; and they had forgotten their evening meal to agree with Ikemba—whispering of how the pastor did not know his own god, agreeing with Ikemba, and professing that Ijeọma, too, was a saint—regardless of whatever it was the pastor had believed.
DIARY ENTRY #929 18 FEBRUARY 2000
How can this be Chukwu! How can this possibly be! Can the world be this broken? Does it truly have no heart! Answer me, Chukwu; answer me! What does this mean! the king’s wickedness the pastor’s wickedness! What does it mean! When I have tried to love when all of us have tried to love and yet you allow the king and his pastor to ruin us as slaves. Most Supreme for what. Answer me! Chineke! Answer me! Because what does it mean that a person whom you created, whom you can destroy within a single whisper can kill and siege and sabotage without immediate consequence! Have I done something to you? What, WHAT, have we done to you?
For, what does it mean that I must be pregnant. Chi what does it mean that the world will believe that I am carrying a child within me can you be god?? can you be real? is anything which I now SEE and remember REAL For I should now fall into the madness beckoning my mind since to accept you, the Most Supreme, as REAL is to place a merciless affliction into my life.
It may be better, to live and die, than to say that you are real. It may be better, to build a temple to Ani and remove the food that once sustained Jekwu, killing him, destroying him in time, than to say, “Chukwu is Most Supreme.” For how am I to believe this? How am I to believe that this is what you have allowed my life to be?
11.
IJEỌMA WAS UNAWARE OF WHAT her flight had brought to the Manifestation Quarters. She had been residing with her chi, listening to its voice as she watched the rats moving within the cell, some of which she had given names. And when she would hear her chi’s whispers of good fortune and possibility, she would pray to the Supreme Being to take her home. Lying prostrate on the ground one evening, giving herself fully to Chukwu, diving deeper into her supplications, the door of the cell was opened. She lifted her head to see who had come, hoping to her chi that it was not an attendant with a cane; she stood slowly and saw the lace-covered hair of Phyllipa, the wife of Pastor Nwosu.
“Come with me,” Phyllipa said, stretching out her arm, then drawing her sliding handbag.
“I would speak to you in Igbo but it is not allowed. Come,” she said, eyeing the attendants in the hallway. “They will not hurt you today.”
And Ijeọma approached her, taking Phyllipa’s hand and following her through the long corridor. She was at ease when Phyllipa led her into a room she had not previously entered—a room filled with many wooden benches facing a blackened wall. And she looked at Phyllipa, wondering, then, why she had brought only her into this room, thinking she had committed a grievance and pleading with her eyes for Phyllipa to pardon her offense.
“It is all right, Ijeọma … This is your classroom,” said Phyllipa in a softly spoken English. “This is where you will join the other children for lessons. Because you cannot speak, you will have special classes with me where I will teach you how to write English. Those are your red notebooks.” Phyllipa pointed to a column of books by a window. “Pastor Nwosu bought them for you and will be inspecting them every week to review your progress. Should you do well, he will believe that you are an obedient child.”
Phyllipa smiled at Ijeọma, and watched her look out of the window morosely.
“I have another thing for you,” Phyllipa said in Igbo, as she pulled out a large, green book from her bag and began flipping its blank pages before Ijeọma.
“This is a diary,” Phyllipa said. “It is a book where you can write whatever you think and whatever you are keeping in your heart. Take it, and do not let anyone see it.”
Ijeọma nodded three times and took the large, green book from Phyllipa’s hands, keeping it closed as she wondered at its pages; sitting with it as Phyllipa introduced her to the English alphabet, letter by letter, through symbols; writing foreign characters on the blackened wall, wondering if they would scurry onto the diary’s pages; sitting with it when she returned to the cells; wishing she could fill it with those symbols she had seen so that one day the other children would see her words. She smiled then, because only she was given this gift from Phyllipa; and as new memories came, she was sitting with it still—staring at its green cover and thinking of cassava petals, and Anị, and Idemili’s weeds, staring at the green, until the night had quickly come—and covered all the color away.
Ijeọma joined the children for their lesson the following day, with much anticipation in learning from the pastor’s wife. She sat on the wooden benches of the Manifestation Quarters listening to Phyllipa teaching them English, and though her private lessons were to begin after the other children were dismissed, she sat attentively in the back of the room, watching the others reciting words written on the blackened wall, wondering if she could make new signs for the new sounds the children were making.
They often looked back at her—twisting their white necks, in wonder of whether she would fly again—wondering if she would always be their saint. And Ijeọma could see that their eyes held hope; and believed it to be because of her flight, and Ikemba’s rebellion. No longer were they dull and spiritless; but they were growing brighter and more earnest, glistening with the belief that she was never meaningless coincidence, but sent by God to set them all free; so she began looking through the black of their eyes as they were being taught—seeing them looking back, and carrying the belief that she would bless them again—with an ascension to the sky.
And then she turned her gaze to Ikemba, watching as he sat with his head resting on a table—remaining silent as Phyllipa was teaching the lesson. She intuited that he was bored—learning a language that he had already mastered; remembering how confidently he had spoken to Pastor Nwosu—remembering his speech being swift and clear; and she believed he should be the one standing before them; declaring within herself that his boredom was unjust, wanting Ikemba to be the one to teach her how to write; wanting, for a moment, to see the black of his eyes.
“Ijeọma, come to the front of the classroom. It is time for your lesson,” Phyllipa said. “The rest of you, the attendants will escort you back to your cells.”
Ijeọma watched the other children being quietly led to the cells—when her eyes were pulled to Phyllipa, pointing to the column of red notebooks sitting by the afternoon window. And she stood from her chair and began walking to the window, thinking of Ikemba’s skin.
“Only take one,” Phyllipa said, as Ijeọma turned to see her. “One,” Phyllipa said, raising a single finger.
Ijeọma nodded her head three times, understanding the gesture, and took one notebook from the column. She hurried to a bench in the front row, and watched Phyllipa raising a small piece of chalk before writing English characters on the blackened wall.
“Ijeọma, I want us to return to the English alphabet,” Phyllipa said, pointing to the wall and writing on the air with her other hand above Ijeọma’s notebook.
Ijeọma understood and began copying the letters with a pencil Phyllipa had given her. Her hands were shaking when she began, and the wooden pencil continued slipping between her fingers; and the letters she wrote did not resemble the ones on the blackened wall, especially after her first page had torn. Still, she continued writing the alphabet, over and again, until her wrists and eyes began to memorize each curve, and stroke, and dot; until she learned the kind of force to use to prevent the notebook’s paper from tearing. She copied the alphabet, over and again, grateful that Phyllipa had not come to aide her; believing
herself to be capable as she pondered upon each letter’s groove, waiting to see if the words she had written would make the sounds the people in Amalike habitually made; or make the sounds of Ichulu, or make any sound at all.
And after three hours, Phyllipa asked an attendant to return Ijeọma to the cells. She kept Ijeọma’s red notebook and smiled at the pages bearing the smallest and most legible print of the alphabet she could remember seeing. She smiled and planned on teaching her elementary words during their next lesson, believing Ijeọma to be intelligent, more so than the other children she had taught. She liked the belief, somehow knowing Ijeọma to be a girl whose intelligence could be used for the benefit of many things; things like the words of her Jesus, and the great pragmatism of his love.
Though Ijeọma knew very little of Phyllipa’s Christ, believing that she and the rest of Amalike served a perilous god, a god whom they asked to heal the children locked in the cells, a god who was partial to them, and partial to them alone, a god, like most other gods, Ijeọma had discerned; one who had her cringe from the thought of being beaten, one whom she thought was much less desirable than her own; so she turned to hers—the one who brought her to the sky, the one who brought her to the cells; and asked for an end to Amalike; and asked for their traditions to disappear, believing she would never go free if they continued to remain—believing the Most Supreme would soon abolish every cell.
And she thought of those things that night on the cell floor, desiring an answer, wanting to know what force could break the customs of Amalike and allow all the children to be freed, remaining awake throughout the night; searching, thinking; arranging ideas to formulate an answer, when she heard rattling coming from the cell door’s lock—trying to see the person’s face, but the corridor was unlit—and the door kept rattling—and she knew within herself that it was an attendant, and she heard the sound of keys—they have come for another beating—and she heard them jingling in the night—I am not awake, your cane is very powerful, you are entering, why have you entered, what did I do, please, go, let me sleep!
“Do not be afraid. It is only me, Ikemba.”
She looked upward and could see the outline of his face, and stood; she nodded her head perplexedly, waiting for him to speak again.
“What is it that is your name?” he asked in Igbo.
Ijeọma signed her name—inverting her middle fingers, and pointing them to her heart—doing so, over and again, but Ikemba did not understand.
“Can you not speak?”
Ijeọma nodded her head three times.
“I did not know that you were mute … Do you want to know how I was able to open your door?”
Ijeọma nodded, and watched him display a single key in his palms.
“This key belongs to the pastor’s assistant. I stole it from him many months ago. There is a story in why I stole it, and it is why I have come to visit you this night. Many of the others and I are planning to escape from the church very soon. We want you to join us.”
Ijeọma kept silent, not nodding her head or signing a word, but listening intently, making sure she understood what Ikemba had said.
“Did you hear me? We want you to join us and leave this place, since you, too, have been targeted by the pastor. Follow us in going home to the places from where we each come.”
Ijeọma nodded; and she could see Ikemba’s large, white smile—beaming in the darkness.
“I must return to my cell before the attendants see me. We will be leaving in two days so be prepared when I come again. Have you heard me? Be prepared.”
Ijeọma nodded her head again and watched Ikemba leaving, softly rejoicing that the one she admired had left a cell to see her. She could not sleep for the rest of the night, feeling a tightness pulling within her chest; nursing her first memory of ever speaking to him, and relishing that his good word pertained to an escape; he was brave, she thought; brave enough to argue with the pastor, and brave enough to plan their escape from the Manifestation Quarters; she would escape with him—then return home to Ichulu, to tell Chinwe of the boy with black skin—and she would describe him with much appeal, and they would laugh together at their lust—and she could not sleep; crafting all her ploys—thinking of fanciful things in the playgrounds of her mind.
And when morning came, her back was stiff, since the rough cement floor yielded no comforts. And as she tried stretching the pain from out of herself, it refused to leave. So she kept to the ground, waiting for the morning bell to be rung; thinking again of the night, and wondering if Ikemba’s visit was a dream. The promise of going home seemed untenable, and even if she could return to Ichulu, she wondered if her arrival would be welcomed. The one called her father would punish her for returning without being healed and would send her again to Amalike and the pastor’s church. Her heart tightened as she stopped her thoughts from understanding Ọfọdile to be an evil man—but her pain was pressing: he is senseless, she thought, afraid of things dying when things have their time to die, afraid of things being born yet hoping for life among the ancestors; it was cowardice, she sighed, believing that she did not hate Ọfọdile, but wanted desperately for courage and truth to reside in him—praying to Chukwu, that the one called her father would not cower in senseless fears, and senseless lies, and the common senseless practice: another opposing another while forgetting that they are another.
When the morning bell had finally rung, she turned from her thoughts of Ọfọdile and slowly rose from the floor—putting both buckets in her hands and joining the other children on the moving line—increasing her pace and straightening her skinny back, then walking to the pit and emptying the metal bucket. She waited at the borehole to fetch water for her morning bath; and once the bucket was filled, she headed to the field where the other girls were bathing; soon placing the bucket firmly on the ground—and tossing aside her rappa, not crouching behind any metal to hide herself—but standing openly—cleaning her body without shame.
“Girl who flies! Girl who flies!” said a girl in a loud hush. “My name is Alison … What is your name?”
Ijeọma kept silent and moved her eyes to one of the attendants monitoring them.
“I understand, but I must say what I must say. Ikemba told me to tell you that we are leaving this night. One of the attendants became ill this morning, which means there are less people watching us. Prepare yourself.”
Ijeọma saw Alison moving away, and noticed the white patch within her hair as she felt her own chest quivering from wanting her to stay and continue speaking, and not abandon her by her bucket, wanting answers to questions as she gazed toward the grass: when did Ikemba decide that this would be the day of escape, how did they plan to leave the quarters without being seen, why did you select me to escape with you, why did you select me and to which home would a person go if a person had no home—and Ijeọma wanted to speak with the girl, but that was not allowed; so she washed herself, more roughly, more firmly; and, when finished, joined the other children being escorted to the cells, to return the metal buckets to the molding cell corners.
They prayed their morning prayers and ate their morning meal and soon a bell began ringing for their classroom lesson. They watched Phyllipa entering the room once the bell had finished ringing, and watched her stand in front of the blackened wall, wearing a purple dress and holding a small cane in her left hand. One of the children began banging a rhythmic beat atop a table, as all the children began standing and greeting Phyllipa in unison; and they were told to sit down by the one called the pastor’s wife, and watched as she put down the cane on a table beside her; then, taking a piece of chalk, she began writing a word on the blackened wall.
“Children, today we are going to learn the word opposite. Do any of you know what an opposite is?”
The room remained silent, and after a few seconds, Phyllipa decided to answer her own question.
“An opposite … is when a person believes that one thing is incompatible with another. Let me give you s
ome examples. It is said that the opposite of tall is short. It is said that the opposite of big is small. It is said that the opposite of fat is skinny … Are you beginning to understand?”
“Yes ma,” some children said.
“OK, who can tell me what the opposite of light is called,” said Phyllipa, as she saw one of the children raising his hand.
“Go on, Ọgọ, tell us …”
“The opposite of light is called dark,” Ọgọ said.
“Well done, Ọgọ. That is what is believed. So, who now knows what the opposite of up is called?”
“Down,” said some of the children together.
“OK. Now what is the opposite of black called?”
The children were silent. They knew that black was a color, but were not certain of which color could be its opposite.
“Yellow!” said one child.
“That is not it,” Phyllipa said with a smile. “The opposite of black is called white.”
Phyllipa continued reciting a list of words while looking through their eyes and asking them all about opposites; and she looked through the class window when telling them all that the opposite of girl was boy, that the opposite of happy was sad, that the opposite of night was day, that the opposite of nothing was something.
“Children, you are beginning to understand this lesson. Now let me give you another word … Who can tell me what the opposite of Christianity is called?”
Again the room became silent before Phyllipa.
“Christianity has no opposite,” Ikemba said, looking at Phyllipa with determination in his eyes.
“What do you mean,” said Phyllipa.
“I said Christianity has no opposite. It is only one religion out of many.”
“That is not it, Ikemba. The opposite of Christianity is called Paganism.”