by Rita Edah
“There are lots of equally beautiful girls from our community that will make a fine wife for you. Why not take one of those?”
“Because I don’t love anyone of those.”
“If you get to know them, you will.”
“How will I get to know them? I don’t live here.”
“The political climate is getting calmer, so hopefully you can begin to come back home more often… and of course they can visit you.”
“The distance is too much for that to work.”
But she insisted that it’s worked in so many cases including herself and my father.
“That was a different era,” I insisted, digging in my heels. “Besides, what’s the other reason?”
“This is a difficult one, my son; I wish I wasn’t the one to break it to you.” Her pause was ominous. “A child that kills her mother is an abomination to our people and our land.”
“I think you missed something here, Ma. She didn’t kill her mother,” I stressed. “She was born and her mother died soon afterwards.”
“Not much difference there, is there?”
“How could she have killed her mother? She was only a baby! She was innocent.”
“Her mother died at her birth. She took her mother’s place.”
“Do you really believe this? I thought you were now a Christian?” I felt floored by this angle.
“Yes, I am now a Christian, bless God, and I am willing to take the risk. But not everybody is ready around here. It will make the family a laughing stock, and she will be the prime suspect if any misfortune, God forbid, befalls this family, or even the wider community.”
I really couldn’t get my head round that. Although mentally I thought it was rubbish, still I found myself wondering whether there was any truth in it. More so, I wondered whether I was willing to risk being a pariah in my own community if I went ahead and married Beauty. Yet, it’s not often you came across women who had the vital mix that was important to me – educated and with a progressive outlook to life, while being down to earth and familiar with my Nigerian cultural heritage. Being mixed race and having spent her formative years in Warri, Beauty – as well as Melody – fitted the bill. However, as Mel was already a single parent, I knew it would be difficult for me to cope with that, let alone sell the idea to my family. And secondly, I knew for a fact that Beauty’s haemoglobin genotype was AA. With me being an AS, I feared marrying an AS because of the risk of having an SS child. Having a child with a sickle cell disorder was a risk that I was determined to avoid at all costs. I’d seen too much heartache as a result of this disorder. It’s at least one of the reasons I’m an only child today.
So I’d done my homework, and saw that Beauty met my requirements on many counts. It was only after that that I allowed my love for her to flourish. I’d considered the fact that her father’s ethnic group is traditionally one of the rivals to mine, but I thought that my parents were liberal enough to overlook that.
However, I hadn’t counted on the fact that her mother’s death soon after her birth could potentially be a problem. I wasn’t willing to go back to the drawing board if I could help it.
“What is this I hear?” My father was back from his political meetings in Lagos, and had summoned me for a family one.
“About what, sir?”
“About you wanting to marry half urhobo half oyibo.”
“You yourself have always said that the world is a small place.”
“Yes, but it’s not that small… we are not out of options.”
“With all due respect, sir, it’s my choice… what happened to the right to choose?”
“That’s different. We each should have a right to choose our national leaders, and not have dictators imposed on us.”
“But we don’t have the right to choose our own wife? The person who will share the most intimate details of our lives forever?”
“You dare speak to your father in that way?” my mother sprang to his defence.
That didn’t really surprise me. Being an only son, you’d be forgiven if you thought that I’d be spoilt and that I’d have at least one of my parents fighting my corner. But not so. They almost always ganged up against me. Which come to think of it, isn’t a bad thing really; I turned out to be a model son. While I was growing up though, it felt really cruel.
I spent the next few days out with friends, only coming home in the small hours when everyone had gone to bed, counting the days before I returned to London, wondering what to do about my future with Beauty, whether indeed I had a future with her. And the allegations about her having killed her mother, though nonsensical, preyed heavily on my mind.
I was really unhappy that my parents would want to sabotage my choice like this, and I also knew that Beauty was estranged from her father. Although I knew I could pretty much do what I wanted, especially as I wasn’t interested in the local leadership, with the hope that my parents would come round eventually, I wasn’t keen on marrying without my parents’ blessing. (I think I’m a bit superstitious sometimes. With the difficulties Beauty has had keeping pregnancies to full term, I’ve wondered whether my parents’ earlier reluctance meant they still withheld some of their blessings from us. I would never admit this to anyone though, certainly not to Beauty.)
Before I left London for the Christmas break, I’d asked Beauty to marry me. I’d told her I’d ask my family to visit hers as tradition demands, and ask her father’s permission on my behalf. I was hoping I’d be here when it was done, but with the hold-up from my parents, it was looking highly unlikely. In addition, I kept having these niggling doubts about Beauty’s supernatural powers that may have caused her mother’s death soon after her own birth, and the implications that might have for us as a family.
Through the drinking and partying, one friend asked me my plans for the future. It didn’t come across as though Gbemi was being nosy. He really wanted to know because he cared about me, he said, when he noticed my hesitation. I sometimes found it unnerving, him asking such deep personal questions. This time though, I found it refreshing, as behind all the carefree jollity, my heart was heavy. So I told him about Beauty. My love for her, how I saw her to be my ideal wife, indeed a gift from God to me, and how I couldn’t live my life to its fullest without her by my side. And told him about my parents’ reservations about her and the conflicting emotions I’ve been experiencing since I discussed this with them.
And for the first time I admitted that I was angry with my father for his hypocrisy.
I also opened up to him about what I now considered the most difficult hurdle of all, and that was the fact that even if I could get my parents to come round to my way of thinking regarding cross-cultural marriages, I was unsettled about the manner of Beauty’s mother’s death.
Gbemi was quiet for a while. I suspect he was praying, for he was a deeply religious one.
When he spoke, it was to ask me, “You are an educated man. Is it scientifically possible for a baby to kill its mother?”
My response was a resounding “No.”
“Do you remember that in our history, twins were once regarded as messengers of evil?”
“Yes?” I was tentative, not catching the connection.
“Do you realise that if twin babies were still being killed at the time of your mother’s birth, you’d not be standing here today?”
“Good point, Gbemi, tell me more.” I was smiling now. Of course, my mother is a twin.
“Superstitions have been around for ages. As we receive wisdom, we have a duty to future generations to expose errors by acting in truth. If you love Beauty as you say you do, and you want to marry her, I will stand by you. By all means find a way to get your parents on your side too. But certainly don’t let any silly superstitions stand in the way.”
As my shoulders and chest began to thaw, I made a decision right then: I’d ask Gbemi to be my best man if ever I did get married to Beauty.
It wasn’t until the eve of my departure that my mo
ther came round to my side. She said she’d been thinking about our discussion, and she could see that I really loved this girl and that I’d been unhappy since she and my father had expressed their reservations. She was going to speak to him and get him to see things from my perspective. She said she didn’t want a situation where she never saw me again or her grandchildren because she and my father had been awkward when I needed their cooperation.
It was so good to hear her say that. Then I asked if she would help us bring a reconciliation between Beauty (and therefore Melody) and her father, Benjamin Iroro. I told her all about their running away to escape circumcision, and being estranged from him ever since.
“Those urhobo-wayo people still pursue that bush practice?” she asked with a teasing tut-tut. “Leave it to me. I know Mr Iroro, he is a reasonable man. He just doesn’t like to rock the boat.”
“Unlike Papa?”
“Unlike your papa before he became a chief. Now he sometimes acts like an uneducated village man. His politics and his practices often don’t seem to add up these days.”
I was taken aback hearing her speak like this about my father for she was usually his strongest advocate, whether he was physically present or not.
“But you seem to always be on his side,” I ventured.
“For the sake of peace, my son, for the sake of peace. But this is important to you. I will find a way to get his agreement. Remember, he is the head, but I am the neck that turns that head,” she said with a smile and a demonstration of her neck turning her head this way and that.
I left home that day knowing that all would be well. And true to her promise, Mama got Papa’s agreement. She liaised with Aunty Mary to work on Beauty’s dad. We returned a few months later for the marriage ceremonies.
This visit, however, was different. Beauty and Mel were in mourning. I had to be strong for them. And I had to show Beauty how much I cared about her and her family. Which was why after the ceremonies I took them round various places of interest in the Warri/Effurun area during the few days we had left before returning home to London. Because even though they’d grown up in Warri, they were sheltered for the most part of it. And it was also an opportunity for Josh and Ash to learn something about their Nigerian heritage.
I simply took the greatest pleasure in being their tour guide.
September 2001
Melody
I didn’t think I’d enjoy the visit as much as I did. Of course it was sad, I really was miserable, wishing Dad were alive to see my children. But I’m glad we all went along to wish him farewell. And they seemed to have enjoyed themselves. They soon learnt to yell “NEPA” like everyone else whenever there was a power cut – which happened quite frequently. Josh even wanted to learn to operate the generator plant which was used to supply electricity whenever there was a NEPA strike. I was relieved though that Danny wouldn’t let him – he only allowed him to watch. Ash seemed fascinated by Aunty Mary’s stories and Beauty’s paintings from when she was at school. And they both practised speaking pidgin English to each other. It was hilarious.
Beauty seemed content to be fussed over, and Theo, well, he positively glowed when he took us on the grand tour of Warri and its environs just before we left.
I didn’t take in much of Warri on the day we arrived as I was obviously blinded by grief. And for the most part, I remained at home at the old GRA (Government Reservation Area) quarters which boasted very many nice buildings that belied the awful roads that led to them. So it was quite a shock to get out into other parts of the town and see how slummy they’d become. It was heart-breaking to see houses that had been burnt down during the last ethnic conflicts. Many of them hadn’t been rebuilt. A lot of the survivors moved away from mainland Warri, dispersing to the Ogborikoko, Effurun and Aladja areas.
There was still a whiff of uncertainty in the air, and even though the official 6am to 6pm curfew had been lifted, most people continued to observe it anyway. Many shops closed by 5pm and by 7pm only the very brave or the really reckless could be found on most streets. This was different from how it was when I was growing up. Warri was alive till at least midnight – not that we were allowed out that late. But we could hear and feel the buzz all the same. We could go to the night markets to get snacks like dried pork and kpokpogari (a type of tapioca) or edible worms, roasted corn on the cob, peanuts and bole (roasted ripe plantains), kuli kuli (a kind of crushed and balled peanuts snack) and of course suya (a special kind of barbecued/grilled spicy beef or goatmeat kebab), as well as local brews including palm wine and ogogoro.
Now, the town at night was ghost-like, reeling from the fear of ‘area boys’ and, unfortunately, unscrupulous police officers who could arrest you for ‘loitering’. You usually had to pay your way out of it with lots of cash.
Theo still had a lot of contacts in town, and it was soon known that he was a police officer in England. So he was very comfortable keeping us out past the unofficial curfew, but not too late so Aunty Mary didn’t begin to worry. Also, he encouraged Beauty to remain with us in our family compound and not go with him to his, except to visit. Although he said that it was safer for us all to remain together, I did wonder whether he needed the space to explore unsavoury haunts and former companions. I didn’t breathe a word though, no point stirring up anything that would most likely end up being nothing.
The visit to the NNPC Refinery premises was rather enlightening. It was difficult to reconcile the fact that so much of Nigeria’s wealth came from this area with the run-down schools and poor medical facilities that were in evidence all around us. Of course NNPC staff, especially the more senior ones, were shielded from the poverty and need that surrounded them. However, ordinary Warri residents and even NNPC junior staff could see – well, they lived – the dichotomy on a daily basis. And I could see how the seething anger could boil over into the riots that have plagued the Niger Delta area in recent years. It was good to see an angle I didn’t quite notice while I was growing up here. I felt sad though that I couldn’t do anything about it.
The wasteful flaring of the natural gas was another cause for complaints by the locals.
Josh seemed to be interested in the machineries and technicalities while Ash caressed the paintings, felt the fabrics used to decorate the reception area and asked such questions that many Nigerians had learnt to overlook. One was “Why is there so much fuel scarcity if fuel is produced from here?” I was happy to allow Theo to get on his socio-political soap box on that one. I must say I was surprised to notice how curious and sensitive Ash was. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? She reminded me more and more of Beauty at this age, and she seemed to have a similar interest in art and textiles as Beauty did. And they both sometimes got lost in their ‘tête-à-tête’ as if they had forgotten there were other people with them.
It was difficult to be blind to the fuel scarcity problem that seemed to be endemic at this time. The Federal Government insisted that the scarcity was artificial. Suppliers said it was real. Caught in the middle were ordinary citizens who had to travel to their places of work and many who needed kerosene to fire their stoves to cook for their families. The queues at filling stations were long and fretful. Theo did for us what many well-off people did – sent his driver early in the morning to fill his tanks. Some even bought extra in jars as backup. Lives had been lost in accidents that happened as a result of keeping petrol in houses, as well as fake kerosene. I don’t know that it necessarily stopped the practice.
Fuel scarcity though must, in part at least, explain the rise and rise of okada (motorcycles) as the most popular means of transportation in Warri during this period. The interminable traffic jams and cost of other modes of transportation must also be contributing factors. Theo’s sense of adventure didn’t go far enough for him to allow us a ride on the okada cabbies. Josh was the only one disappointed with that though. Personally, I was content to sit in an air-conditioned car and watch the world through its heavily tinted windows.
Theo took us
to visit a few different restaurants. The one that captured my imagination the most was the Point and Kill. This was our last outing before we left Warri for Lagos and then on to London. Earlier in the day, Theo had taken us to see the rebuilt Warri Central Cathedral. It was a sight to behold – you could see it many miles away, and thanks to the traffic jam, I had enough time to take in its external features, from its three-domed top, its massive and elegantly decorated windows to its heavily ornamental doors. I hear it has a lot of fireproofed steel interiors to protect it from arson – the fate that befell its predecessor.
This beautiful structure brought me some unpleasant memories. My last year at school was a time when I struggled with the reality of my Christian faith. Attending a Catholic boarding school was helpful to the extent that you didn’t ask too many questions. When I came home on holidays, I learnt that the cathedral was closed because there had been a fight between the Urhobos and Itsekiris over some political appointment within the church. I was still trying to get my head around the details of how a church that preached putting others first would fail so severely to practise what it proclaimed, when I woke up one morning to the news that the building had been torched. Firefighters and members of the American Peace Corps spent hours battling the blaze. Miraculously there was no loss of life – some attributed it to the presence of Our Lady walking in the midst of the flames. But very many were injured.
Personally my injury wasn’t physical. Those incidents seemed to quench whatever lingering flame of faith I had left. And I’ve often wondered in recent years whether my life would have turned out differently if I’d managed to hold on to my faith.
As we finished the tour of the building (the inside felt like a kingdom in its own right), I struggled with my mixed emotions. It was important to have a symbol of hope, but can the church justify spending so much money on a physical structure when so many of its parishioners lived in abject poverty? I was pleased therefore to be distracted by the drive to Big Market where we did some fabric shopping and watched Theo in his element as he haggled and bargained to get the best price possible. To finish off, Theo said some friends of his were meeting up with us at Point and Kill.