Iburama slinks across the sleeping village of Edah like one walking on water, afraid the magic might disappear and abandon him to the mercy of the bottomless depth. It is dawn, the darkest part of dawn. Between now and sunrise is a long way. He hopes he makes it before he sinks. He must get there before long. He feels his hip pocket. The knife is there. Ready.
His steps are getting weaker as he limps along the narrow path. He moves like the toddler he was forty-something years ago, as if he were re-enacting his very first steps. This is more like the last steps, he said to himself, smiling. A sad smile. He has no personal memory of his early steps, only pieces of the images he gathered from his grandmother’s repeated stories. There were exactly like your father’s initial steps, Onkwo would say to him and laugh toothlessly. At times she would demonstrate the movements. He used to walk like this, like this… she would lumber, halting between each wobbly stride. He was still in that shaky stage when I gave birth to his sister, she would add if she remembered that part.
It seemed she hardly remembered it. Or, perhaps, she preferred not to, as that segment of the story was often heavy on her lips. Bearing another child less than two years after the previous one was as bad as having a child out of wedlock. Such an act became common gossip in the village and beyond for a long time. If the case was particularly bad, say she had the child while the other one was still crawling, the abomination would be woven into the song for the next Ogani festival. The song would explain in lewd detail how she forced her husband to do it. And the poor woman would not be there to push the blame back on her husband. She would have been timely informed by an insider, a well-wisher, and would have left the village before the festival. But Onkwo did not leave. Escaping would confirm her guilt, and she was not the type to take the blame that was not hers. Her husband left the village instead. He could not face the shame, so he exiled himself and never returned until five years ago when his body was brought home to rest.
Iburama stumbles on like this, like this… resolved to accomplish his mission. He glances around the village. The shadowy huts and trees on either side seem to wink at him, admonishing him against unforgiveness. I’m almost there, he says to them inwardly, there is no going back now. And he hears a reply in the voice of Onkwo. Not a direct response to his present thought, but snatches of her stories about the seeming jinx in the family. Your father repeated the same mistake, she says. Your brother was hardly out of your mother’s womb when you came. I cannot understand the hurry. I don’t know why a man cannot allow his wife to rest for a reasonable length of time. Well, it was not your father’s fault, they said. The same thing they said in the case of your grandfather. If a woman does not invite a man through the language of her body, the man has no courage, they said. The man is a coward when the woman proves brave enough.
He has halved the village, walking like this, like this… As he hobbles on, the pain in his ankle is growing, and Onkwo’s voice is fading in and out. I joined your grandfather in exile soon after the festival, she says. We never talked about the song even when it spread to all the surrounding villages and eventually spilled over to us in Ozugbe. The song does not mention my name. The first part simply goes:
She never crosses her legs
When it comes to that…
Your father was different, she continues. He carried his own boldly. He renamed his shame courage. He told Ohinoyi, the village head, to go and hang himself. He did not put it this naked. He only said, ‘No one can make me exile myself’. And he did not say it to Ohinoyi’s face. It was a private conversation between friends. But it managed to get to other ears and soon reached Ohinoyi, who considered it bad enough to attract the ultimate punishment. He ordered his exile, and the youths forced him out of the village one cold rainy evening.
The nearer Iburama gets to the outskirts of the village, the weaker Onkwo’s voice becomes – like a flame in its final breaths. It is a great effort limping in pain and trying to listen out for a dying voice. It reminds him of the day she died, a year after the death of her husband. She had died while talking to him, with her voice fainting repeatedly. It was not about his crooked first steps this time but on a more serious matter.
Your ancestral home has been taken over by termites and lizards, she had said from her sickbed, glancing about the room. Her gaze rested on a big crack in the wall. Iburama followed the gaze and observed through the opening the desolate compound outside. All the huts belonging to each member of the family stood empty, haunted. Many members of the family had died in that cholera epidemic that came shortly after his parents returned from exile, and most of the survivors had fled. Such a death toll in one family within that space of time was unusual. But Onkwo did not see it that way. She would give examples of the other households similarly affected by the outbreak to justify her viewpoint that such an occurrence does not discriminate.
It is time you reversed the ignoble descent to nothingness, Onkwo went on between coughs. This family must rise again. What do you want me to do, Onkwo? Iburama asked. What is there to be done about a wine that had spilled? There is a lot that could be done, she returned, her words wrapped in a cough. That is why banana plants leave their offshoots behind. The family line must continue. Come back home and set things straight. Come and settle here. This compound is crying for revival. He shook his head. Onkwo, the load you are proposing is too heavy for my head. I have spent the better part of my life outside; I don’t think I can fit in here anymore. Let’s forget the past. This compound is now a bygone story, let’s keep it that way.
No! Onkwo snapped and was overtaken by raucous coughs that sounded like a wet rag being yanked apart. No, she repeated after recovering, no weight is too much for the head that must bear it. I have never heard of such a burden. This family is not a departed story. There’s no such thing. Stories never die; they are from a force that never dies. The actual events might end, but the stories… She shook her head to add force to the fact. I want you to keep the history straight, or else it would be re-told by strangers from strange and distorted perspectives. That is why I have been staying here. But you know I can’t live forever. Take ownership of this sacred duty when I’m gone; it is your duty. And God will help you. Just as you are not tired of me, feeding and caring for me all these years, God will not be tired of you. He will see you through this… She coughed.
Iburama remembered how Onkwo had insisted on staying in the compound when the remaining family members finally left after the death of his parents on their return from exile. Mama died first and Baba followed her two years later. The incident sort of confirmed the suspicion that Ohinoyi had placed a curse on the family. Everyone in the family believed this except Onkwo. It was just a coincidence, she would reply to anyone who raised the matter before her. The roots of the family were deeper and stronger than the evil machinations of any Ohinoyi. Her ancestors would never allow such to happen to the family. The only curse I can see, she once said to him, is the sexual weakness that has plagued the family, the hasty childbirths, which began with your grandfather. And that one is just a human weakness that can be overcome with self-discipline. With restraint, the family will rise again. Once we are ready for renewal, our ancestors will nod their heads. And God will come to our aid. Onkwo was a strong believer in the Power. But that could not convince others, could not stop them from deserting the compound, leaving her alone with her belief to contend with the weeds, termites and lizards.
What I’m asking of you is not just a favour but a sacred duty to this family, Onkwo continued amidst hiccups. We must tighten our right to this land. The longer the place is left fallow the stronger the temptation by others to trespass on it. You must not allow that to happen… Onkwo’s voice was waning. Bring back… the pride of this family, she stammered. And while at it, you must forgive the past. That’s the only way to maintain your focus on this mission. All right, Onkwo, Iburama replied. I will do that, he said half-heartedly. It is a sacred duty upon you… she stressed, coughing. Do not neglect… She coughed again. Her breath was slowing down, the interval between each breath getting longer… Hey, come over quickly! Iburama called out to the other relatives outside who had come around to attend to her. Get me some water from the pot…
Onkwo took her last breath just as the water was being poured on her.
Iburama moves on like this, like this… He is now on the fringe of the village. And the dawn is wearing away fast. Soon the darkness will start fading to expose dark plans delayed. He must walk faster…
He remembers Baba’s words, the first-ever call for him to do something about the household. He spoke about this only once, shortly before his death, and the words kept echoing through his head. They became more persistent when over a year after Onkwo’s death he was yet to make up his mind on the matter.
You should always remember where you came from, Baba had said to him. In his usual manner, he did not sound like one giving a directive that must be obeyed. I know it will be difficult for you to move back to Edah, given the circumstances, he went on. But you have to visit the village now and then to ensure the compound is still there, to make sure no one takes it away from us. The compound needs to be there and intact, for our umbilical cords were buried there. It is the centre of our world wherever we may be. I believe someday our descendants will revive it and bring back our dignity.
Every child born to the family was indeed taken there for the birth ceremony in which the umbilical cord was publicly buried somewhere behind the compound. His own was also buried there. But what was the point of continuing a tradition that appeared to have lost its significance? He wanted to rebel against the ritual when he had his last child three years ago. But Onkwo prevailed on him, and four days after the child’s birth the compound was cleared for the event. On the seventh day, almost all the family living far and near turned out for the occasion. The household came alive again. The great feast was partaken by the entire village. For that moment all differences were forgotten, the bad past ignored and the good old days brought back to life. The fact that the child came less than two years after his immediate elder sister was equally overlooked.
After the celebration, however, the river went back to its old stagnant level; everyone disappeared, leaving Onkwo alone in the compound. The memory of it continued to flame nonetheless and soon ignited in Iburama the desire to return home. He began to consider the idea seriously.
But Mama did not like it. Keep away from that cursed compound, she said to him. I can see you are considering going back. Who told you, Mama? he asked, surprised. Was it his wife, Adiza, that leaked the secret? Adiza did not welcome the idea herself. She considered it a mission to hell. Do you want to kill us? she had said to him one night as they lay in bed. Do you know that the world is no longer what it used to be? Do you know it is now a world in which everyone lives his own life? If you want to go, you can go alone, she concluded, meaning she and her children would rather remain in Ozugbe in peace than risk their lives in a meaningless adventure. She had five surviving children out of a total of eight, and the gap between their respective births fell short of two years intervals.
Iburama is no longer walking like a toddler but staggering drunkenly between painful pauses; a pity image of an outcast on his last lap to the evil forest. He is so dizzy it is quite an effort to feel the knife in his pocket. He fumbles and fumbles for it, moving like this… like this…
He hazily recalls how one day on his farm at Ozugbe all the admonitions, warnings and directives from Onkwo and others came down on him like a downpour. Every one of them was dragging him as if he were some dying insect ganged upon by soldier ants, each furiously asserting its claim on him. He recollects how, while considering the options, to go or not to go, Onkwo’s words suddenly broke through. You can never cast off the past, she said, her voice like thunder tearing down the sky. It is futile to run away from your past. The tree cannot run away from its roots. The best you can do is to heal the past. That is the only way to ensure a better future.
He remembers how, like one stung into madness, he abruptly picked up his hoes and cutlasses and hurried home to tell Adiza about his sudden decision, and how she went wild with anger. She could not understand why he should contemplate such a notion. She was infuriated particularly by his decision to abandon the farm at Ozugbe altogether and start a new one in Edah. It is the beginning of a rainy season and bush-clearing work has just begun, she reminded him. Even if you must go, why not wait till the next planting season?
My mind is made up was his simple reply. And they came to Edah a few days later, just when someone was in the process of clearing the family farmland – a rude confirmation of Onkwo’s statement that if you abandon yours someone will make it his. The fact that the trespasser was from the neighbouring Irebu, that cursed village that considered itself superior to others, made it even more annoying and all the more reason he should deal with the matter seriously. Who gave you this land, he confronted him. But the man had no explanation, he simply apologized and slunk away. Iburama later learnt the affair was in connivance with Ondaki Ogbani, the assistant Ohinoyi. He decided to take the matter up with both. But Adiza advised him to let the matter go since the trespasser had admitted his guilt.
Iburama has left the village behind, heading towards the riverside, staggering like this… like this… Listening to Adiza is the mistake that has brought this crisis, he thinks bitterly. If I had dealt with the greedy fool, every other fool would have kept his fingers away from my things.
The problem began three months after the farm incident when someone reported catching Amedu, a cousin of Ondaki Ogbani, stealing fish from his net. He confronted him the next day at the riverside, but Amedu denied the crime, defending himself with a barrage of questions. Who told you? What do you mean? How can I do such a thing? It is not a matter of quarrel, Iburama began but was interrupted. Do I look like a thief to you? Look at me, do I look like…? No, you don’t look like a thief, Iburama retorted sarcastically, recalling the secret whispers about his father. It was over twenty years since the old man was caught stealing a goat, but people were still gossiping about why his name escaped being featured in the Ogani festival song. I did not say you are a thief, Iburama said, trying to control his rising anger. You don’t look like one who would steal a goat much less steal a common net. But don’t you ever steal my things again or else I will thrash that thieving sickness out of you and the rest of your family!
The statement was heard by a group of women coming to the river. Amedu could not bear the shame. He suddenly jumped on Iburama and wrestled him to the ground. They punched and kicked each other, rolling on the muddy ground. The fight went on fiercely until some men, alerted by the women, rushed down and separated them. Amedu was no match for Iburama, he was thoroughly beaten and left with a bloodied mouth and nose and a broken arm. Iburama only sustained an injury on his ankle. But it was the kind of wound that could fester if not well treated.
Several market days after the fight, the enmity raged on between the two despite repeated interventions by the elders. One day Iburama went to inspect his fishing net only to discover it had been torn to shreds. He did not need to consult a seer to know that Amedu was responsible for the wicked act. When he came back home and told his wife, she advised him to forget the matter. Forget about him, she had said, God will provide us another net. This is what you said about the farm, Iburama reminded her. Yes, forgive him, she insisted. But how long should we continue to forgive? he asked in a frustrated voice. For how long should we bear bastards poking their fingers into our eyes? Is it after we have gone blind that we will stop them? Well, I have heard you. I will forget. But that will be after I have retaliated for this one. Tonight, I’m going to all his nets, cut them and send the pieces to him. No, you will not do that, she protested. Over my dead body!
Iburama had made up his mind. In the night while Adiza was asleep, he sneaked out and headed towards the river…
He can barely walk now as he approaches the river. Shooting pains from his ankle are tearing through him. He shakes his head again and again in an unconscious attempt to stop the hazy feeling clouding his senses. His ears are ringing so loud he can hardly hear anything external. His vision is diminishing, losing its power to the darkness. He staggers like this… and then like this… down the steep incline to a small reed hut by the edge of the river where he kept his paddles.
As he is about to enter the hut, he hears something like footfalls behind him. He shoots a glance over his shoulder, reaching into his pocket for the knife. But he cannot see anything, no one, nothing, except the blurred outline of the bush and the extensive river stretching away into the distance. He steps into the hut and gropes for the paddle. Just then he hears movements right at the threshold. He swings around, drawing out the knife.
‘Who is it?’ he barks in a horror-stricken voice. No response. Only silence. A deathly hush, breathless like the lull before a catastrophe. He listens out, tiptoeing towards the door. ‘Who are you?’
‘You have to kill me first!’ says a voice from the dark. ‘You have to kill me before you carry out the despicable act.’
He is suddenly overcome by confusing emotions of fright, shame and pity, intertwining one another like enraged snakes in a desperate fight for survival. Something seems to melt away from his body and the knife drops from his hand.
‘Must you retaliate for every evil done to you?’ says the voice. ‘Iburama, you are more than this. You are much more than this!’
For the first time, he realizes he is indeed more than this. He limps towards the door, towards the voice. He trips on the threshold and lurches forward. She swiftly grabs and gathers him up in her arms. He surrenders to her embrace, resting his head upon her shoulder.
‘Adiza!’ he whimpers like a baby.
Sumaila Isah Umaisha is an award-winning writer.
