VERSES ofUNCHARTED

HEAVENThe Second Coming of

Biafra Inspired by Chimalum Nwankwo’s The White

Dove

James Onyebuchi Ile

Apex Books Limited

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Dedication

To my beloved parents,Nze (late) J.C. and Mrs U. C. Ile,the instruments of my earthly

materialisation,; and also to

Late Chief Evans O. Onyeri, mba-ana-abara-agu,

a man of tremendous goodwillwho once told me that

the darkest hour of the night is nearer the dawn.

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Then the Lord replied: write down the revelation and make it plain on tablets so that a herald may run with it, for the revelation awaits an appointed time: It speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it lingers, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay.

Habakuk

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Book One

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1It was a fine Saturday morning,

made quiet by marshal music rendering on radio. Intervals of ominous sputtering sounds by the radio heightened anxiety and kept one on tenterhooks. Suddenly, somebody cleared his throat and began to speak. His voice was sober and one read something of uncertainty in it:

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‘Fellow countrymen, I’m Brigadier Mohammed Aliyu of the Nigerian Army, commander of the 3rd. Brigade. There is no denying the fact that a revolution has taken place in our country. No life has been lost so far! This revolution is a bold step by the military to stop the maiming and killing going on among Nigerians. We cannot fold our hands and watch, despite our having vowed not to interfere any longer in the political affairs of this country, whose transition into the tenth republic we guided, Nigerians annihilate themselves. It is unfortunate that many years after the independence of Nigeria, she has not arrived as a nation of common destiny: Nigerians have mutually suspected themselves since the end of the war: The centre can no longer hold. I must, however, make it categorically clear that this revolution is not a disavowal of our stand on the non-interference of the military in the political affairs of the country—we still stand by our pledge! Owing, however, to the situation of the country at present, the military policymakers have decided unanimously to declare a state of emergency in the country, pending the time a people-oriented national conference will be convened in order to determine the fate of Nigeria as a nation. We must face the facts whatever they may be! Until then, all sea and airports must remain closed! The general public is hereby warned to

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avoid any act of cruelty against themselves as soldiers have been instructed to shoot at sight anybody causing or prompting violent acts that will result in the loss of lives and property. Let everybody remain calm as the army is in total control.”

Brigadier Mohammed Aliyu knew he would be on the air again in a shortwhile. He always took time out to think, to ponder on the way forward. It was also an occasion for him to reconcile so many things going on in his life and the lives of his people. He had wanted to understand many things about his people and their poverty. He did not want to attribute their condition to an inherent inability. Labelling them lazy and parasitic was enough justification for this revolution. Perhaps his people would get the chance to prove that they could survive and develop as human beings, he had thought in the night that preceded the revolution. He knew the decision was selfish, but he had to take it to restore his dignity as a man as well as the dignity of his people, he thought. He had prayed and hoped that it would be decided by all the delegates at the national conference that the ethnic groups that made up the country should be independent of one another. He had imagined himself on the air again saying to Nigerians:

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“Fellow countrymen, this is Brigadier Mohammed Aliyu. I am on the air again to acquaint you with the outcome of the deliberations of the men of the defunct armed forces’ ruling council as well as notable citizens, intellectuals and the people’s delegates. Most of you have also followed these debates in the media. You should not be surprised at our conclusions. After hectic hours and days of debates, it was finally believed by all and sundry, that, truly, Nigeria was a mere geographical expression comprising many nations. There was no case of parrying, for we all, boldly, faced the fact that for peace to reign in this geographical entity, the ethnic groups that live in it must be independent of one another; that the name Nigeria must be rendered down to three or more different countries!

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‘Those who have read the history of this country will agree with us that every Nigerian, the clamour for unity notwithstanding, has the interest of his people foremost at heart. However, with a view to checking any act of vandalism or disorder that may begin to thrive as a result this seemingly peculiar decision of ours, we have decided to still have the army intact. They will have to monitor this disengagement from one another to ensure that it is peaceful. Therefore, the hitherto Nigerian army shall, until the end of the disengagement exercise, be known and addressed as The Trinity Army. The commanders of all the former army divisions are advised to give heed to this instruction from the army supreme headquarters as the army will be the last to undergo disintegration. The assets of the Nigerian nations shall be shared out equitably to the three or more different countries that would emerge. A committee will be appointed to monitor this process. Interim presidents have been appointed for the three different countries and more could be appointed if we see need to. Their names will be made public later in the day. Henceforth, the state-of-emergency order remains lifted. Everybody can now go about his or her business in his or her country. However, those still living in different places in Nigeria, who are not natives of those places, but work

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and do business or even own properties in those places, are not obliged to leave those places, unless they want to. Their situation is well known to us. We have, therefore, decided that such people and their families get automatic resident permits in those countries they live, work and do business. Any attempt to molest them shall meet, I repeat, shall meet with terrible consequences. They are henceforth protected under international law and the enactment instrumental to this disengagement exercise.

“Fellow citizens of the world, I shall pass on these favorite lines on to you: Sir, there’s the marble, there’s the chisel, take it; work it to thy will.’

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He felt very proud of himself for being able to develop, single-handedly, an idea as intelligent and insightful as this. Whenever he repeated the broadcast in his imagination, in preparation for the real national broadcast, he would be quiet and begin to will that his people should overcome their poverty and ignorance whenever they became an independent nation. He would begin to will that their nation became the pride of Africa in material and agricultural wealth. He would begin to imagine his people respected in the world. And filled with the hope and faith that this was possible, he would say to himself, “if these fools fail to reach the agreement that Nigeria should be dissolved, I am going to do it militarily.’

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While I followed events in Nigeria closely from Germany, it immediately occurred to me that Brigadier Mohammed Aliyu was the father of my good friend and school mate, Musa Aliyu. I began to understand the man and the revolution. What would Biafra’s independence mean to me, should the delegates decide that the country should be dissolved? I thought deeply. Could it solve all the problems I had always sought to solve? Although I could no longer nurture the thought of second-class citizenship in an independent Biafra, yet I would still be a stranger and therefore a second-class citizen in my village among my kith and kin. Would this contradiction be Biafra’s undoing? Was it Nigeria’s undoing? I stood still. I thought about Lumumba and his fellow comrades in prison. What would their fate be after the national conference?

The day was sunny. It was in the middle of summer and I was sitting outside at my veranda, reclined on a seat. For the first time since my novel, Memory Lane, was published, I had time to go through the whole dust it had generated. My effort was not in vain after all, I thought that if for nothing else, it caused Nigeria to look inward.

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Granted that Brigadier Mohammed Aliyu was driven by selfish ambition, yet it was the prejudices that he had felt, the fears, the humiliation of being seen as worthless by other ethnic groups that fuelled that ambition to prove something to himself and the world. He was just like Lumumba and Comrade Odumegwu, victims of the Nigerian condition, I thought. A flash of intuition struck me and I saw the Nigerian condition as an inherently human condition. If it was not why then were there conflicts in my village? Why were we seen as strangers and therefore had no right to land ownership? Being strangers and having no right to land ownership would not have been a big deal if there had not been a stamp of discrimination on it. My head began to swell: I had been thinking for some time now. It was obvious I needed to rest. I tried to distract myself and fell asleep, a very deep sleep.

Soon the ethereal colours I had noticed in my dream as a twelve-year old boy began to reappear. I saw flowers of various colours; and green lawns were everywhere. The world was once again beautiful ... the beginning!!!

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2 The brutal murder of Lumumba’s

father made Lumumba an angry man. However, the pains that he bore were not so different from the pains of the injustices that propelled me to write the novel, for which he was now arrested. I felt pained to read of the incarceration of the people I seriously intended to help by the publication of my novel, Memory Lane. I felt now even more determined to help them regain their freedom with the whole intellectual and spiritual forces at my disposal. In fact, like Lumumba did tell me, this epoch would mark the end of a long journey from the world, whose beginning was here. The meaning of those words passed with great speed the threshold of my consciousness.

The prison warder, a very dark and stoutly built man with a gong-like nose and calves that looked like big tubers of yam, always walked along the corridor of the prison cells, where Lumumba was incarcerated. Whenever he walked along that long corridor, he tapped the baton he always held in his right hand on his left palm pensively as if he wondered what to do with the inmates.

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As he walked past the prison cells on this particular day and came to where Lumumba was, he stopped. He walked up to Lumumba’s iron-door and stood there looking at him suspiciously. You could read the thoughts in his mind: It seemed as if he was wondering why some human beings choose to always get into harm’s way. He kept nodding and tapping his baton on his palm, seeming to pity Lumumba’s lack of understanding of life. This man has been here for about four months, the warder reckoned.

What made him always attracted to Lumumba was his equanimity. He seemed ready to spend eternity in that hole. This was exactly what the warder could not understand. He also could not understand why intelligent men like him always thought that the only way to participate in national development was to be meddlesome.

Then, he took one full pitiful look at Lumumba and blurted out:

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“One expects intelligent men like you to use your heads to move de country forward. But no, you want Biafra instead. You just decided to waste your time and de little money you earn on a cause dat is very very unrealisable. Now see where you landed: in a rotten prison cell for treason. You are supposed to be in your homes wit your families, young educated men!’ he said. ‘Biafra Republic: If we say now ok go wit Biafra, what on eart do you tink you can achieve wit it?’ He asked, sarcastically.

Lumumba looked at the prison warder with terrible disdain and thought in his heart that if they had Biafra, they would, at least tame its recalcitrant environment; they would endeavour to conquer its hilly mountains and level out its dangerous valleys; they would create green lawns and boulevards and make them sing the “heavenals” to God Almighty; they would make trade and commerce boom there like never before; arts and science would find expression in people’s living standards; and knowledge would sustain life in that blessed country and open thus a channel between heaven and earth; the moon and the sun would be the watchful eyes of God upon their children.

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The prison warder began to interprete Lumumba’s equanimity as arrogance, because he refused to utter a word. Such silence was spiteful, the warder thought. Then he began to feel that probably Lumumba could be seeing him as a stupid old fool. His anger began to grow. Then he said to Lumumba:

“With the look on your face, nobody would doubt that you people committed treasonable felony.”

He wanted to bring Lumumba to a conversation. ‘I pity you because you don’t seem to know the enormity of the charge against you and your colleagues,’ he said still.

‘What did dey do,’ one of the in-mates, who had been listening to the monologue of the warder, shouted. ‘We have heard dat he was arrested because he is de publicity officer of de publishing company dat published dat powerful book. A book dat is a great check on de growing evil,’ the in-mate said still.

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‘Who is dat monkey dat does not know dat de book was banned? And who even tell you dat person can’t kill wit de pen? You never hear dat pen is mightier dan de sword? But honestly, I have been telling myself dat de writer of dat book dat dey catch you wit for don write very terrible tings in it for to make dem arrest you people,’ he said referring again to Lumumba. ‘Dey said you people were planning to overtrow de government of de country and to declare Biafra,’ the warder said still.

‘I’m not responsible for whatever the writer writes in his book,’ Lumumba managed to say, seeming not to want to waste his time with the idle warder.

The warder thought it was better to make the fool that Lumumba was aware of the implication of the charge against him. Probably the knowledge of that would bring him down a peg or two, for he felt arrogance in Lumumba’s statement.

‘It is so easy to say. Now dey say you are responsible for dat. What will you do? Nauting, I can assure you. In case you don’t know, you are facing deat sentence or life imprisonment.’

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While away in Germany, I had heard of the ban placed on my book as well as the threat of arrest of anybody found with it. Lumumba had called me up on the phone a day before his arrest and told me that many people were ordering my novel and that the Nigerian state was very uncomfortable with the situation. He said arrests were being made; but that they were determined to keep producing copies upon copies until every family had a copy. Before he hung up he said to me:

‘James, you see, the injustice of the Nigerian state is preying on us; but believe me, this epoch will mark the end of a long journey from a world, whose beginning was here,’ Lumumba philosophised. When he eventually hung up the phone, I tried to understand what he meant by what he had just said. I could not understand it immediately, but I knew it was pregnant with a lot of meanings. It sounded like a verse of uncharted heaven.

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The death of Lumumba’s father in the hands of tribalists in Hafana left a scare in Lumumba’s heart. He knew somehow that if he did not do something, the anger in his heart was probably going to get him into trouble someday. He knew he had to channel his anger into something positive. Therefore, he immersed himself into his job with renewed vigour. Since his father could not rejoice with him over his new found job, he was ready to make nature pay for his death by working too hard. He had grown to be very proud of his father. The fact that he dared the devil by marrying his mother and broke thereby an age-long tradition, which Lumumba thought was evil made his father his hero. For only few men could do what he did.

His grandfather, Okike, was one of those freeborns for whom tradition was a bastion. He died in his sleep after he was told that Patrick, his son, had gone ahead and to marry Clara, the osu, outcast; a girl, who Obi Okonkwo in No Longer at Ease, in spite of his English education, could not marry. He had been pressured by his kinsmen not to marry an osu.

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Patrick was not even half as educated as Obi Okonkwo; but the lessons he had learnt from the school of life was enough to make him know that Clara was well too human and good to be made non-existent by a traditional practice that was steeped in ignorance.

His father, Okike, had refused to go with him to pay the dowry on Clara. In fact, he stopped existing the moment he became sure that his son was bent on marrying Clara, whose father was a very wealthy timbre merchant known all over Biafra. So once Patrick came home on a Friday evening and broke the news of this girl he had met in Hafana, who was a nurse and recently transferred to Hafana from Latos, Okike asked him immediately:

‘I hope she is from Biafra?’ ‘Yes, Papa.’ ‘Is she from Ezeani town?’ ‘No, Papa.’ ‘Where is she from?’ ‘Anisu.’ ‘Ani what?’ The old man asked.

‘Half of the people of Anisu are osu. Whose daughter is she?’

‘Chief J. T. Osuagwu.’

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‘The name speaks for itself son. You will not marry from that family.’ The finality of his tone was enough sign for Patrick to know that the matter had received the stamp of negation as far as his father was concerned. But he had already made up his mind to marry Clara.

The day he went to meet Clara’s family, Clara’s father welcomed him, but wanted to know from him if he had no elder in his family who should accompany him on such a serious and delicate mission. When he told Chief J. T. Osuagwu the resistance he was encountering with his nuclear family just because he wanted to marry Clara, the chief immediately visualised the situation in his mind. His energy level sank, for he knew what it was all about; but he was sure that his success in life had made him a member of the upper class, whether one liked it or not. In that split second, he thought he should have grown above the caste system. He was rich and educated, way above the ordinary in the sixth dimension of the estate, where ordinary folks would never attain; yet even those, who naturally were not worthy to clean his shoes could not get beyond seeing him as osu. And although it was the desire of many to work for him, only a few would give their sons or daughters away in marriage to the Osuagwu family.

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However, he felt that somehow it could be a way his inferiors tapped his energy. If it was, then he was not going to let that happen again. ‘I am their superior, period!’ He said to himself. He mused that he would be the last to give away his daughters to any man or let his sons marry any woman who was lowly and ignorant.

Patrick could be lowly, but he was by no means ignorant. He was able to sell his sincerity to the Chief without appearing condescending. It did not take the Chief long to know that Patrick, in his own words, ‘had fully evolved as a human being’ and as such, did not have to bring his unevolved elderly people along in his quest to marry his daughter. He yielded to the pressure of Patrick and his daughter, Clara, to get married. He said to Patrick during one of his solicitous visits to his house, ‘you will marry my daughter. You are a good man!’

Clara and Patrick moved back, happily, to Hafana, where they had met and wedded at the registry, giving their union the full weight of the law.

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Patrick, by dint of hard work, established himself as an auxiliary nurse. He also owned a chemist. As a result of the relative under-development of Hafana, people like him functioned also as para-medics in their chemist shops. They took advantage of the simplicity of mind of a great majority of Hafana people, who trusted without equivocation the expertise of people like him.

The snake-bitten as well as worm-infested commoners always lined up in front of the chemist shops of Patrick and his tribesmen, waiting to get treatment. They got proper treatment, but always at a very huge price: they were always asked to come every day to take spoonfuls of non-alcoholic malt drinks which had been opened and stored in refrigerators to

quicken their healing processes. They had been made to believe that the malt drinks were medicine. Therefore, every spoonful had a price. When pairs of shoes or slippers were sold to them by traders in the products, they were not really sold as pairs: both the right and left pairs had individual prices.

Thus, Patrick and his tribesmen made huge fortunes living in Hafana, because, as Lumumba had told us: ‘the Adamus were just Adamus.’ Therefore, Adamu became for us synonymous with dummness.

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Theirs was a family with a history of migration to the north. Lumumba’s grandfather, Okike, was a railway worker in Hafana during the colonial days. The growth of Hafana as a major northern city attracted many people from the south, who were relatively more qualified than their northern counterparts. The incident of colonisation helped them as merit still counted and certificates as evidence of merit mattered. As business flourished for most, they invited their kinsmen over to partake of the bounties of Hafana. Many were shocked at the crass ignorance of the hosts, for whom religion and tradition mattered most. Patrick could not understand why the people had to be picked while they were grazing their herds of cattle and brought forcefully to school. Did they not know that education held the key to their future, he wondered shrugging his shoulders. Wherever he went, he saw how children and adults balled their hands in a demonstration of power and greeted him: Ranka dede, as if he was one of their leaders, who seemed to be God’s representatives on earth.

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Many hunger ravaged came to him begging to be fed. He couldn’t forget how one tall hunger-ravaged-skeletal youth approached him where he was washing his Morris minor. He pretended to want to fetch water, but only wanted to get close enough to Patrick to ask a favour of him. What made this incident remarkable to Patrick was the fact that this particular young man did not see any pride in making a profession of his situation. He was sincerely ashamed that he had to beg. He came very close to Patrick and told him in a very low tone and with wary eyes that hated to be discovered: ‘since yesterday, Uga, I never chof. I go give me money to chof, please.’ Patrick knew he was sincerely being solicitous in spite of the fact that his language sounded impolite as if Patrick was obliged to do his bidding.

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Patrick had great issues he was still dealing with. A man had made grevious accusation against him. He was confused because he only wanted to save a life: Ismail Musa had been living with a venereal disease which was progressively rendering him impotent. He had gone to Patrick’s chemist-shop to get treatment. Patrick placed him on antibiotic injections. This could not bring the desired result. Ismail eventually became impotent. And once he was no longer able to make love to his numerous wives, who he eventually infected with the venereal disease, he accused Patrick of bewitching him, but he had only received penicillin injections. He began to tell people that Patrick had used his private part for money ritual; and that was why he was very rich. The prejudicial rumour of his people’s love for money became the topic of discussion at every mosque. Hate built up gradually. Patrick had taken the rumour lightly, believing that no right thinking person could believe such nonsense. It was only when he was stopped by Ismail and his group in an ambush on him that he became aware of the reality of the threat on his life.

It was a bush market day and he was on his way back home. He increased his step as he noticed that he was being followed by about three men or more, who were holding sheathed daggers.

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‘Nyamiri! Stop there! I no de tire for money? I go even kill my mother for ritual bekwos of money. Haba. I say make I stop there. I no de hear!’ one of the assassins shouted. Patrick did not know whether or not to run. He slowed down his pace consciously so as to give the impression he was not afraid. But they pressed on towards him still cursing him. Patrick increased his pace in fright; and suddenly, he started running; but they were already at every escape route. They surrounded him and began to stab him.

‘I say’ …stab… ‘I no de hear?’ … stab … ‘Nyamiri’ …stab … ‘I go die today’ …stab …, the ring-leader of the group said while stabbing Patrick.

Patrick slumped. The others took turns in stabbing him as they demanded to know why he loved money so much.

By dawn the news of Patrick’s murder had spread like wild fire all through Hafanaland. Biafran men in Hafanaland retaliated. Soon, a riot started. In the process, the destruction of human lives and property became unimaginable.

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3I was christened James, but the

natives who were not so lettered thought it sounded like Jemis. So, I grew to be known and addressed as Jemis. I was born at Guzegu. My father always told me so. He was a fairly old man of about sixty who had the habit of telling me ancient stories; stories of immense importance. He said he was a stranger in Guzegu by human standards. He said his great, great, grandfather migrated to Guzegu from a far-away place, which he would not mention, because he would not want a case whereby his children, after hearing the exposition, would begin to bemoan their fate.

‘No. You all are part and parcel of Guzegu.’ He would say.

His father himself rarely spoke of his provenance; it was a new consciousness in their lineage not to regard this world as a permanent place of abode; rather, they had a hope of a home beyond the sky, where man would spend eternity with God. This new consciousness was not as a result of the new religion: it was merely a product of the meditations of a radical mind; it defied the nature of man’s existence, his race; it also defied culture when it hinged on superstition. On the other hand, it extolled world citizenship...

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We lived happily as a family of six at Guzegu. I was the first-born as well as the only male of the six children my mother had. It was tradition at Guzegu to feel sorry for couples who had only one boy out of their numerous children. Those, who were so unfortunate to have had eight boys, even at the risk of providing them with little or no education, were thought of as blessed; while those fortunate to have had just one spoilt him by sparing the rod. Such patriarchal mind-cast considered male children as blessing from God, while female ones were just children.

Women could only take pride then in conceiving all the spirit germs lined up in their wombs, willing to experience on earth, for their ascent or descent: each according to its will. She was always celebrated if the fruits of her womb were only males. But Papa seemed to have overgrown that which held us down: I did not get any more attention than my sisters did. Knowledge is power! This he drummed in our ears all the time; it is a weapon of conquest! He would not hesitate to say. We all of course had the privilege of being sent to school to learn. Mama and Papa believed that education awakened all of man’s mental faculties. They had a consuming passion to have us educated.

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Papa always stayed in front of our house every afternoon of school days anticipating our return from school. Whoever among us that returned first was expected to show him his or her workbook so that he might check how he or she fared in his or her school work. This ritual had become a bugaboo to us, because Papa not only monitored our performances, but also thrashed whoever performed poorly among us.

Whenever I got zero in any of the subjects, especially arithmetic, I never got near my father on getting home: I would, rather, throw my school bag to him and run away. But trust the old man, he knew how any of us with bad grades carried him or herself. With his cane hidden carefully at his back, he came after any of us in whose face he noticed the guilt of failure.

We lived in a rustic house which was built with fine and polished clay and roofed with corrugated zinc. Our compound was fenced with palm-fronds that were well pleached to bamboo-sticks, which were well dug into the ground. Within the compound was an outhouse, where visitors were normally received.

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Whenever we returned back from school, of course with good grades, we handed over our exercise books to Papa and proceeded to take our lunch; thereafter each one of us lay on the mat in the sitting-room just to get a nap while our food digested. After an hour or so Papa’s strident voice would call from the backyard of our rustic house.

‘Jemis! Jemis.’ Even Papa too called me Jemis.

‘Yes, Papa,’ I would answer from inside the house.

‘Are you kids still sleeping or what? Won't we go to the farm this evening? Wake your sisters up! Let me not come to wake them up by myself!’

Hurriedly, I would wake the dozing bodies up from their slumbers.

There was this defect or otherwise in my character: I had the habit of obeying, abruptly, my father's commands. Probably, I seemed afraid of his carriage, for he was always serious and reflective unlike most elders of Guzegu who were always getting drunk on wine and mad on snuff. He was tall, huge, dark, and had prominent features which depicted aggressiveness. There was also something numinous about his personality. His presence confirmed to you the existence of a supreme being.

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On the other hand Mama seemed so fragile that she could hardly hurt a fly. She tended to treat things with such laxity of character that tried your patience. She was tall and scarcely huge with pleasant aspects that she seemed not cut out for work. As such she did not want Papa to keep labouring us, because going to farm every evening was suffering to her.

I did not always obey her commands as I did with papa’s instructions. One would have expected her to take offence at such insolence on my part but she would not. But such quietude in the face of stubborn irritation is a powerful force of character that inspires sympathy, for I always did whatever she asked me to do even though I might have been hesitant initially. All the same, ours was a happy family dependent on the proceeds of our father's farm at Guzegu.

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The idyllic serenity of Guzegu, the uncomplicated simple village life here repulsed the enticing rumours of the beauty of towns and cities. The breathing of the cool pure air devoid of the stench of maggot infested gutters in sprawling cities, the invigorating whispering evening breeze made one obsessed with life in the village. Only those who still carried the spark of God in them in this place could still see the watchful eyes of God and perhaps hear the beautiful ‘heavenals’ of nature, for life here had become so tensed up that you could feel the hateful attacks on your ethereal body in your dreams. In the physical you could feel it when you had to play a game that seemed like skittles as I was doing with my playmate, unaware of the great schism that existed among the inhabitants of the clan.

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‘Move your foot backwards,’ my friend barked in a tidal of indignation. ‘Don't let it cross that line, onye oshi! Thief! Damn it! Is this the way you have been winning the previous throws? Without my knowing it, you place your foot across that line, so that when you throw your isi-okwe, head-seed, it would hit easily on those seeds set within that circle, scattering them, making you win more, eh? Idiot! You really must be thinking you have something in your head. But I won't agree. I must go beyond the line to throw my own isi-okwe and then win as you have been winning,’ he raged.

I refused to talk; I merely kept aiming at the seeds set within the circle that we made on the ground with our fingers. It was about three or four yards away from the line on which we placed one of our feet while aiming at the seeds set within the circle. I took a throw at the seeds. I missed the target. My friend positioned himself for his own throw. Purposely, he went beyond the line to have his own throw. But I objected to his intention and he became cantankerous. Suddenly, he swooped on the seeds in the circle and ran off.

‘I have taken mine, go with the ones you have won,’ he said, running. Having run to safety, he stopped to invoke curses on me, couching his biased feelings in curses.

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‘Onye sense! Trickster! All these Aros think they are smart. They forget we are the natives, and that a servant cannot be above his master; he can only be like him. You think my father doesn't tell us the history of Guzegu? You think we don't know strangers from natives? Fool. I am no longer interested in the game. Go with the ones you have won,’ he raged.

You would certainly feel surprised at such utterances, if you never nurtured any evil feelings toward anybody, especially toward somebody you felt was one of your closest friends. It would even be more incomprehensible if you had a father who always hammered on the beauty of virtue, the strength of love and the hope of a life hereafter.

I walked home dejected and met my father relaxing on his seat in front of the house. He noticed how disturbed I was and wanted to know what troubles I had.

‘It is Iyi. I was throwing para with him and I was winning the seeds and he became jealous and quarrelled with me and called me Aro.’

Papa seemed unruffled by the graphic picture I was trying to paint of the incident between my playmate and me.

‘He called you Aro? Just that?’

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‘Is that all you have to say?’ I soliloquised.

Not minding my presence, he began to dunk the slices of yams he had in his hand into a bowl plate that contained palm oil. He munched the yams and spoke as well with such non-chalance as would drive you crazy. He muttered that ethnicity was the disease that had infected everyman in this part of the world; that I was yet to learn; that I had a provenance in creation itself, having been created by God and that I was a citizen of the world.

‘They call us strangers,’ he said as he munched his food,

‘but we all are strangers in this world ... they seem to have missed out on that point: the world is a market, son; a market: if one buys all that one came to buy, one goes; if one sells all that one came to sell, one goes as well.’

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I wondered how I had felt safe all this while in such a hostile environment. While I was still wondering whether or not it was possible for one to really live with a hypocrisy that could make one dine with a wealthy untouchable, exposed to a life one never imagined and still wished every one remained with their stigma, I dosed off on the daberechebe, reclining chair, I was reclined on. Shortly I was dreaming. There was colour everywhere: the greenness of the verdure had an ethereal intensity; the rays of the sun sparkled and twinkled down from the sky; the sound in my ears intensified by the seconds like an air plane speeding on the tarmac, gathering momentum to take off. Gradually, I emerged from my recumbent body, and vegetated above it. I looked down on my lifeless body, and became terrified. I jumped back to it. I woke, panting, terrified and sweating profusely. What was happening? What had just happened?

‘Jemis,’ Papa called to me, surprised that I had already dozed off, ‘this one you are panting like someone under the spell of witchcraft, l hope you are well. You just complained to me about your friend who was abusing you and calling you Aro and you couldn’t even hear what l had to say about him. You had better go inside the house and sleep, if you want to sleep.’

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I walked into the room to sleep. I had become very tired. I lay on the mat and began to fan myself, for the day had become very hot. As my body began to cool, I began to doze off. Once I had dozed off, I slipped back into my dream. The ethereal colours I had seen before began to reappear. Voices filled the vacant air: Teachers ahead! Teachers ahead! The universe, great and beautiful, houses wonders undisclosed to our eyes! Teachers ahead! Teachers ahead!

These voices droned in my ears, making me giddy. I lost control of my thoughts and motives. I tried to speak, but the pictures of my thoughts rolled out of my mouth: the light, the flowers, the life, the firmament, the breeze, the red, the blue, the white, the black, the brown, the green, the yellow, the indigo, the violet, the heart! Suddenly, a man appeared in my room and walked slowly up to me. His chocolate complexion sparkled with life. He was handsome and ageless; his slivery beards almost touched the ground; and he was wearing a flowing white robe held together at the waist with a sky-blue nylon cloth. I recognised him as an old man I used to know in some earth-life or had read about in some books.

‘But you are dead,’ I ventured to say, possessed of some strange feelings.

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‘How I wish I died every day,’ he said.

Having closed up on me, he stretched his hand to me for a handshake. I hesitated, because I was very afraid. How could somebody wish he died every day? How many earth-lives has he had behind him and how many more ethereal lives did he still have ahead of him? He maintained his posture, still having his hand outstretched, expecting a handshake. I was aware that he was reading my thoughts and intentions. So, I stretched out my hand and shook him; I held his hand with anxious expectation. I began to melt and flow into him. He burst into a thunderous laughter amid strange voices that filled the air: Teachers ahead! Teachers ahead! The universe, great and beautiful, houses wonders undisclosed to our eyes! Teachers ahead! Teachers ahead! Evil bears down on mother earth, pride and prejudice boil over the psychic – the ground of love is irrigated by the sea of hate! The earth needs salvation not war! Teachers ahead! Teachers ahead!

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Outside, in that seemingly ethereal environment, the blue sky spread forebodingly over the earth. Flecks of snow perched like gossamer on living green leaves. Cold discomforting breeze swept through every now and then, battling the sun’s intense effort to let off heat. I saw a cave, which was part of the hill that overlooked the city from where I caught sight of the superhuman fits of humanity. As I pondered on how to forge on, a roaring sound rocked overhead through the heavens. Curious, I walked down the hill toward the city of the eternal returns of all things. I noticed cockroach-like movements in spider-like contraptions in the city. I looked hard enough and saw that they were cars of all types on three-lane major motorways. In the middle of the road, a big man’s car broke down.

His driver came out of the vehicle and opened the bonnet pondering what had gone wrong with the car. The big man, fat with corruption, was still sitting cosily at the back of the car, unmindful of the fact that his car had caused a serious traffic jam. Taxi drivers, products of a rat race, were stopping at the middle of the road and picking passengers, making the traffic jam even more nauseating. One of the taxi drivers blocked the way of the vehicles going towards the right, even when the drivers of the vehicles, whose way he blocked, had right of way.

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The drivers of the vehicles that had queued behind the culpable driver kept blaring their horns for him to give them way. The culpable driver waved at the irate motorists, pleading for understanding and patience till the traffic light turned green for all the vehicles to move. A seriously aggrieved motorist kept swearing at him, ‘may the smell of your mother’s cunt suffocate you!’

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The culpable driver merely smiled. Another aggrieved motorist muttered to himself, ‘honestly only five percent of our entire population qualify to be human beings.’ When the traffic light eventually turned green, the mad rush to drive off only made the traffic jam even more hellish. They seemed to be in the prison of their own creation. I ignored the scene and pressed on. As I kept moving down the hill, l kept twitching my nose, battling to fix the direction of the acrid smell that troubled my breathing. Some colourless gaseous smoke was pouring out of the towers of some industries in a burnt-offering manner: our earth was definitely being sacrificed. I moved on still towards the city of the eternal return of all things. There was hustle and bustle here; beautifully macadamised terrains snaked round the city, disappearing sometimes underneath the earth and emerging again. I noticed a fleck-like object floating in the air; I held my hand on my brow, over my eyes to protect them against the rays of the sun, which battled through the icy sky, as well as to get a good view of the floating object overhead. I was curious; therefore, l stopped and watched the object as it pressed towards the earth.

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Gradually the object landed and I closed up to it to satisfy my curiosity: it was a thought form: then I saw debauchers walk past hand-in-hand exchanging kisses every now and then. Those who still had humanity in them always stopped before me to hand me a few pennies, seeming to pity my wretchedness. Soon, I saw an old and very fat man walking on the railings of a very high bridge like a tight-rope walker. Once he took a jump, an ambulance sirened past in breath-taking speed: he had just committed suicide, for the bridge was about forty feet high. He had crashed on the solidly macadamised highway. His skull smashed, along with the brain, on the road and scattered around the place. He lay there lifeless in the pool of his own blood. The note he had in his hand before the suicidal jump still floated in the air. People around waited in eager expectation for the note to land. It fluttered this way and that way in the air, taking swoops at times. At last it landed on the pool of blood that was already coursing in different directions. I picked it up before it got soaked and read the words thereon:

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‘I’m not a coward; so don’t think taking my life is an act of cowardice. There is no other way I can restore my dignity as a man other than having the courage to make this dangerous jump to take my life. Not many people can stand the sight of a height, not to talk of walking on a railing’s edge and see your life fall from this great height and lose it.

The shadow of my poverty got the best of me: I was very poor before I became the Governor of my state. I had to feed of the state to compensate my poverty. But each time l looked back the shadow of my poverty grew bigger as I fed bigger on the state. The shadow became so big that it started feeding on poor hungry children, whose souls never allowed my soul rest. May it now rest as I sacrifice my life for the millions of these righteous souls!’

As I made to walk away, having dropped the note, I could hear a cacophony of comments.

‘This is class suicide!’ ‘He was demented by corruption’ ‘When a class annihilates itself,

another class takes its place, naturally.’

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Suddenly, as I walked away from the scene of the suicide, a tortoise and a lion appeared before me and said they replaced the snake and eagle of a certain Zarathustra and were to be my guide in my journey to the city of the eternal return of all things. The fact of a tortoise and a lion speaking made my head swell in fear. They said I would encounter fearful forms in my journey through the city, but that I should not be afraid, for the forms would feed on my fears, like they did on the late governor’s, until they made me mad if I allowed them. Then my animals disappeared. Suddenly the forms began to emerge. These were demonic forms that had very big dirty mane on their heads like those of lions with very big ugly pitch-black faces and wide red mouths that opened occasionally like the mouth of crocodiles. Their bodies were very tiny and pitch-black as well. They wore very dirty linens like Zumo wrestlers. They opened their blood-filled mouths as l walked by as if they wanted to suck me in. I became very afraid and their forms grew larger and larger.

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‘Jemis! Jemis!’ Papa called to me, as he noticed that I was convulsing. He called to Mama to bring quickly the ude-aki, palm-kernel oil, in the house and a spoon. When Mama brought the palm-kernel oil and the spoon, Papa forced my tightly closed mouth open and fed me with the highly alkaline oil. He robbed some into my eyes so that the burning effect of the substance in my eyes would drive back my nightmares and demons. He placed the spoon in-between my clattering teeth in order to prevent them from cutting my tongue. I woke feeling very ill.

At night I had to sleep with my father because I was very afraid that the demonic forms would return. Whenever my father began to snore, I would shake him to wake him up, because I always felt shaken with fear. And each time the roof of the house started turning upside down I felt giddy and shouted to wake Papa up from sleep. He would wake and ask me what it was. I would ask him whether he did not see that the roof was moving.

‘Are you still having those terrible dreams of yours? I wonder why all these witches and wizards want to kill you for me. These are ndi otu, cult people. Or, my son, are you an ogbanje? What did you dream about this time?’

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‘Papa, I saw an old fierce looking man, into whom I melted and was hearing prophetic voices that said: teachers ahead! Each time I am alone in the room, I always notice that the room turns upside down. Just now I was walking down a certain city and a tortoise and a lion appeared to me and told me they would be my guide and that I would encounter very fearful forms, who would want to feed on my fears.’

‘Enough! Don’t say anymore! They are trying to initiate you into witchcraft,’ Papa said.

I noticed that Mama was also up from sleep listening to what I was telling Papa from her room. She said to our hearing: ‘My son, my God will not allow them to succeed. When you see any of those things again in your dream, call upon the name of our lord Jesus Christ. Philip, this boy needs to leave this environment. There is nothing these wicked people cannot do,’ Mama said.

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After a short while, I heard Mama snoring. Papa was breathing now heavily, and falling gradually asleep. I closed my eyes. I could not sleep. As the darkness began gradually to glow with light, the forms began gradually to reappear. I started to shout: Jesus, Jesus and the forms began gradually to disappear. Papa and Mama stopped snoring and so I knew they were awake. The forms kept receding until they completely disappeared. I neither saw the demons nor convulsed ever again.

Early the next morning, I was feeling better again. Mama prepared Eba-shurrup for me to drink, just in case I was having malaria. Papa himself came into the house, where we were and said to us that he was still seeing cobwebs at every corner of the houses and that they needed to be removed; flowers were growing wild and needed to be trimmed.

‘By tomorrow all this has to be done. I have told you people that I am expecting somebody here, but I am still seeing an unkept household,’ he said.

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The following day, therefore, at Papa’s behest, we began to tidy up the house and its environs. He had told us that he was expecting a visitor. The fact that the clean up exercise was a conscientious effort by all of us in the family to keep the compound clean at father’s behest meant that the visitor had to be august. It was surprising to see Mama participate actively in the clean-up exercise. Not that it was unusual, but that I expected the clean up exercise to be the lot of us children. I certainly knew my mother not to be given to performing strenuous duties. It was not for nothing that she was called apu n’anwu, the beautiful.

As I weeded, I stole glances at her. She seemed enraptured in her work. She was her other self. In her levity, you saw gravity; in her frailty, strong courage; in place of a humourous nature, there was a humourless mien. In my surprise I wondered who this august visitor could be that everyone seemed overwhelmed by his intended visit. Could he be a "tribeless-tribesman” as Papa referred to cosmopolitan people?

When Papa summoned us into the outhouse and said he expected us to behave like civilised people whenever his visitor arrived, we became apprehensive.

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‘Papa, is the man rich?’ Ngozi, my immediate younger sister interjected. ‘Is he short or plump, with such a large mass?’ She asked, still, in amusing excitement, making a caricature of the visitor.

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The fact that we seemed to be trivialising something Papa believed to be serious made him to speak. He ignored completely my sister’s amusing remarks. He said the much-expected man was a “breathing-clay” like all of us. He always used that term because he believed human beings were mere mortals groping about like sheep without shepherd. He also said the man was very wealthy. When he said that, he tried to paint a picture of the man’s wealth by saying that he was one of those who lost their property after the war to the people of Hafana and Niger Delta. He said the man was Biafran, short and plump, and was married to a certain Dora, a class-mate of his in standard school. He said that his friend Kenta had told him that the man, Mr Obiefuna, was a businessman based in Onata and that he wanted somebody who would live with him and his family and help in domestic chores. He said Kenta had told the man that he, Papa, had well nurtured children; that it was in his house he would find the boy after his heart. He said Kenta, his friend, had intimated him with all this when he saw him in his farm, the one at the boundary of the two villages. He said that it was during that meeting that Kenta, his friend, told him that he and the man would come today, which was Eke, a Saturday. Papa then said that was the reason

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he wanted all of us to tidy up the compound and its environs.

‘So? Is that all?’ I asked, disappointedly.

‘What do you mean by that? Why is it that the child of today no longer knows how to speak to its elders?’

‘I'm not sure he ever meant to be disrespectful,’ Mama cut in.

‘You are not sure he meant to be disrespectful? I see. You are now holding brief for him, eh?’

‘Philip, it was just a mere question. I am sure he never even intended it to be answered.’

‘But should he have asked it that way?’

‘How else should he have asked it? Philip. How? Please, dear, don’t let the imminence of a tribe-passion man cause quarrel here.’

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Papa recoiled at that statement. However, he relaxed to clear the air, sporting an air of elderly chauvinism. He pointed at his grey hair and said that it was not there for nothing. He said he could not just wake up one day and decide to hand his son over to a tribe-passion man. If he was going to do that, then, there had to be a reason for that. He said he would make known to us the reason why he was going to let me go to live with the man, when he would have come and gone.

And in a short while, we heard the sound of a car engine sounding towards the entrance space. Presently a car pulled up in front of the main house and two men alighted from it, slammed the doors of the car and walked to the outhouse to meet my father, who had now come out of the Obi to the veranda, waiting for the visitors. They exchanged pleasantries. Papa and Kenta hugged themselves amid the exchange of pleasantries.

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4Kenta had been both my father’s

childhood friend as well as Mr Obiefuna’s friend. He was a very tall lanky man, with big eye-balls and very thick lips. He had such a friendly aura around him which made people love his company. He was said to be a very brilliant man, who did not have the opportunity of formal education. He dropped out in standard three because his parents could not afford to pay his school fees. Still he had such a gift and command of language that made one wonder at times why education had to be formalised.

When Kenta introduced his friend to Papa, he said his friend was such a guest that hardly inconvenienced his host so that he would not risk leaving with a hunchback. “That is the wisdom of our ancestors,” Kenta said

‘Is it?’ Papa asked jocularly. ‘But,’ Kenta continued, ignoring

papa's mischief, ‘this is a different Biaframan. He doesn't disturb his hosts even though he has come by wealth. You may not have heard of him, but you've definitely heard of Unonma, the acclaimed palm-wine tapster. May his soul rest in peace! He died after falling from a palm-tree. It isn't bad for one to die in harness, is it?’

‘You mean this is Unonma's son?’ Papa asked excitedly and rose from his seat to shake the man once again.

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‘His name is Obiefuna; he does business in Onata,’ Kenta said still.

‘Kenta! This is kola. Obi, kola has come,’ Papa said as he presented the kola Mama brought to them. He told his friend Kenta to take the kolanut and do to it whatever the customs of men required him to do. He knew Kenta would tell him that the King's kola always returned to him. So he persistently asked Kenta to break the kolanut.

It was so obvious that Papa had grown too unconventional to conventional human behaviour. He was known to be a man who disobeyed rules sometimes just to see if somehow he could teach humanity something by so doing. He believed many things on earth to be mere fabrications by man in his bid to maintain order. He believed such tendencies to be mere distortions of the reality of being.

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Kenta, having obliged Papa’s eccentricities, began the traditional prayer to their ancestors, intercessors on their behalf: When he invited Ajana, god of the earth, to chew kola, he threw a splinter of the kola to the earth. When he invited Ngene, god of the Ngene River to partake of the kola, he also threw another splinter of the kola to the earth. He poured libation and prayed for long life and prosperity of all of them. He prayed for equity and justice in the world and wished that the eagle, on taking a perch on the tall iroko would make space for the kite his cousin so that none would fall victim to the fiery anger of the gods.

After the ritual, Kenta broke the kola into four pieces with his fingernails. He took one piece of the kola and dunked it in a brownish paste which was in a carved wooden bowl, put it in his mouth and began to crunch it. Papa took his, and Obiefuna took his, too. But for teeth crunching lobes of kolanut and some sporadic movements of lizards outside among dry leaves, silence prevailed in the outhouse.

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After a short while, Kenta broke the silence when he tried to clear his throat: it seemed as if the particles of the Kola nut he was chewing missed direction and thus entered his glottis. He saluted Papa and his household, being very proverbial with every sentence he made, quoting their ancestors: if one sees the toad humping in fright in a broad daylight, it must be running from something terrible, awo anaghi agba oso n’ehihi ma onweghi ihe na achu ya! If emergency is the test of bravery, then the fearless must brave emergencies, mberede nyiri dike, ma mberede k’eji ama dike, Kenta said still. But Papa interrupted his friend, quietly and told him that he hated beating-about-the bush. He insisted that it was unfortunate that tradition got sustenance from superstition and so Kenta should go straight to the point.

Obiefuna and Kenta burst into laughter because they believed that Papa obviously misunderstood or perhaps chose to misunderstand the import of all these sayings of their people. Kenta went ahead to tell Papa that he was an elder and that he knew that elders were expected to bite their words before they uttered them, and that elders used such wise sayings to unknit issues by piecemeal.

‘Yes, that is true,’ said Obiefuna, supportively.

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‘Well, you've done enough of the unknitting. Hit the nail on the head.’

Kenta recoiled at that statement. He seemed to be disappointed that an elder like Papa would say a thing like that, for it was only a bad elder, who would be at home while the goat died in tethers. But he knew that Papa was a good man, so he told him that he seemed to be an obstinate progressive and that obstinate progressives sometimes progressed in ignorance. Papa became somewhat sober. He told Kenta that he did not mean to be rude; that he only felt that many a wrong had been done on earth because human beings wanted always to remake things to suit their whims and caprices. He argued that there was derailment from genuine, natural phenomena. He insisted that he would rather one always told him things the way they really were without refinement. But Kenta cut him short and went straight to the point as Papa wanted, by telling him that Mr Obiefuna wanted a house-help. He said it was so because his wife, Dora, worked and so needed a helper in the house. He did pretend as if he had not highlighted Papa on the issue at hand. He said he weighed the options very carefully and came to the conclusion that it was in Papa’s house he would find the kind of person he wanted, since Papa had well-trained children and since nobody left a place of feast for a place of sacrifice.

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Papa thanked him for believing that it was in his household he would find what he was looking for. It was so for him because the world was a very small place, where true brothers and sisters abound irrespective of race and tribe. Papa could not control his joy that, after all, a light was dawning in his family. He had always wished that his children would somehow make up for all he could not attain in life. He said, however, that he would not force me, his only son to live with Mr Obiefuna. He had to moderate his excitement in order not to appear too willing to give his son out. He said he cherished freedom so much that he would not disturb another man's freedom, not to talk of his own son’s freedom of choice. He hoped, however, that I would agree to their request, since he believed that destiny was unfolding for me. He said he would call me to acquaint me with all they had been discussing, and then ask me what my response was. For him that was the most important thing to do at that moment.

‘That would be wonderful; please do it!’ Obiefuna said.

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Papa called Mama and me to the outhouse. On arrival, we took our seats dutifully after greeting the visitors. I shook their hands and said nno, welcome, to them. Thereafter Papa told me that Mr Obiefuna would like me to live with his family in Onata so that I could be helping out in some chores. Papa then asked me if I would like to live with them as a house-help.

I did not imagine that papa would give me the benefit of deciding whether or not I would like to follow Mr Obiefuna to Onata, for while he seemed to fight against most traditional beliefs, he still felt it was always good for a man to be in-charge in his home.

I knew the world was large; I knew it had much to offer a curious soul. I was ready to experience beyond Guzegu. The serenity and peace Guzegu offered me seemed a restive one: I had never imagined that my best friend would call me a stranger in a place I had always regarded as home. Was the world full of such hypocrisy? I needed to know, therefore, I said: ‘yes papa; but not just immediately.’ Papa, quickly, told me that nobody was saying that I would leave immediately with Mr Obiefuna. He said Mr Obiefuna would come back to pick me up in a few days and wondered if that was fine with me. I said it was fine with me.

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For him, that answer settled it all. Mr Obiefuna thanked Papa and Kenta his friend. He even undertook to be very useful in my upbringing. He said he would treat me in the manner he would treat his own children: if they chewed palm-kernel, I would, also, chew it with them. Above all, he said he would teach me new values, our culture being the priority, for whoever had no culture was like a balloon floating in the air. At that statement, however, Papa chimed in and said he hoped Mr Obiefuna was not planning to turn me, his only son, into a tribalist. But Kenta and Obiefuna burst into laughter, once Papa said that. Papa insisted that it was not a laughing-matter, because he would not have his child indoctrinated by anybody.

‘Nobody will indoctrinate your child, Philip,’ Kenta said.

‘What then does teaching him new values mean?’

‘Only to make him know who he is,’ Obiefuna said.

‘He is Jemis, nothing more.’Mr Obiefuna and Kenta burst out again

into laughter. Before they left, Kenta told me to make sure I got my things ready, because Mr Obiefuna would come in eight market days to pick me up.

‘Yes, sir.’

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‘Good. Be a good boy when you go to live with Obi; for he, too, is a good man,’ Kenta said still.

‘Thank you, sir. I will, sir,’ was my reply.

Once they were gone, Papa told me to go and fetch my sisters.

‘You all should come to this place. I have some words for you.’

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In a short while, we converged in the obi, waiting silently for papa's address. He began by telling us that the man that just left with Kenta was the august visitor. He said the man came to see if he would allow me to live with him and his family in Onata. Papa said he agreed and that I agreed too. He said we should be happy that we still had a father. He said that was very important, because he who grew in the presence of his father must know ndi ichie, custodians of truth. He said every contact was a new experience; and that every encounter with a new culture opened a new world. He said knowledge, sometimes, was foolishness; and that foolishness sometimes was wisdom. He maintained that we all learned to unlearn. Therefore I was going out to learn in order to unlearn, for learning was better than silver and gold; and knowledge, a weapon of conquest. He emphasised it with a song, intoning every syllable: We go into our classes, with clean minds and faces, to pay great attention to what we are taught. Unless we shall never be happy and clever for learning is better than silver or gold...

My siblings sang along with him. Papa had his own peculiar ways of driving home his points, making them filter through any listener.

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5Days rolled by like racks that glide

through the wind. Our lives rushed by with such great speed too; only we did not know.

I had taken an examination, the result of which I was still awaiting, an entrance examination to college. I was, also, awaiting the result of my sixth grade in school, which, if I passed, would make me a holder of a-first-school-leaving certificate.

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I was being haunted by the fear that I could fail these examinations; not because I was not brilliant but because the markers of the examination sheets could be men from different ethnic groups than mine, for examination papers of people from Biafra were always marked in another region and vice versa. Furthermore, national problems and collective anxieties were freely discussed by adults so much so that children, as we were, were able to form a picture of this collective fear which seemed to have been forced down on our collective psyche. Every issue in the polity was interpreted on ethnic lines; every strong hold of a group was suspected as a ploy to dominate others; life was, therefore, compelled to be lived in fragments so that the ship of state could only function as desired by the group in power. Strategic stagnation of groups by a group in power was systemic; it mattered little to the powerful that their rabid and biased political strategies meant the nation taking gigantic steps backward into the medieval times.

There was no denying the fact that an examination as that had a role to play in moulding my destiny. My state of fear and anxious expectation was always soothed by a song I always sang about the boy in the valley of humiliation:

He that is down need fear no fall,

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He that is low no pride;He that is humble ever shall have

God to be his guide.I am content with what I have

Little be it or much:And, lord, contentment still I crave

Because thou gavest such. I always built up courage whenever

I rendered that song, for I knew that I was down; down because I was poor; down because I was believed to have no identity; therefore, I needed not fear any fall: It obviously seemed I couldn’t share my humanity with Iyi, who had pretended to be my good friend until the day I played para with him. We had no right to land ownership; that is, we were poor. Our poverty did not, however, consist in that desperate want for food. No, not at all: it was rather an ethical outlook to life, which abhorred unguarded materialism and a horizon not beyond the earth. We were so meek that we could not, could never be proud: Poverty, of course, has its own way of making the poor closer to God –to them prayer is the master-key. I could pray; therefore, I prayed night and day so as not to fall a victim to the evil schemes of tribe-passion men, for I had a consuming passion to be learned in life, to achieve the purpose for which I existed.

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Guzegu provided kids as we were with more than enough past-times that made one forget sometimes the fears and anxieties of existence. We dreaded the night, especially when the moon was not to be sighted in the sky. The awful cry of owls at night made us wonder who the next victim of witchcraft would be. Apart from moon-light tales, we occupied ourselves too with the hunting of various insects and animals; we employed our imaginative faculties at building pipe-lines with tubes from sheltox-insecticidal cans; we performed curious operations on lizards and went on adventurous plucking of various fruits that implicated us sometimes as thieves, because the owners of those fruit-growing trees disapproved of our actions.

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On some cosy mornings, the bush attracted one to it: it was not just the bush that attracted one to it: it was also its mysteries which seemed connected to one’s mysteries: The freedom of birds and other wild animals it gave shelter seemed one with the freedom one’s soul sought. Their own fears of the nature of their existence seemed like one’s own fear of the evil one carried within, in spite of oneself. There, the burdens of past lives were laid; there the pains of present lives began: This middle passage of pains, of miseries that these plants, these trees carried, burdened with our deaths in exchange for their lives, partaking in this eternal experiencing, these bushes. When their bounties beckoned you come, was it because they could be receptors of a collective will, the bane of a people?

My friends and I answered sometimes to the call of these umbilical brothers with whom we shared life: a life we thought, in our selfishness, was ours alone: Each time I decided to go to the bush for Palm fruits, I did always go with some friends, because no one alone could know all the pathways to the bushes: sometimes, one depended on one's friends for direction; at other times one's friends depended on one, too, for direction.

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When we got to the junction, where three pathways met, I asked my two friends, Dike and Amadi, which way we should follow. Dike suggested that it would be better if we took right. I demanded to know from him where the path led to.

‘It leads to Offia ngene ekwensu,’ Dike said.

‘But Ude and his friend were there two days ago,’ Amadi chimed in.

‘Where do we go, then?’ Dike asked, seeming angry.

‘To Obinipa,’ Amadi answered. ‘It’s too far,’ Dike vented. ‘Today is Saturday. We need palm

fruits for the Nkwo-market on Monday. If we don’t cut them today, we won’t be able to pick them tomorrow. I’m sure there isn't any other work for us today, save to cut palm fruits...if we're sure to find ripe palm fruits at Obinipa, we could as well go there,’ I said.

‘If you don't have any other thing to do today, I myself do... I can't waste the whole day cutting palm fruits,’ Dike interjected. It was obvious that he was now angry that we had to trek as far as Obinipa in search of palm fruits to cut, when there were bushes around.

‘Dike,’ Amadi started, ‘nobody is forcing you to go to Obinipa.’

‘Your father,’ Dike said angrily. ‘Your mother,’ Amadi replied.

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I made haste to let them know that quarrelling would not help matters; I let them know that it was necessary to get to Obinipa first, for if Ude and his friend were in the bush two days ago, they would naturally search through the near-by bushes for palm fruits.

Then, with a negligible air of enmity between my two friends, and an air of silence, we pressed along, heading for Obinipa. Soon, we were at Obinipa. Had there not been any quarrel between my two friends, walking to Obinipa, which seemed tedious, would have been very interesting: friendly conversations would have made us unconscious of the great distance we had to walk.

There were gigantic palm-trees scattered all over the place at Obinipa, carrying overhead ripe reddish sessile fruits. What joy there was for us at the sight of nature’s bounties! Quickly, we began to climb the palm-trees with the aid of our climbing ropes. One heard sharp cutting sounds of thoroughly whetted machetes chopping off the bases of these stocky sessile palm-fruits. At each successful cutting, one heard the heavy landing and vibrations on the earth of these heavy bulks of palm-fruits. After long hours of climbing and cutting palm-fruits through the long expanse of bushes, we began to gather together all the stocky bulks of palm-fruits we had cut at different places in the bush.

73

Palm-trees and their fruits as well as land were some of nature’s bounties here. There were also sources of conflicts. The natives, who were also the landowners, hardly allowed palm-fruits that were in some designated patches of land that belonged to groups of families to be cut. However, kids as we were hardly knew the boundary over which we were not allowed to proceed in our bid to be resourceful. Therefore, in the course of our labour, we heard an old manly voice, coarse as it was, shouting:

‘What the hell do you kids think you’re doing there? Cutting my palm-fruits? May amadioha strike you all to death! Don't you know what you’re doing? Stealing!’ he shouted aggressively. Seeing him, I shouted defiantly:

‘Is cutting palm-fruit, old, ripe and overdue-to-be-cut, palm-fruits, is it stealing?’

74

‘Who said that?’ The old man asked angrily, with bulging eyes. ‘Yes, I know,’ he continued. ‘I know it must be you, you stubborn son of Philip Ndudim. It must be you, because your father will never teach you to do the right thing. Yes, I know he'll not, because he doesn't own land in this village of Guzegu; his heart must be filled with spite. He must flout the laws of the land because he is a stranger ... he must send his child to my land to steal palm fruits. ... I'm talking and you boys are busy gathering your fruits, eh,’ he said angrily.

We had been irked for supposing us to be thieves; therefore, we wilfully decided to be defiant to his utterances, knowing fully well that he was too old to make any drastic move towards us. But, suddenly, to our surprise, he rushed at us with his machete, cursing and throwing stones at us. Only a tree remains where it is at the threat of destruction. We ran to safety. And, knowing fully well that he was incapable of running after us, he took recourse to curses.

‘Look at them running like antelopes. Idiots! Umuaro! Good-for-nothing children of good-for-nothing parents! Let thunder strike you all to death and even those that send you to steal in my land. Defilers of our land! Ndi ara, mad lots!’

75

Certain that we were out of trouble’s way, we stopped and sat down together on the grass, panting, gasping for air, and breathing like lizards that fell from a great top. After a while, smoke began to billow up from our heap of palm-fruits. It was obvious to us that the old man had burnt the palm-fruits we had laboured to cut.

‘This is a very wicked man,’ I said. ‘Ah! Okeofo? He is a very wicked

man!’ Amadi said. ‘Everybody knows him to be very

wicked. He has sent many to their graves by giving them nshi, poison.’

‘But you said Ude and his friend cut palm-fruits in the bush two days ago...’ I said again.

‘Of course they did,’ Amadi said. ‘Did you see them come back with

their fruits?’ I asked him still. ‘Yes I did.’ ‘Didn't that man see them?’ ‘He didn't tell me...’ ‘But he should have told you; he

should have told you that you have no right to cut palm-fruit in a native's land. Didn't you hear what he called us, umuaro, children of strangers.that's what it means in case you don't know. I said early on we shouldn't come to this place... my father told...’ Dike made to say.

76

‘Shut up! Your father didn't tell you anything. Your reason was that this place was far,’ Amadi interrupted Dike.

However, we moved on, searching again diligently for palm-trees, whose fruits had grown ripe. After a long walk and ceaseless search for palm-trees with ripe fruits, we found, at last, where old and overdue-to-be-cut palm-trees were. We began to climb and cut them. However, we were on the quivive so as to be able to hear any sound in the bush that seemed outlandish to the ones we had become familiar with; this was because we were said to be strangers in a village we should rightly belong to. Moreover, we did not really know which land belonged to whom. We only feared and hoped we were on the right part of the bush where strangers were allowed to partake of the cutting of palm-fruits. Finding mature palm-fruits to cut was no longer a duty: it had become an adventure.

77

Soon, we bundled our bulks of palm-fruits and sailed out. We seemed to have some premonitions of danger as we walked along the lonely bush track amid the sounds of curious birds singing away at the top of their lungs. Every now and then we attempted to trace the direction of the voices that echoed in the bush: we could be seen by any of those who said he had royal blood in him, who might question us on where we fetched our palm-fruits and who might accuse us of having stolen them from his land. It was custom at Guzegu for those found guilty of stealing to be taken naked round the whole village amid flogging: None of us, I supposed, could bear being exposed to such ignominy.

My two friends branched off to the pathways that led to their homes. Alone, I walked on, passed occasionally by people I knew not, who, however, turned to have a look at the bulk of ripe palm-fruits I was carrying. They glowered at me, and walked on in a state of mind reeling with hate.

A fear-inspiring silence hung over the ambience of the bush. Still one noticed the freedom expressed by the wild animals in their natural habitat. Sometimes squirrels ran onto the pathway daring you to come after them. Birds perched on your load, singing you a song.

78

From afar, I descried an anxious woman, who, often, stood out on the pathway from a corner, gazing, with effort, into the distance. She seemed like my mother; she, probably, wanted to see whether or not she could glimpse sight of me, for it was twilight. But, as I came nearer, I noticed that it was actually my mother and she, too, had become sure I was actually the person carrying a heavy load on my head, walking to her.

‘Jemis,’ she vented as I came nearer. I had become visible in the twilight.

‘Lord, thank you. What was it that held you from returning on time? It is getting to six o'clock already.’

I was too tired and laden to speak. I, merely, walked to the palm-fruits store and dumped the heavy bulks of palm-fruits I was carrying there.

‘Nna welcome. You stayed longer than I expected. I was getting worried. I thought you were lost in the bush; or that some other misfortune had befallen you. I'm glad though that you're safe; thank God.’

She walked to the store to have a look at the bulks of palm-fruits I had cut by myself.

‘Not bad, nna, not bad. Where did you cut these healthy stuffs?’

‘We were nearly macheted today in the bush’

79

Once I said that, mama became excited. She asked me if any person tried to harm us in the bush. She said she had really thought that my delay in coming home could not have been unconnected to something dangerous. She became sober and said that she should have told me to be careful while searching for palm-trees with ripe fruits in those bushes, because there were places aros were not allowed to forage into while cutting palm-fruits in the bushes. She went further to say that even in the old days, human head-hunters used to hide about in those bushes seeking human heads to cut because corpses of kings and prominent warriors were always accompanied with human heads into their graves as tokens of their heroism.

Since there were no more head-hunters, I told Mama that it was one of those evil elders of our village that wanted to harm us in the bush. I described the person to Mama by saying that he was very old and fat and limped in one leg. Mama immediately said she knew who I was talking about and even called him by his name, Okeofo.

‘Is he that wicked?’

80

‘Yes, of course. Didn’t you see his eyes, how bloodshot they are and his pox-ravaged stomach? I’m sure he is one of those people, who instead enjoying God-given sleep, leave their bodies and turn to owls to suck people’s energy and snatch their luck in the dead of night. Ajo mmuo na mmadi, bad forces in human forms! And what did he do to you boys in the bush?’

‘He wanted to cut us to pieces. He called us all sorts of name and said we were the thieving children of abominable strangers. Mama, I never knew that people don't live in peace with themselves here.’

‘They don’t, my dear.’ ‘Palm fruits grow in the bush,

Mama, not in the air’ ‘You're right, my son.’

81

‘We told him that we were simply cutting palm-fruits, which we intended to sell at the nkwo market. He sought to know who permitted us to do that. He told us that even if the place was rife with palm-trees full of succulent fruits, that the land they grew on belonged to somebody. He maintained that we were sent to that place by our fathers and mothers who did not give heed to the customs and laws of the land; that our parents wilfully defiled the laws of the land because they were aros; that since we were not natives and own no land, our parents jealously sent us away to do nothing but steal from other people's land. Surprisingly, he raised his machete on us. He would have used it on us if we hadn't run away. We ran away, leaving behind the bulks of palm-fruits we had laboured to cut down and gathered together. ... From afar, we saw smoke billowing up ... he had burnt them. …’

‘Yes, that was what I forgot to tell you before you left for the bush this morning; there are particular patches of land which we are not allowed to use. But I haven't heard that anybody burnt anything anybody fetched unintentionally from a native’s land. But you still have to tell your father. He should know about that law that allows for burning things mistakenly fetched in a native’s land,’ Mama said sardonically.

82

At the horizon, the sun set and left an ominous hue of light that urged you to hurry home or risk being overtaken by darkness. Papa returned from the farm where he had gone to plant the last batch of the yam seedlings that were yet to be planted, for it was planting season and the heavens had poured enough libation on the earth for it to be fruitful. Any delay in sowing the seedlings would mean their rotting on the barns.

As was papa’s wont whenever he was disposed to joke, he kept shouting mama's name as he walked into the house from the farm, telling her to make his food ready. Once he was in the sitting room, he plumped lethargically into a chair that had a thick weaved-cloth for its seat and backrest. He asked me to draw off the rain-boot he was wearing for him. I pulled them off his feet and told him at the same time of the incident that transpired between us and the old, tribe-passion man. But he did not let me weary him the more with any tale; he asked me to go and make ready his bath. He called to mama again and asked her if she had prepared his food. Mama said she had; and he enquired further about what she cooked. Mama said it was not important to know what she cooked before deciding whether or not to eat.

‘But if it is not fufu with bitter leaf soup, just count me out,’ Papa said.

83

‘Go and take your shower first. Food doesn’t have wings. It’s not going to fly,’ Mama said.

‘Wonders haven't ceased to happen: I wouldn't be surprised if the food grew wings and flew away,’ Papa interjected.

I kept water for Papa's bath in the bathroom at the back yard. The bathroom was some ten to twenty yards away from the kitchen. It was built with well-polished mud bricks and beautifully trimmed thatches for the roof. Lethargically, he walked out of the sitting room to the bathroom to have his bath. Soon, he was at table and busy devouring the meal.

84

‘Farming is a tiring profession,’ he said to himself as he balled up the foo-foo in his palm. ‘This is why farmers in this part of the world are hungry-looking, save the ones that are naturally huge,’ he said, dunking the ball of fu-fu in the bowl-plate that contained bitter-leaf-soup and then swallowing it. Suddenly, he called to Mama and wanted to know from her if we had eaten, because he could not understand why our eyes followed his hand into his mouth each time he wanted to swallow foo-foo. As he asked Mama that question, he was holding a ball of foo-foo in his hand, waiting to know what Mama's reply would be. Mama then said we would soon eat, for she was dishing out food to us before papa called to her. She was still holding the long wooden spoon, which she was using in ladling soup to our plates, in her hand.

‘Make sure they eat, please,’ Papa said, swallowing the ball of fu-fu he was holding in his hand.

‘I will.’ It was a nightly routine for us to

gather together in the house after supper for folktales. As we readied ourselves for the night’s folktale, Papa sought to know from me what I had wanted to tell him when he returned from the farm.

85

I opened up, unlocked the gate of memory, I went down memory lane. As I narrated the event to my father, I noticed that he was nodding, this time in approval of what I, probably, was saying; and at another time, shaking his head sideways in what seemed as a show of disapproval: His brow knitted and unknitted, muddling my mind of what it believed of the event that transpired between us kids and the withered, old, tribe-passion man.

‘Well...’ he paused awhile, looked round at us, cleared his throat and began to speak. ‘That is all part of the things I have been drumming into your ears. That is, that learning is better than silver or gold; that knowledge is a weapon of conquest.’

86

As far as I was concerned, this quotation was not going to reconcile that conflict for me. Papa had become used to reconciling issues by making corresponding quotations, which he always drew from the repertoire of our cultural life. But somehow he saw that what he had just said sounded to us like an ineffectual cliché, because we looked unsatisfied and expectant. Therefore, he made an off-hand quotation from the Acts of Apostles: ‘The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in the temples built by hands. And humans do not serve him as if he needed anything because he himself gives all men life and breath and everything else. From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the earth and determine the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this that men would seek him and find him though he is not far from each one of us, for in him we live and move and have our being.

‘We are his offspring! Did you get that?’ Papa asked. ‘I have never heard that strangers live in the air,’ he said still.

87

It was obvious that there were questions Papa could not answer. It was obvious he could not explain to us why there was so much trouble in the world and why the people of Guzegu could not live in harmony with themselves. He also did not understand why men like Okeofo stuck to tradition as if life never evolved. As he always said: ‘customs are made for men, not men for customs.’

While we all seemed quiet and expectant, Papa burst out in frustration, knowing fully well that we were disillusioned that he, of all people, did not have an answer to our questions: ‘their land, their land! All the time their land, but God knows I wasn't thrown down from heaven ... I was born here even though I do not regard here as my home ... my home is beyond the sky,’ he said in a rising fury. ‘My father never cared to tell us, his children, of our provenance because he believed everyman is a stranger on earth.

88

The emphasis on our being strangers in Guzegu is because we don't heed most cultural teachings. Why should I, because of culture, be compelled to believe or practise what common sense tells me is evil? Yes, let me not know any abominations, let me indulge in them if it is an abomination to lead a righteous life, to refuse to offer food to graven images, to hold nothing of churches, to detest indulgence in anything healthy conscience holds out as wrong. They can only make mockery of me before themselves, they can't drive me away from this village, --it's impossible! Therefore, son, don't take the primitive act of that old tribe-passion man to heart; instead, learn from it, for learning is better than silver or gold; and knowledge, a weapon of conquest. This is the tale for the night, kids. Those who have ears must make use of them, for one cannot remain a child every year.’

89

When papa saw that he was sounding frustrated and that we probably were coming to terms with the reality that ours’ could be a lineage of wanderers, he said, ‘truly diokpa did tell us our place of origin; but, all he wanted to emphasise was that the world was not a permanent place of abode. Sincerely, he did tell us that the real birth-place of his fore-fathers was at Arochukwu; that what really made his, great, grandfather to leave Arochukwu for this place was because, his wife, during parturition, gave birth to twins; and giving birth to twins, then, was an abomination whose punishment was like dying for the mother that gave birth to the abominable beings: Her twins were always thrown into the so-called evil forest to die. He couldn't have been able to bear the terrible agony of having his twins thrown into the forest to die and seeing his wife die of grief for the loss of her kids. To escape that fate, he departed his village with his wife and twins at night. They lived in the forest until the twins were weaned.

90

Then, from where they had encamped, they moved a few miles ahead, to this very place, Guzegu. Then, Guzegu had only a few inhabitants with peculiar tradition and culture, who allowed him, his wife and twins to live on sufferance with them. In time he made friends that were natives, who gave him some pieces of land to farm on by lease. In time, other natives lost consciousness of his presence as a stranger...’

‘Papa, what about his twins: I mean didn't the people in Guzegu know that his kids were twins?’ I asked.

‘The kids weren't born at Guzegu. Moreover, they had grown a bit and nothing of such nemesis that was thought visited those that gave birth to twins was evident on her; that is, my great, grand mother.’

91

92

6As I was getting ready for my

guardian, Mr Obiefuna, who was coming to take me along to Onata, the catechist of our church came to our house. Papa asked him to come to the outhouse so that he could offer him kola nut. The catechist said he did not have much time to spare, that he had only come to give Papa his letter. The villagers received mails from relations far and wide using the church address.

Papa took the letter from the catechist, wondering who could have written him.

‘Mazi, I should be going,’ said the somewhat young and shy catechist.

‘Onye nkuzi, teacher, you said you won’t take kola. I don’t know what else to offer you. How is Ukochukwu, the Reverend? I know he is fine. Greet him for me, when you get back,’ Papa said.

93

‘Mazi, I will greet him. He said you don’t come to church,’ the catechist said. He knew he lied, because the Reverend of the church hardly knew Papa: He was transferred newly from Orumba to Guzegu and hardly knew anyone. But the catechist, being a native of Guzegu, knew every family and how regular each family attended service. He lied to papa about what the Reverend said. He only wanted to let him know how important it was for him to be coming to church. He left. Once he had gone, papa opened the letter and noticed that it was my first-school-leaving certificate result.

Every member of the family was overjoyed when papa announced that I had a credit. Papa went into rhapsodies after going through my result slip. He talked of how snakes hardly ever give birth to rats!

‘He isn't a blockhead. He won't be because I wasn't and I'm still not and never shall be,’ he said with an air of pride. He recounted how Mama carted away many prices, while she was in elementary and standard schools. He believed this success to be the beginning of many successes that would come my way. He said I had been smiled upon by fortune because somebody had undertaken to see to my education to any level I desired.

94

In their own time the Government School at Isu was like a university to them. Men of calibre that had the intellect to meet minds with the then ruling Europeans had passed through it. Mark you they were only standard six certificate holders.

Who did not know Mazi Njoku, the old village headmaster? He was the product of that era that could be equalled to a professor today. But Mazi Njoku also attended the college for teachers. Papa himself read up to standard five. He could have gone further had his father not been laden with responsibilities: he was paying through his nose then training Papa’s elder sister, Ugoada and his immediate elder brother, Udochukwu...may their souls rest in peace. Ugoada was in Teachers' Training College; Udochukwu was in Government Grammar School -- the two schools were at Isu.

Of course, Isu people were the first of the villages in this region to come in contact with the Europeans, the missionaries; therefore, they were the pioneers of western education and the Christian religion in this area. So, because of the burden of training Ugoada and Udochukwu, God bless their souls, Diokpa Ndudim, the great farmer and wrestler advised Papa to stop attending school, meanwhile, so that he could see through the education of Udochukwu and Ugoada.

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Papa heeded Diokpa’s advice and stopped attending school. Most of all, Diokpa hoped that one day, after Ugoada must have graduated, she would secure a nice job and even get married to a responsible, educated, well-to-do man. But he never lived to see the happy days he looked forward to: he died before Ugoada and Udochukwu could take their examinations: The prospect of papa going back to school to do standard six began, therefore, to ebb. However, as God would have it, Ugoada secured a nice job at the Latos State High Court, six months after she graduated from school. Two years after she got a job, she got married to a Yoruba, who was a lawyer by profession: They met in Latos, where Ugoada was working as an assistant registrar of the High Court. The following year, Ugoada and her husband, Ajayi, left for London and lived there until late 1970, when Ugoada died.

While in London, Ugoada's husband used his influence to secure a nice job for Udochukwu in a company that was being managed by his twin brother. Udochukwu used to be the company's chief clerk.

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Having been out of school for a couple of years, Papa finally abandoned the hope of going back. He had become old enough to have his hand on something. Moreover, most of his mates had either secured jobs, having completed standard six, or had gone further in their education; therefore, he felt disinclined to go back to school. But Diokpa's death contributed immensely to his decision. Udochukwu himself, who should have assumed the fatherly role in the family, was away in Latos, working. Papa had to stand in his father's stead: he took over Diopka’s farm and went, in earnest, into yam business. He cultivated, sold and even bought yams for sale. The yam business itself took him round the whole of Biafra. That way, he missed getting at the peak of education, his heart’s desire. But Jemis would recoup for those losses. He knew he had not made much as a farmer. How could he with all those crude implements and the human exertion? No, nobody could. As for the younger ones, he would take care of their needs, whatever they were as long as these needs were within his capability but he feared for time, for one did not grow younger. We drew nearer to our grave with the passage of time.

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There would be a time when he would not be as strong as he was now to keep struggling to maintain this family. But he prayed God to help Jemis so that he could bring the much-needed succour when his strength would have failed him. No really educated man ever starved, he thought. If he really knew how to tap the resources within him, made aware to him by the enlightenment that went along with education, he would get deeper and deeper into the hidden treasures of life and would enjoy life to the full, materially, emotionally and spiritually!

Udochukwu enjoyed a high standard of living when he was still alive may be due to his level of education. You could imagine somebody getting a job as a chief clerk and then becoming a sales manager three years after he secured the job. Ugoada was far from living an average life … mmh … life! May her soul rest in peace! She promised to bring Jemis over to London as long as she was alive. Oh, how she was loved. Ugoada who could not hurt a fly! Ugoada whose yes was yes and whose no was no; she took after Nne-oche, Enyidiya!

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Although papa had soft spot for his elder sister, Ugoada, he nearly cursed her and her husband for being indifferent to their suffering after Diokpa had died. Nne-oche, for her part, God bless her soul, never picked offence at them for one day, she would always resign everything to fate. Ugoada! She later wrote from London, apologising for her prolonged silence in regard to the welfare of the family. She said her silence was due to her education; that she was tied down to her studies at the university. Had not it been for her studies, she would have been financially helpful to the family. Then, papa would have gone back to school to do his standard six and, possibly, gone further to grammar school.

Ugoada! She was forgiven anyway when she gave reasons behind her seeming indifference to the sufferings of the family. Udochukwu, of course, had not become financially secure enough to begin catering for anybody. So, nobody disturbed his peace!

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Udochukwu and Ugoada exemplified cosmopolitanism in their lifetime. They saw you as a member of the human family, your tribe and race bothered them the least. Their children, of course, have taken after them in being cosmopolitan. It's in their blood...it's in their blood. If it weren’t, and it happened that Diokpa was alive when Ugoada married Ajayi, he would have objected vehemently to their marriage. But Nne-oche was still alive then. She did not object to their marriage: she consented, their ethnic difference notwithstanding. She was there, too, when Udochukwu got married to Aishatu, the Hausa girl; she did not raise a voice of dissension ...she concurred...it's in their blood … it’s in their blood.

‘Papa,’ I called to my father, ‘what killed Udochukwu, your immediate elder brother?’

‘Well ... he died in a fatal motor accident, while on his way home from Latos. ...At his death, son ... at his death, part of me died, as well; but I bore his death with fortitude.’

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But then calamity fell in sequence on the family so much that, to men of little faith, it could mean the family had disobeyed or contravened the ordinances of the gods of the land: for it so happened that one should be compelled to be suspicious: five years after Diokpa crossed over to the great beyond, Nne-oche's struggle with death ended, too. Some years afterwards, Ugoada died as well; then Udochukwu followed suit. Papa was left alone to be a father, a mother, a brother, as well as a sister on to himself.

‘I am a man; I had, therefore, to bear the losses. So, Jemis, my son ... a day after tomorrow you'll be leaving for Onata with Obiefuna. It is no longer a matter of you'll not go to school because there's nobody to sponsor you or because you're not intelligent enough. No. It's now a matter of urgency and necessity! You shall go to college; and you shall pass all your examinations,’ Papa said authoritatively, as if he had control over human destiny.

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Book Two

102

103

1The natives had gathered in the obi of

Mazi Okeofo to deliberate on the menace that the aro had become in Guzegu.

‘Obviously this is a critical situation. But I don’t know if you all see it the same way as I do. Our generosity will soon be our undoing. This handshake between us and these strangers has turned to an embrace. Do you know that I caught those children of Nebuchadnezzar in my land two days ago cutting my palm-fruits. When I accosted them, the rat that calls itself Ndudim’s son started insulting me. Now is it bad that we allowed these people to live among us? Is it also bad that we allowed them to feed off our land? Honestly these people have become like a fat tsetse fly that perched on the scrotum, we no longer know what to do with them. Let me tell you people, the land problem we are currently having with Obodonipata people started this way. Our fore-fathers only wanted to be their brothers’ keepers with those people. Now they also claim ownership of the land with us,’ Okeofo said.

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‘They cannot be claiming ownership of the land with us, because the court at Obodo ukwu has declared us the rightful owners of the land,’ said Mazi Okaka.

‘Did you not hear Arusi Oko of Obodonipata shouting at the top of his lungs at the court premises that that land will swallow human heads,’ Obi Mmaduife chimed in to show how serious the situation was.

‘Therefore we have to make haste while the sun shines. We must begin now in daylight to look for our dark-haired goat before nightfall. These hundred years lease we gave to the aro will expire next week. We must see that the lease is not renewed, so that our thing will not become their thing tomorrow,’ Okeofo suggested.

By the end of the meeting, they had resolved that the aro would never be given land again on lease and that they could no longer farm on the natives’ land.

While the aro were still contemplating how to respond to that decision, Okeofo disappeared. He was kidnapped when he went to the bush to tap his wine by men from Obodonipata, who decided to make true their vow that the land would swallow human heads.

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The villagers did not know about Okeofo’s disappearance until his wife and children started weeping at night when Okeofo had not returned home.

‘Was he killed?’ Mama asked Papa as he whispered to Mama that a terrible thing had happened.

‘Oh you have heard it already,’ Papa asked Mama.

‘Yes. His poor wife and children have been wailing all night.’

‘Who could have done this? We are finished. They will certainly say the aro did it. Agodi said he was told that they waited for him to climb down from the palm-wine tree. They broke his calabash of wine and dragged him down a river, tied a heavy stone on his neck and threw him into the deep river to drown,’ Papa said.

‘Whoever did this is heartless!’ Mama said.

‘It is the people of Obodonipata. They lost the land case to Okeofo’s family and vowed that if they didn’t partake of that land nobody in Okeofo’s family would.’

‘Ha, Okeofo! So land has finally consumed him,’ Mama said.

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‘I must see to it that Jemis leaves this place as fast as possible. They certainly will come for us instead of going for the people of Obodonipata. God will fight our war for us,’ Papa said.

2I had already packed all the things I

would need for my peregrination in my little portmanteau which my father bought for me when I passed primary five, on a special grade, to proceed to primary six.

My guardian-to-be had not yet arrived, so I stuck around the compound and waited for his arrival. Soon after, I heard the sound of a car engine; and I knew vehicles never always plied the road of Guzegu. I concluded, therefore, that it could be my guardian, Mr. Obiefuna. And slowly, a car turned into our compound.

I had never really taken note of the man's mannerism; now, therefore, I was ready to survey him through. As he alighted from his car, having pulled up, I greeted him with all the airs of respect I could muster: Good morning, sir!

‘Good morning, James. How are you doing?’ he asked me and patted me on the head.

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‘Fine, sir, thank you and how do you do, too?’ I replied. ... I would not have preferred to greet thus, but decorum demanded such from me and I did as was required of me.

Once in a while, I heard someone pronounce my name scholarly. All these years, the illiterate natives had mispronounced my name as Jemis; even the lettered ones, like my father, had never, and might never exonerate themselves from the crime of mispronouncing my name. Unlike the natives, Mr. Obiefuna was much travelled and had imbibed consciously or unconsciously prescribed social norms.

‘Hope you're ready to leave with me today?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ I answered. ‘Good, my boy, that's very good of

you. Now, take the car key,’ he said, handing the key over to me; ‘go, open the boot of the car and pack all your belongings in it, while I go inside the house to see your father. I hope he is in?’

‘Yes, sir!’ Then, quickly he walked into the

house to see my father, who knew quite well that Obi was around, but declined to come out of the house. He should not behave as if he were too eager to let his son go and live with Mr. Obiefuna.

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‘Good morning, sir,’ my sisters greeted Mr. Obiefuna too, as he hurried into the house.

And fancy me! Fancy me holding the key of a Chevrolet Impala. I had never seen a car of such ostentation, at least, not in Guzegu. I had a burden on me: that of having to unlock the boot of the Impala: I had no experience whatsoever on how to unlock the boot a car. I ought not to give in, though, to the complex haunting me, being a firm believer in venturing; thus I ventured into a busy moment of locking and unlocking, pulling in and pulling out the key from the key hole of the boot. I succeeded after much effort and began packing all my things into the boot. Having done that, I began walking round the car in excitement. My sisters, too, were overwhelmed with wonder in their awkward admiration of the same car. My younger sister, Aku, called to me, distracting me from my interesting preoccupation. ‘Do you know what Mama told us about that man, the man in the house?’ She asked pointing at the house, cautious even of the secret she believed she was divulging.

‘No, I answered; what did she tell you?’ I asked, curious.

‘She told us that that man is among the only three people, in the whole of Biafraland, who own that kind of car!’

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‘I won’t doubt it, because Mr. Obiefuna is a very rich man; moreover, as Papa had said, stories have it that he has travelled even to the white man's land; that he even goes there frequently that one would begin to wonder if the white man's land is just a stone's throw from the village next to ours.’

‘Hm,’ my sister mumbled as they became once again preoccupied in their awkward admiration of the car, while I withdrew to a corner to psychoanalyse the personality that was my guardian. From what I had seen of him at a glance, I dare say that he was a man too eager to laugh, and capable of concealing his real feelings with his seemingly natural wide laughter. If he was poor and probably a servant, I could, for sure, say that he would be too inclined to eye-service. He was plump, short with bulged cheeks and a voice that lacked force behind. There seemed to be a great chasm between his wealth and his person: he seemed like a man destined to be poor, but turned out to be rich. The gap between his wealth and his person was an enormous gap that seemed too wide to bridge. His weight notwithstanding, he seemed smart: too eager to run while walking, too eager to skip over even a negligible object on the road. He seemed possessed of a bluff manner.

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‘Jemis,’ Ngozi, my immediate younger sister called to me, waking me from my preoccupation. ‘Have you packed all your things inside the boot; your mind seems to be somewhere else.’

‘Yes, I have.’ After a prolonged discussion with my

parents Mr. Obiefuna emerged from the house in a hurry.

‘James, you're ready aren't you?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘I'm glad to hear from your father

that you made credit in your first school leaving examination. Congratulations! Em, meanwhile, check very well to see if you're leaving anything you'd like to take along with you behind.’

‘I've packed all the things I would need in the boot, sir!’

‘All right, then get into the car. I think we should be leaving now.’

I opened the door of the car and made to enter. I turned and saw my family standing at the veranda, filled with sorrow and love. Tears dropped from my eyes because I, telepathically, felt their moods; but still, my departure was inevitable.

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‘Son,’ Papa began to speak, while the others (my mother, my sisters and even my guardian) listened; ‘I believe you have heard all I had been telling you. ... Never forget, also, that you're from a humble family, a very humble family; and as such, you must not associate recklessly with the children of the rich, save, however, for the family you're going to live with. Don't corrupt yourself by keeping bad company, for bad company corrupts good moral. Obey your guardians, and even their children. Don't forget that age-long saying which I always fed you with: learning is better than silver or gold; knowledge itself, a weapon of conquest. Always remember to pray, for the cow that has no tail, its God chases out flies for it,’ he solemnised.

‘My son,’ Mama opened up, half crying, ‘You've heard all that your father has told you. ...Be a good boy! Find consolation always in talking with your Chi. Obiefuna, please, in the name of God, take good care of this boy. I know my boy very well: You’ll enjoy your stay with him,’ Mama said with all the trappings of motherliness.

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After listening to my parents' exhortations, Mr Obiefuna and I, pensively, entered the car, ready to leave. Pensively, he started up the car engine. The engine began to run, warming itself up for the eventful journey we were to embark on. Then, he declutched and changed up the gear; and, slowly, he drove forth, out of the compound.

Mama and Papa were waving us bye. My sisters were coming behind the car as since my guardian was driving slowly.

‘Farewell! Farewell!’ They were shouting.

‘Take good care of yourselves!’ Mr Obiefuna, with his head slightly out of the side-window of the car, shouted back.

As we drove by villages and towns, I never failed on any occasion to ask my guardian the names of the villages and towns. And he never failed, as occasion demanded, to supply me with the answers to the questions I always asked; and he always answered them amiably, too.

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I felt very comfortable in his company: we were in close rapport with each other. For the moment, as circumstances fashioned, I was his son; and he was my father. Anyhow, the mutual understanding that existed between us was, probably, because Mr. Obiefuna had no fear imposing personality. Or because, as a new person quite unknown to him, he felt it appropriate to treat me cordially. He did not bother to put on that fictitious personality needed when one wanted to put a little force into one's system, especially if one lacked natural personal magnetism as was the case with him.

He, apparently, struggled to identify with men in the high-society with his seemingly advantageous wealth, I thought. However, I was careful not to be so obtrusive as to be noticed. I demonstrated remarkable appreciation for his success in life, wealthwise, because I sensed from his carriage that he believed so much in his wealth and its power; therefore, to indulge him, I tried, however possible, to betray my love for material wealth: I told him how beautiful his car was and how expensive I was sure it would be.

‘I bought this car seven thousand British pounds,’ Mr Obiefuna boasted.

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I began to tell him how important it was to have money. I tried to show him, from my deportment, that money was everything. I sensed it; therefore, I capitalised on it, that is, that wealthy men, especially the narrow-minded and the unlettered among them, regarded material wealth as the only instrument for carrying out man's purposes on earth; and because of this, the thought of their material acquisition always inspired them with the confidence, the meretricious confidence that they were powerful. I figured, however, that it could be a strategy used by the poor and lowly to exploit their relationship with the high and mighty. I fell asleep in the course of the journey. I seemed very tired after hectic sessions of questions and answers.

Although we had travelled a considerable distance away from home, in my sleep, I dreamt about nothing but home, where I was playing with my village folks. Indeed, if it was a dream, and I could in no way be, in reality, part of the activities, I should then not like to lose that consciousness which belonged to the sub-conscious.

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A sudden and seemingly unavoidable gallop by the car woke me from my slumbers, distracting me from my fantastic world into the world of realities. I woke only to see myself in the same car that picked me up from home. Hot blood rushed through my veins and arteries. I longed for home, sweet home. I betrayed these feelings by keeping to myself. In a sudden change of mood I became sad: sad because my father had awakened in me that consciousness which had made it compelling that I should embark on a journey whose road seemed rigorous: living unconventionally in a conventional world, becoming a detribalised person in a world rife with ethnic consciousness. I shuddered, unconsciously: I thought of the learning processes; of the things every member of the world would have walked by cursorily; of how I was expected to take note of these things, the most negligible things happening around me.

‘James,’ Mr Obiefuna called me, waking me from my atrabilious preoccupation. ‘It appears you're getting bored of the journey? That is what it should be: a person making his first journey, especially to a place he has never been before, will find the journey boring, as it'll appear endless!’

I affected interest in what my guardian was saying; but, in reality, I loathed his interference in my preoccupation.

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‘Well,’ he said, ‘we shall soon arrive at Onata; we're getting close to the city.’

Soon, we arrived at Onata. Entering the city was like going into a place where the sun never seemed to set, a commercial entrepot. The Impala that had conspicuously and magnificently plied the roads of the countryside became, now, immersed in the whirl of human and commercial activities in the city so much that its magnificence lost its attraction. A city of wonderful scenery; a town much developed in the days, in the years when nothing of such was expected or seen in the nascent or retrogressive Africa. The great and magnificent high-risers here with finely macadamised roads inspired a feeling of gaiety. I kept admiring its scenery as my guardian drove along; these chains of green Alps; these boulevards of broken dreams with street lights in fine array and high-risers struggling for space in the air! These fine network of electricity cables overhead! Three in-coming decades of plenitude being ushered in amid glaring squalor and unhealthy materialism! Streets over-flooded with mosquito-larva-infested waste water from the gutters that lined up the street edges.

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Onata was a complete African situation; or, to be precise, a complete Nigerian condition. Its inhabitants betrayed no attitude of gentility. Everyone else was mad; drivers drove recklessly with little or no regard for traffic codes.

A medley of deafening sounds from car horns jarred your nerves. The ambient air screamed of thunder-like renditions from ignorant deejays. A fight ensued at the middle of the road because of a tussle between bus conductors and touts. It did really seem, here, as if men were marching where angels feared to tread. We were held in a traffic jam caused by traffic-warders busy collecting money from culpable drivers. Over the mosquito-larva-ridden gutter, with the stench of decomposing dogs and fouls, trading was going on. Flies were feasting on the commodities displayed on bacteria-infested tables.

After a spell of irregular drives in the streets of the city as a result of the hold-ups, we arrived at Mr. Obiefuna's residence. The heavy gate of the compound was still under lock and key. At the sound of the car horn, a withered old security guard immediately opened the gate.

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Mr. Obiefuna’s house seemed to rest imposingly on a beautifully mowed green lawn. It was hard knowing which were the windows and the doors, for the mid-section of the house was built with tinted glasses; and flowers of different colours hung down from the parapet-roof like the hanging flowers of Babylon.

And then, slowly, in the most magnificent style peculiar to the affluent, Mr Obiefuna drove into his compound. As he was driving in, the security guard, an old withered man, greeted reverently: ‘Good afternoon, sir. Welcome, sir!’

‘Good afternoon. How are you doing?’

‘I'm fine, sir. Thank you,’ the old withered man said with attendant frailty.

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Mr. Obiefuna pulled up in front of the garage. His children rushed out of the house toward their father. They clustered round him: two boys and a girl. They asked after the health of their grand mum and wanted also to know from their father if there was any death in the village. Mr Obiefuna assured them that their grandmother was hale and hearty and that there was no death in the village. But once the seemingly youngest of the kids asked their father who I was, I became uncomfortable, for I knew that such questions had forms, whose manifestations could be either love or hate. It could also be suggestive of obstinacy. I became cowardly conscious of myself then, but pretended as if still absorbed in my enthusiastic admiration of the compound.

‘He's James,’ Mr Obi answered.The little boy disinclined to make

further enquiries on me, for he seemed distracted even before his father could answer his question. The elderly of the two walked to his father’s car and opened the boot, full of curiosity as to what his father brought home from the village.

‘Who is the owner of this entire luggage in the boot, daddy? Is this the owner?’ He asked, pointing at me. ‘Daddy, you haven't told us who this boy is, have you?’

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‘But I just told you he is James; he's from Guzegu, the village next to ours: his father is Philip Ndudim. He'll be of help in some of the domestic chores. Your mum needs him. Is that okay?’

‘Okay,’ the kids answered simultaneously, partly satisfied with their father’s answer and partly desirous of further explanations.

Excitedly, they began to unload my luggage from the boot. Mr Obiefuna left them to meet a woman who had been standing stolidly in front of the house's veranda, watching us without our being aware of her presence. I did, however, steal glances at her too whenever I could, believing her to be the woman of the house. Her beauty changed suddenly into something that harboured great acrimonious feelings. Judging from circumstances, she seemed happy seeing her husband: her two romantic eyes attested to that; on the other hand, however, one saw some strange resentful feeling crawling all over her for seeing a little unrefined clay, which she definitely thought I was.

‘James, how are your people in the village?’ asked Maria, Mr. Obi’s only daughter.

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‘They were fine when I left them this morning,’ I answered, surveying the beautiful lass with my inner eyes. For all I cared, she could be my age!

‘Your name is James, eh?’ the older of the two boys chimed in. ‘Mine is Lucky. Lucky is happy to see you. You're welcome!’

‘Thank you, Lucky,’ I said. ‘Mine is Johnson,’ the unruly

youngest of them all cut in sharply. ‘I hope your sisters and brothers are fine,’ he asked, waiting for my reply, ignorant of the fact that I had no brother.

‘Yes, very fine,’ I answered again. A sincere sense of love and kindness seemed to flow in their veins.

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Then, in procession, with the boys leading the way, carrying, as well, my luggage, and the girl following behind them, and I at the rear, we walked to the main house. As we were about to enter the house, Maria called to me and told me to be cheerful. She began even to feign being excessively cheerful so as to inspire me or rather to infect me with cheerfulness. Such was, however, a grotesque affectation, for pretension was remarkably opposed to her nature, she was original. But again, I knew I need not caper about or laugh wastefully, before I could be said to be happy or cheerful---such pretentious acts had always deceived humanity, hiding the vices of men behind the facade of wild laughter and shammed happiness, presenting the meretricious virtue. There was no need capering about or laughing wildly to betray one's happy mood, for happiness dwelled within, where the soul was constantly gladdened and the flesh always feigning, tickling itself to be happy.

Maria’s mum had gone into the house. She was sitting anticipatively in the sitting room. On entering the house and seeing her, I vented a greeting, impulsively, hoping to recreate a rumpled image of mine in her mind:

‘Good evening, ma.’ ‘Good evening,’ she reciprocated

unexcitedly.

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‘You're the one, who's going to live with us in this house, aren't you?’ She asked sardonically.

‘I am, ma.’ ‘Good. I suppose you know you're

no longer in your country home?’ She asked with an air of superiority.

‘Yes, ma ... I know,’ I answered with all humility.

Then carefulness must be your watchword: This is a place where the moon never shines; therefore, you mustn't expect moon-light tales. You must be ready to work or you're as good as gone. Do you get that?’

‘Yes, ma.’ I noticed that her children had been

calm all this while, as if they were waiting to know what move their mum was going to make towards me. They obviously disapproved of their mother's hostile behaviour towards me. They were tenderly to me as children are wont to feel towards a stranger who was of their age, bearing in mind that the little stranger could have forgone the happiness he or she had known among his or her kith and kin, removed from his or her home, sweet home.

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Before nightfall, I was taken to a room, which I was told would be mine as long as I lived with the family. In the room was a family bed, a very big family bed dressed with sparkling pink bedding. A wool foot-mat was neatly spread from the mid-section of the bed to the foot; two full pillows lay lifeless at the head. On the right side of the bed, about two feet from it, was a pier-glass. By the door, a long settee; by the side of the settee was a shelf; and by the side of the shelf was a wardrobe.

I had never slept nor dreamt of sleeping in such a room as was said to be mine. However, compared to the rooms of the children, mine lacked ostentation. For me, it was a conscious or unconscious demonstration of the wide gap that existed between me, my poor self, and the rich family I was to live with. Unexposed as I was, I became obsessed with the idea that my room was sumptuous. In fact, to the common clay such as I was, it was a privilege and complete luxury that my common body with its common brain was going to read the uncommon books on the uncommon shelf; that I would feel my common body with its common parts lie on the uncommon bed in the uncommon room; that I would see my common image in the uncommon pier-glass at the uncommon room!

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At bedtime, I went into that which was supposed to be my room and, realistically, felt myself, my common self lie on that uncommon bed. I could not sleep because my body felt uneasy on the uncommon bed, having been used to common things: it could not sleep commonly in that uncommon place. I waited eagerly, in discomfiture, for the dawn; but the day seemed so far away. I passed half of the night sleeplessly on the uncommon bed and the other half on the rug-carpet rolled out on the floor of the uncommon room.

Not long after, I began to hear the crows of cocks. It was nearly dawn, for the darkest hour of the night was nearer dawn. I woke up and walked to the garage, where I was told by madam that brooms were kept. I began to sweep the surroundings. I heard strange sounds. I paused to learn of its source; it was the old withered man, snoring away the pains of living.

‘Jemis,’ I heard a voice call to me. I stopped sweeping so as to know whether or not I would be called again.

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‘Jemis,’ the voice called again. I did not want to answer the voice because I had been made to believe that one could be called by the dead; and that if one answered to the call, one would have already hearkened to the toll of one's own knell. But once I was convinced that it was the old withered security guard calling, I answered.

‘Sir!’ ‘You're up so early. I saw when the

door of the main house was being opened and I thought it was Mr. Obiefuna who was opening it; but on close observation, I saw that it was you, and not master that was opening the door, then...’

‘No, it wasn't him, it was me,’ I said, wondering how the old, withered man, who was fast asleep when I opened the door of the main house, could have, suddenly, feigned being on the quivive, keeping watch over the night as he was employed to do. Well, he lied and I could not find fault with him; he lied and was justified ...justified because someone who really wanted a security guard to watch over one's house, whose intention was not to place somebody under one's care, to salve one's conscience with the belief that one was helping humanity, the humanity one probably had wronged, would not employ such a withered old man.

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‘Oh, James, it is you,’ said Mr. Obiefuna to my surprise as I busied myself washing the utensils in the kitchen. ‘I have been wondering what could be making those crackling sounds in the kitchen at this hour of the day ... you're washing the utensils, eh?’ He asked good-heartedly.

‘Yes, sir. Good morning, sir,’ I greeted him.

‘Morning, James. That's very good of you my boy.’

Having finished washing the utensils, I began sweeping the sitting-room and the other places of interest: The kitchen, the toilets and bath-rooms, except the rooms of master's children, madam's and master's rooms as well. Although they were awake they were still lying in. Madam came out of her room to the sitting room and sat on the settee there.

‘Good morning, ma,’ I greeted her. ‘Morn --,’ she muttered

inadvertently.

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I had become slightly accustomed to her cold behaviour toward me; therefore her inadvertency in reciprocating my greetings never put me off, no, it never did. I felt very satisfied that I had done my morning duties as I always did at my country-home. I walked to my room to rest awhile. I picked a book from the shelf and sat on my settee to have a read. The book was entitled: Teachers Ahead. On seeing the title of the book, I felt like I was experiencing a déjà vu. Suddenly, I remembered the nightmares I had during my convulsive years at Guzegu. I had melted into a certain old man, who wanted to let me into his mysteries. I had heard voices proclaiming: Teachers ahead! Teachers ahead! Curiously, therefore, I leafed through the pages up till chapter one. It seemed like a coincidence that I came upon the chapter, because it was therapeutic to the situation I felt I found myself in with regard to the madam of the house:

When God comes; he shall take his people

home Reassuring the living that the world is not a Permanent place of abode --That beyond the

sky,Yonder on the shores, is a home, a

permanentHome, where those that lived their lives in

God will

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Live forever! Fly therefore on the wings of life, dear,

For there awaits you a dear friend, a beloved father

Or mother perhaps, waiting to hold you once again

In their arms, saying: welcome journeyman, Welcome home!

As I read that book, tears, unconsciously, were oozing from my eyes, because that particular passage brought back memories of that which my father always told me: ‘every ‘breathing-clay’ is here transiently. Obey your Guardians, even their children; forbear whatever they may do to hurt your pride. You come from a humble, very humble family. Learning is better than silver or gold; knowledge is a weapon of conquest...’

The thought of the transience of human life ran through my head. The one too dear to one could die one day, and this passage would be one's reality. The thought of having to miss a loved one till eternity shocked me; the hope of having to meet the one again within eternity lighted up the darkness. Again, the supposed extent of madam's hatred of me, the remembrance of all the things my father had been drumming in my ears, which had been confirmed by the book I was reading, conspired to prick me, causing more tears to trickle from my eyes.

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Soon, I became afraid of something I knew not; probably of the reality that there exists a home, a permanent home yonder on the shores for those that really lived their lives in God, who did good deeds to the greater glory of God. Or probably of the fact that I seemed to be hated by somebody who was supposed to be a guide to my life. Timidly, I began to hum a song; it filled me with hope and inspired me so much that I became possessed of the feeling I would see God:

Some glad morning we shall see JesusIn the air, coming after you and meJoy is ours to share;What rejoicing there will be when theSaints shall rise,Heading for that jubilee yonder in the

skies.

Seems that now I almost see all the saints-dead,

Rising for that JubileeThat is just ahead;In the twinkling of an eye, changed with

themto be,All the living saints fly to that jubilee.

When with all that heavenly hostWe begin to sing, singing in the

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Holy Ghost, how the heavens will ring,Millions there will join the songWith them we shall be praising ChristThru ages long, heavens jubilee. Alleluia!

Goose flesh sprouted all over my body, for I had become so gladdened by the fact that a loved dead would be among the heavenly host that would be singing in the Holy Ghost, welcoming me back home, journeyman that I was. Gosh, how the heavens would ring when millions there would join in that song of welcome. I seemed lost in the dream when suddenly madam called.

‘James! James! Jame-e-es!’ shouting as if I had committed an atrocious act, waking me from my state of rapture, prompted by the heavenly spirituals I was humming.

‘Yes, madam,’ I answered, running impetuously out of my room to answer her.

‘James, didn't you hear me call you all this while?’

‘No, ma...’ I vacillated and began to shiver.

‘James! Must I shout at the top of my lungs in this house before you answer to my call?’

‘No, ma,’ I answered in all humility with attendant fear.

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‘Now, listen very carefully. If you think I must shout myself hoarse calling you in this house, then, you must be making a very great mistake. Let today be the first, the first, James do you hear me? Let today be the first and last time I'll ever call your name twice in this house. Is that the way you were brought up by your parents, to wake up, and then go back to bed, eh? You've suddenly become tired only because you performed a little function in this house this morning. What work did you do anyway? Have you swept the compound and its surroundings? Have you washed the cars? Have you swept all the rooms in this house? But you must go back to bed because you swept the sitting room and washed the utensils! James! You had better be mindful of yourself in this house or you would regret ever setting foot in it. Did you get that?’

‘Ye-e-es, m-ma,’ I answered in all servility.

‘Come on, get to work! You labouring-clay,’ she scolded.

I had become moved, so I began to cry.

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‘Madam,’ I called to her crying, ‘I have swept the compound and its surroundings. I have washed the cars. I would have swept your children's rooms, if they had opened their doors after waking up,’ I sniffed, pushing back the runny nose. ‘I had wanted to knock on their doors, but I thought it wise not to disturb them, for they had woken but were still lying in. All the same, I resolved to sweep their rooms whenever they, on their own, opened their doors. I never meant to go back to bed. I wasn't even sleeping; just resting, waiting for them to open their doors,’ I said, still, tearfully.

She never made any more moves towards me. I noticed an emotional transmogrification in her. Her anger so suddenly turned into pity; she appeared very remorseful.

‘Nna, dear, come ... come... come. Stop crying. Never mind! Stop crying. You're such a nice chap; stop crying, darling,’ she said all the while, snuggling me to herself, debouching a feeling of nostalgia in me. In my distraught state, I yearned for home, home, sweet home.

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Lucky, Johnson and Maria had been standing by the doors of their rooms, watching as their mother was yelling at me; I saw tears trickle down their cheeks as their mum snuggled to me. Maria questioned her mother, tearfully, on the reason she had made me miserable since I set foot in the house. She wanted to know from her if I was not a human being like them and if I did not have parents, who also loved me like she loved her own children. She asked her mother if she was not the one who always told them that a day was coming when God would bring the whole world to judgement and would also bring punishment upon the wicked. She wondered why their mother had been hostile to me ever since I set foot in the house. I began, once again, to cry, the girl having aroused in me, by her sepulchral recantations, that feeling of righteousness; the need that I be my brother's keeper.

‘You do nothing else in this house other than scolding,’ said Lucky sharply to her mother. ‘You asked for a helper and you got one, yet you won't let the small boy be. I'm going to tell daddy,’ he said menacingly, with a child-like mannerism, hastening to master's room.

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It seemed that this was a family, where everybody had a right to express their opinion. Mrs. Obiefuna called her son back and apologised to all of them for being hostile to me. She told them that she was only putting me to the test and never intended to hurt me.

‘But you've done it already,’ Johnson chimed in.

‘I'm sorry, then. I ask for forgiveness,’ madam pleaded.

In a child-like mannerism, Johnson glowered at her mother and walked into his room. Maria and Lucky also walked dejectedly to their rooms. Mrs. Obiefuna apologised to me and said she never really wanted to hurt me. But I remained taciturn. Tearfully, I picked the broom and made for the children’s rooms to sweep them. They refused to let me sweep their rooms. I began to persuade them to let me do my chores.

‘Don’t worry! I have to sweep these rooms. This is the reason I’m here.’ Obviously no amount of benevolence could bridge the gap that existed between us. I was just a privileged partaker of their bounties. Sweeping the house was no new chore for me. I was quite used to chores in my country home.

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Mrs. Obiefuna was one of those people, who looked down on rural dwellers as if the countryside was a place reserved for the hopeless. At the height of the euphoria of the coming of Mr. Obiefuna to our country home, papa had said he knew Dora’s family. He called her always by her name. Her father was a rural farmer, who ensured that all his sons, four of them, attended grammar schools. Dora was his last child and was loved by all of the family. Papa said that Dora always accompanied her mother to the farm. She also always visited her elder brothers, who were all working in the cities, whenever schools were on holidays. She always returned after each holiday vainer and trendier. You could hear her voice in the farm, where she always went with her mother, singing the latest songs from America, which she had learnt while on holidays in the city. One saw this burning desire to escape from a life she saw as hopeless. But she loved her parents and wanted to always be of help to them in the village. She was studious and hoped to escape the hopeless village life once she was able to get admission to the university; an opportunity that eventually came her way.

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As a law student, she was unapproachable and rarely visited the village again. If she did visit at all, it was just to see her mother and father. She never did stay more than a night. She always said she was very busy in school. You had to excuse her about that; but what her peers could not understand was her thought of them as hopeless. It was not as if her family was wealthy or extraordinarily educated to make one arrogate such behaviour to arrogance of wealth or learning. After all Chief Nanga’s children always returned to the village during vacations to spend time with their grandparents. Chief Nanga was a top government official, who could afford to send his children on holidays to Europe and America. In fact, he did send them there every now and then. He had once told papa that his children loved the village because it was clean and the air there was fresh and pure. He was in the same age-grade with Papa. He always said he did not want his children to lose touch with their roots.

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Maria was in my room when I returned from doing the chores in the house. I had wondered why she would not go to school today. She said she had completed her primary education and that she made a distinction in her first school leaving certificate examination. I did not believe it at first, but I reasoned that it was possible. She also told me, upon inquiry, that Lucky and Johnson had gone to school. She asked me whether I had completed primary education too. I answered in the affirmative. I told her too that I was waiting for my entrance examination result to college.

3

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Mrs. Obiefuna always picked her children from school whenever she closed from work. They were indeed priviledged. I did some times envy their comfort and sophistication. Their directness with their parents baffled me. Not that I did not express my opinions with my parents; not that I did not ask questions for clarification about things I did not understand, but that whenever I did, it was more of an affront that resulted from frustration than a normal interaction between a child and its parents. However, I did sometimes feel that the children of my guardians were somewhat spoilt and that they were being brought up more as Europeans than as Africans. I might be wrong in supposing that; but the fact that English was always spoken in the house made me feel that my supposition might be right. Whether this was a way of feeling sophisticated I did not know.

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Once Johnson and Lucky came down from their mother’s car, they ran to me, showing me their workbooks and telling me what they learnt in school. Lucky in his naughty manner told me that they were taught in religious studies to love their neighbours as they loved themselves; to be their brothers’ keepers; to avoid discrimination in spite of their tribe or language. He said their teacher said death was their common destiny; that only in death could they realise their being; that the dead knew nothing of race or tribe; that they knew only of the reality within their consciousness: heaven or hell, where one had eternal joy or grief.

‘He must be a good teacher,’ I said to Lucky.

‘Of course, he is!’ ‘James, I haven’t said mine,’

Johnson interrupted desperately. ‘My class teacher in social studies taught us today that our country has many nations in it. Is that true?’ he asked innocently.

‘I do not know,’ I said. ‘I will ask daddy. Our teacher also

said that, like in the whole world, politics of identity is going on in our country today. Is it true, James? What is politics of identity?’ He asked again.

‘I don’t know. We will ask daddy when he returns,’ I said.

141

When Mr. Obiefuna came back from the office later in the evening, Johnson was very eager to ask him the questions he had asked me about the state of the nation but Mr. Obiefuna had returned with a guest, whom we later came to know as Dike. He was a heavily set man, a six-footer and quite handsome. Each time he smiled, his gapped teeth made him even more handsome. He had a straight healthy face and suspicious eyes, and a sharply cut, pointed nose. He breathed heavily as if his nasal hair blocked his in-take of air. He was in charge of Mr. Obiefuna’s business in Hafanaland and he always came to give him the situation report of his company.

After Mr. Obiefuna had offered him kolanut and beer, Mr. Dike began to tell him about the incident between them and one Alhaji Baba Utaka, who happened to be one of their major customers.

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Under his close supervision, they had supplied enamel-wares to Alhaji Baba Utaka. They normally supplied about twenty thousand enamel-wares to him. However, they did not know that the wares they had in stock were not up to twenty thousand. He said they had become desperate to sell them off in order to get new supplies for that month from the headquarters. The company had stipulated that every branch office of the company should dispose of all its stocks before it could get new ones from the headquarters. If not, no supply would have been made to them. But Dike said that two of the storekeepers in the sales department ought to have known that the stock they had was not complete, but they did not bother to report it to him. And so Alhaji Utaka paid the four hundred thousand naira he normally paid on the complete stock. The Alhaji believed he was supplied the complete stock he normally got. He would not have known about the discrepancy but for Okeke, one of the storekeepers, who had told him.

‘I mean, I am the one he should have told that, not the Alhaji. How was I to even know he knew what he was doing?’ Mr. Dike said.

143

So, once Okeke had told the Alhaji that the wares he got were not complete, he began to shout. He insisted that his money be refunded. But there was no way the company was going to take responsibility for what happened.

‘His prejudice had already beclouded his sense of reason, sir. We are Biafran people: they will always grudge us our wealth. He insisted that we did it intentionally because our love for money was legendary. I mean, why would we intentionally supply him less than the quantity he normally got?’ Mr. Dike asked rhetorically.

‘Did you refund the money?’ ‘No, we didn’t—How could we?—

Admit that we defrauded him? Never! We maintained that we supplied him the normal quantity. But he said they had to count them to be sure; and that they found out that the stock wasn’t complete. I told him that my storekeepers always took stock of our products and that they would report to me if it wasn’t complete, but that they didn’t. He said it was my storekeeper that even informed him. I told him point-blank that we never operated that way,’ Dike narrated.

‘And what happened?’ Mr Obiefuna asked.

‘He had to believe us,’ Dike said.

144

‘Was that all that happened? Well, that is business! In business, you don’t entertain sentiments, if you must succeed. This money you see, this money you hear people talk about is on thorns: only those who have the intrepidity to tread on thorns can get it; so, negligence is no excuse. If he loses money, he loses money. That is business. Is that okay?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Dike. Dike went back that night to Kamo in

Hafana with a night bus. He was going to come back next month or in two month’s to take new stocks.

Once he had gone, we all had supper. Thereafter, I retreated to my room. I felt disinclined to watch the television, as was always my custom after supper.

145

4Mr. Obiefuna was a highly

experienced man. His father Unoma was a great palm wine tapster, who joined the missionaries when they came to Biafra. He later became a school teacher and ensured that his children got the white man’s education. He believed that only such an education would liberate the people from ignorance. He dedicated all his life in church work. He would have loved to be a priest, but it was going to take him a long time and money to accomplish. To make up for this loss, he made sure his children became very educated.

They were six: five boys and one girl. The girl later got married and still lives with her husband till today. The three other boys, who were older than Mr. Obiefuna, joined the Biafran Army during their fight for independence from Nigeria. They all died in the war. He also lost his property to people, whom he considered weaklings, after the civil war. He had always sought for a way to make people, who were not from Biafra, pay for his loss as the incidents had left a big scar in his heart.

146

He did not just venture into business because he wanted to be a businessman by all means. No. He got a job at the Central Bank of Nigeria a couple of years after. However, he was frustrated out of the job because a much lesser qualified person was made his boss. This was not the first time he had to endure such insolence. He had worked under a certain Mallam Idris, who even had no university education. Mr. Obiefuna would not have bothered with Mallam Idris as his boss if Mallam Idris had that native intelligence, the horizon of which university education might have broadened. But Mallam Idris was daft, as Mr. Obiefuna always described him. Mr. Obiefuna virtually did the job that Mallam by his position should have been doing. But the height of the abuse was when a general in the army told Mr. Obiefuna, when he wanted to know from him why he was presenting an unqualified candidate for a post that required higher qualification, that he, the general, embodied the qualifications of Mr Bobido to be employed in the organisation. He knew he had to leave the establishment if he was to still maintain his sanity and utilise to the fullest his potentials.

147

I had reclined in a chair at the dining room and listened attentively to the picture of the bastardised state of the country that Mr. Obiefuna was trying to paint to his children. I seemed to, somehow, unconsciously, sustain the barrier between the family and me—that is, they were rich and I was poor; they were the rightful owners of the house and I was only a privileged partaker of their bounties.

During these moments of sporadic outburst of arguments between Mr. and Mrs. Obiefuna and their inquisitive children one noticed that Maria’s participation in the arguments was a strategic effort on her part to understand the logic behind certain opinions that her father held. Would her daddy be biased if he was elected the president of the country? She wanted to know. Mr. Obiefuna answered by saying that his priorities would be to address the injustices against Biafran people. Maria argued still that such posture would mean that every president, who came to power, would only spend his or her time addressing the perceived injustices against his or her people. It seemed to me that Maria was trying to prove that the pride their father was instilling in them about the greatness of Biafran people did not amount to bigotry.

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‘Little girl, you won’t understand, you’re still a kid. You don’t understand the politics that is Nigeria. Who among the past presidents neglected his people? Why then should I neglect my people who have always been neglected in the affairs of the country? And why would anybody consider it bad if I began to address the evil of entrusting an ignorant person with the responsibility of an office for which he or she was not qualified? What is bad in giving people in the oil-rich states a fair share of what belongs to them? Why would a candidate with 240 score be refused admission into the university in Hafana while the one with 160 got admitted?’ Mr. Obiefuna enumerated.

‘Daddy, but I read a book,’ Maria cut in.

‘Ah, book. Book is book; reality is reality,’ Mr. Obiefuna said sardonically.

‘Still you bought them. If books were just books, I’m sure you wouldn’t bother yourself filling those shelves with them!’

‘Go on, go on, child. Books are good, anyhow,’ Mr. Obiefuna said.

‘Good books also leave some impressions on the reader; just like the one I read. It advocates world citizenship, a world without hindrances, ethnic or racial!’

149

‘But, dear, common sense ought to tell you that that is an imaginary world. No such world obtains in reality.’

‘Daddy, what if every person changed his or her attitude? I think the world is bad because human beings are too suspicious of one another. Human beings are evil,’ Maria said still.

‘Yes, my dear child, they are. Now, you see, there are men, who have also always tried to carry high the banner of truth, to establish righteousness, but have always failed—they were either assassinated or driven away to other lands. Listen, we fought a civil war in a bid to establish a just cause. But what happened? We were ripped open with bullets from sophisticated weapons and our leaders forced to run for their dear lives. We lost the war, despite the fact that it was said to be a war of no victor and no vanquished. After the war, still not vanquished, our landed properties in various parts of the federation were taken from us. Weaklings, who could not sweat to eke out livelihood inherited our wealth, making us the Jews of the Nigerian state; and you are asking me what my priorities would be if I became the President of this country. I could take you down memory lane, child, and you would never believe again the noise about the need for unity in this country. That call for unity is a hollow sham!’

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‘Daddy, you haven’t told us about that civil war—what really was the cause?’ Lucky asked.

Mr Obiefuna told his children that the story of the civil war was a very long one, but that they needed to be told the story so that they would understand the politics that was Nigeria. He talked of the 1966 coup d’ etat, whose authors, he said, merely, sought to clean the Aegean stable that Nigeria had become. He said the young military officers that engineered the coup were mostly from Biafra. But, owing to the multi-ethnic nature of the country, the intention of the young officers was misconstrued: They were viewed as men whose ultimate aim was to impose the leadership of the Biafran people on the country. He insisted that ethnic interest was far from being their aim; instead, they wanted to foster the unity of the country by getting rid of the corrupt and divisive elements that were in the hierarchy of power, then.

But Hafana people saw it differently. They believed that their interest was to promote the primacy of their ethnic group; a humanly thing to do in such a multi-ethnic society. They sought to revenge. The aftermath of their revenge was more or less genocide.

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‘These are in the history books,’ he said. ‘The headless corpse of Ebube, my brother,’ he continued, ‘was brought home to us. My two other brothers, Chidi and Okwukwe, never came back. My father had already done their funeral. Many other Biafran people had their eyes plucked out. Some had their noses, ears and tongues cut out by those bastards in Hafana. Even Kenta, my friend, lost his twin brother and his family in the massacre. Neither the corpse of his brother nor the corpses of his wife and children were found. Witnesses said Kenta’s brother and his family were thrown into a well! So when those of us who have acquired a lot of experience tell you, this is this or that is that, believe it, for we cannot deceive you. You are still children—none of you has yet seen anything! My very good friend lost four-storey buildings to a nonentity just because he is a Biafran man. After the war, most people, including myself, went back to Obodohata, where we had landed property, solid buildings built with hard earned money! When we got there, we noticed that our houses had been taken over by the indigenes.

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Initially, we thought it was a mere joke but it wasn’t. Weaklings, who could not in a lifetime ever dream of owning houses, took over our houses; the houses we sweated to build. Most of the victims died in agony; few had to start again from the scratch, eking out an exiguous livelihood after they had all, somehow, been impoverished. An edict made it also compulsory to issue only 20 pounds to every person who ran a bank account, irrespective of many thousands or millions the person had in the banks; the conquerors had to ensure that we were really run down. It is a long story, child; a long pathetic story! But we survived. We survived. When you go round the country and come back to this place, you will see that we have not only survived, but we have also made it!’ he said with pride.

For once I understood why Mr. Obiefuna had chosen his path with regard to the country. I, for one, got a revelation of the realities of ethnic politics in the country, which was not particularly different from the conditions in Guzegu, my country home. I tried to relate the Nigerian condition to the condition of the people in my village: it was all about injustice. It did not really matter where it was taking place, l reasoned.

153

154

5The sweeping of the compound and the

main house, as well as the washing of the cars and utensils were my routine preoccupation in the house of the family I lived with. There was hardly any hour of rest for me. I spent my free times on books, determined not to budge from becoming that man my father desired me to be.

Books had developed my mind so much that even as a teenager I no longer had interest in children’s books. I talked with the immortal human spirits resident in Beloved, Sorrows of Satan, Jane Eyre, Tell Freedom, Arrow of God and The Famished Road! Ideas, thus, struggled for space in my head.

My other past-time was scrabbles. There was a knock on the door as I was playing scrabbles with Maria. When we demanded to know who it was, Okute said he was the one. When he came into the sitting-room, he expressed surprise at its beauty. He then handed Maria an envelope and left.

155

Maria opened the envelope and found out that it was her entrance examination result. She was overjoyed but not bloated with pride. Naturally, I was inclined to herald good news. I derived some joy in the success of other people; so, I hastened out to tell Okute of the good news. I did let him know that what he had just handed over to Maria was not a letter after all: it was her result slip. He was so glad that he was a bearer of good tidings. He believed that could be a precursor of the good things that would come his way. He asked me to go and call Maria. I hastened out to fetch her. Okute congratulated her. He took a steady look at her with admiration. You have brought honour to our family. It takes brilliance to get admission into schools such as Queens College. He reasoned that such schools had age-long culture and traditions to fall back on; before a child graduated from such schools, it would have been properly molded intellectually and morally, and would have also become, automatically, part of history.

156

6Under the shady mango tree, Kenta

and Obidike, the palm wine tapster, were discussing the current state of affairs in Nigeria.

Obidike was not educated, but he was so confident and proud of himself because, as he always argued, there was a degree of authority age bequeathed on a man as well as a depth of wisdom that accompanied it. As far as he was concerned, no degree of learning would accord such wisdom to a toddler. Moreover he was so good a dioche, tapster, that whoever tasted his palm wine would not fail to credit him with some measure of creativity and intelligence. People came from all corners of the surrounding communities to Obidike’s house in Guzegu to buy palm wine. His house was called a brewery.

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Whenever he gave his opinion on matters, it was always an opinion made relevant by a combination of native intelligence and the wisdom of age, for he always bit his words before he uttered them. He was one of those who believed that Nigeria was like a tsetse-fly perched upon the scrotum. If you try to kill it, you end up destroying the testicles. If you ignore it, it wrecks havoc on the scrotum.

While they entertained themselves with Obidike’s palm wine, they were also listening to news from the radio that Obidike kept on the ground beside the keg of palm wine. One of the news headlines that became a topic for the discussion of the current state of affairs in Nigeria by the two was the blowing up of an oil pipeline by Niger Delta militants.

‘I do not know what these young men really want,’ Kenta said, gulping down his glass of palm wine.

‘How can you say that, Kenta? What they want is justice, a fair share of what is in their land. Their agitation didn’t start today. One of their own was even murdered because of this agitation,’ Obidike said.

158

‘They fought against us during the war, because they were told that we were after their oil. Now, who is after their oil? It is not enough to say you want justice when that justice means taking a larger share of the commonwealth and leaving the rest for others to share. What unity means for me is the equitable sharing of the commonwealth,’ kenta argued.

‘But for years, the greater part of that commonwealth has been used in developing other parts of the country to the detriment of the people of the Niger Delta. I hear their rivers have gone bad because of pollution. And these people are fishermen. How have they survived? How will they survive?’ Obidike solemnised.

‘Yes, the development is in other parts of the country not in Biafra. Whatever we have here is as a result of communal and individual efforts. When they were busy taking the so-called abandoned property, did they think they would not be visited by karma? That oil belongs to all of us, unless they are telling us that they are no longer Nigerians,’ Kenta argued.

‘All they need to be given is a sense of belonging,’ Obidike said.

159

‘But what they want is for oil blocks to be allocated to every individual in the Niger Delta. Do they not have hard work in their language? Tufiakwa!’ Kenta said.

While they were still discussing, a car horn sounded in front of Obidike’s compound. They had thought it was one of those people from the neighbouring communities, who always came to Obidike’s house to buy palm wine. But it was Mr Obiefuna. He had visited home. He had gone to Kenta’s place to check up on him, but was told that Kenta had gone to Mazi Obidike’s place. He joined them in the drinking bout, partaking also in the discussion on the state of affairs in the country. Kenta naturally found a kindred spirit in Mr. Obiefuna in their contempt for Nigeria.

From Mazi Obidike’s house, Kenta and Mr. Obiefuna drove to my father’s house. Mr Obiefuna had wanted to go and say hello to my father and also find out from him if my common entrance examination result had been released.

Once Papa saw a car make a bend towards our home, he had no need to guess who it was. Mr. Obiefuna was, of course, his only friend that owned a car. He had wondered what had brought them to his house that Saturday afternoon. Kenta told Papa not to get nervous because they had not come with a problem.

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‘What else brings you two to my house if not a problem; first, it was the problem of a houseboy; second, the problem of a driver, which unfortunately I couldn’t solve—only God knows what the third problem will be!’

‘Is that the welcome you should have said to us—or the Kola nut you should have brought to us?’ Kenta said still teasing him.

Once they were done with the kolanut, Mr. Obiefuna told of his mission. He told Papa that her daughter’s own had been released; that she did very well would be going to Queens College, Latos. Papa told him that my own result was also out and that I scored aggregate twenty-four and would be going to the Government College in Adia. Papa said a mark less than what I had scored would have made me loose the chances of ever being admitted into Government College, Adia.

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Mr. Obiefuna was amazed at the innocence with which my father approached a lot of issues: he was surprised that papa did not know that one did not have to pass that examination to get admitted. What Papa needed to understand was that this was Nigeria; therefore, even if one scored below the cut-off mark, one could always do something about that: Papa should have known that not everybody who scored the required point would find his or her name on the lists of those offered admission. Some unlucky one’s results could be bought over by some influential people, whose wards did not score up to the required cut-off point, but who would want their wards, through any means, to study in such schools. They definitely want their wards to pass through the Ivy League colleges that automatically offered their graduates wonderful backgrounds. That was for Mr. Obiefuna the politics that was Nigeria, the knowledge of which he thought he had.

They talked about the Nigerian condition: the bribery and corruption everywhere, the ethnicity that was tearing the country apart, the violence in the Niger Delta as well as the need for a national conference. Thereafter, Papa went into the main house to fetch my result slip for Mr. Obiefuna.

162

By the time Mr. Obiefuna returned to Onata that day, it was already late into the evening. Mrs. Obiefuna was not particularly happy that he came back late. She knew her husband was given to drinking palm wine. It however worried her; because that was the easiest way your enemy could get you: lure you into drinking bouts and get you poisoned just to score a point.

Her fear was grounded on the fact that she was the lawyer to the people of Obodonipata, who had been in a long legal battle over the greater portion of the parcel of land of Guzegu with the so-called freeborn of Guzegu to which the late Okeofo belonged. Since the disappearance of Okeofo the land never knew peace again, because as the people of Obodonipata had boasted, the land had swallowed human head.

Although Okeofo’s family won the case, the involvement of Mrs. Obiefuna, whose family in Guzegu was aro, angered the natives, because as far as they were concerned, there was a grand conspiracy by the aros and the people of Obodonipata to dispossess them of what rightfully belonged to them. Being married to Mrs. Obiefuna had made Mr. Obiefuna an enemy by association as far as the natives, especially the members of Okeofo’s family, were concerned.

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During supper that night, I noticed that I was fully identifying with my host family. I no longer behaved in such a way as to disparage myself, for the humbler attitude of the family I lived with did cast much doubt on my obsession with my humble background, while my humility anchored on poverty, theirs anchored simply on idiosyncrasy; mine was such that always inspired me with a feeling of hope, theirs was a natural feeling for goodwill.

After supper, we all retired to the sitting room. There we engaged ourselves in healthy and amusing discussions. Unlike before, I participated fully in all the laughter, in all the jests, in all the frissons of delight without running to isolate myself from them.

164

7Outside, the weather was cool:

gentle, misty early morning breeze was blowing. It penetrated the pores. It was such that one, in the process of being regenerated, gave oneself over completely to the regenerator: the warm air of the day, having been purified in the depth of night, was released cool in those hours of another new day. Therefore, I hardly expected to find Okute awake: the air was rife with the noise of his snoring. Seeing him asleep every morning, contrary to what he was employed to do, had become more or less a common sight. I always took a full, steady and pitiful look at him and continued sweeping the compound. Just for the mere fact that his work demanded agility, there was always this temptation to prompt a non-existent youthful instinct from his aged body; therefore, the rigours of trying to live up to his duty always left him very tired.

165

He had decided that he would not be going home today to our surprise. He had been complaining to Mrs. Obiefuna that he hardly ever rested in his house, because his grown-up children had vowed, according to him, to kill him with their troubles. He always bit his chest in defiance and said they could not do that. Those shameless adults only wanted to tell the whole world that they could not fend for themselves. They also wanted to depend on the pittance he earned as salary, he would lament. He said those unblushing idiots always came to him for money, for yam and what have you.

Okute’s Children, while growing up, began early to keep bad company. You only found them at tapsters’ houses every morning, doing nothing but sipping the sweet liquid that kills.

Whenever he got the chance of advising Maria and me, Okute always told us that persons tending towards a gad-about life start, if it is through wine, by sipping always very little of it; then, by gulping cupfuls of it at a sitting. And, finally, they would begin to take a swig at the bottles, before you knew it, they would become bibulous. Then, no sooner you had a word with them than they would begin to catalogue for you the passable stages of life.

166

Okute always made us understand that life meant more than being born, than growing, maturing, marrying, getting children, than old age, than dying. He always said that life meant seriousness and laughter, looseness and restraint, curiousness and passivity.

I remember telling him and Maria of how I always had convulsions as a growing child and of how the convulsions were always preceded by the strange experience of the ceiling of my room turning upside down; and also of how I saw terrible things in my dreams. When I asked Okute if those experiences were also the stages of life, he said those were some of the things that accompanied convulsions and that my dreams were visions of the world.

167

168

8The gate of the compound was wide

open when we got back home from the market, where we had gone with Mrs. Obiefuna to buy the things Maria and I would need for school. She hesitated in driving in but then pulled up in front of the widely-open gate. A haunting calmness prevailed everywhere around the compound. Birds were chirruping on treetops. They seemed to have been disturbed by the sounding of the car horn. They took off in droves, leaving hush in their trail so much that the house seemed like a haunted grave-yard in that noon.

After some minutes of indecision, Mrs. Obiefuna slowly alighted from the car and walked to the small house inside which Okute usually stayed. Save for his mat which was rolled out on the floor, his cap and staff, nothing was seen of him. We became anxious and our hearts began to beat very fast. We began to perspire and beads of sweat stood on our foreheads. Before we could fathom out, Mr. Obiefuna, returned.

‘Obi, something is wrong here. This gate has been this way for some time now. I met it wide open as it is now when I returned from the market with these kids. Okute is nowhere around the compound!’

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‘It’s terrible, really terrible,’ Mr. Obiefuna said to his wife gloomily.

‘Terrible? How do you mean? What happened?’

‘Okute…’ ‘What happened to Okute?’ ‘He had a fall!’ ‘How did it happen?’ ‘I sounded my car horn when I

returned from work and Okute opened the gate for me as was always his wont. I drove in and parked in the garage. As I was alighting from the car, I heard a terrifying shout. As I looked towards the direction from where the shout came, Okute fell. He just slumped on the re-inforced floor, foaming from the nose as well as the mouth—with his irises rolling in. Quickly, I rushed him to the hospital, and...’

‘Is Okute dead?’ Madam cut in as she feared for the worst.

‘Yes, he is dead,’ Mr. Obiefuna said. There was a sudden hush—not even

the birds seemed to be talking any more—they, too, seemed to have been infected with the fright that had possessed the ambience.

170

I was too afraid to cry for the loss. I had lost a bossom friend. Mournfully, we alighted from the car with tears oozing from our eyes. None of us had the boldness to go to our rooms, due to fear. We decided to go to my own room. Maria, Lucky and Johnson held tightly to themselves while lying on my bed. I sat on the long settee in the room, thinking. Yes, any man’s death diminished whoever had humanity at hear. Okute, whom I had seen some hours earlier was no more. Okute’s life had been that of struggle, the struggle to survive. Of all I knew of him, at least in his old age, Okute had goodwill for all men and women, young or old. If asked to pass judgement on him, I would say that Okute’s journey would be heavenwards.

However, the knowledge of all this did not subside the fear in me, perhaps his spirit hovered around, seeing us the way we really were. Spirits, for me, if they existed, were harmful. Angels I knew from legend to be benevolent: they dwelt in heaven with God; and Heaven was the future home of all the souls that lived a godly life while on earth, I thought. Besides, something always contradicted my belief in heaven as a place of bliss—even men of tremendous goodwill were possessed of a craving to live on on earth!

171

Mr. and Mrs. Obiefuna waited patiently at the hospital’s reception for the result of the autopsy conducted on Okute. Fred, the pathologist, Mr Obiefuna’s schoolmate, was the doctor in-charge of the autopsy.

After some hours in the theatre, he came to the reception to meet the Obiefunas. He motioned them to follow him to his office amidst grave silence. The prevalent interlude of silence roused a feeling of expectancy.

‘He died of cardiac arrest,’ Fred said without mincing words. ‘His medical history shows he was hypertensive. It is a pity! I’m sorry you’ve lost such a humble and diligent worker.’

Mr. and Mrs. Obiefuna merely gazed into vacancy with tears rolling from their eyes down their cheeks, wondering if he was really dead and why Fred could not bring him back to life with those trained hands of his.

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Somehow they all knew that death was one phenomenon that asserted the equality of every human soul before God. Somehow they all also knew that doctor or no doctor, the life of everyman was like a tiny seed in the hands of fate. They also knew they had to be consoled in the fact that human inequality was all about the measure of work one did on earth. There was no doubt in their minds that life stemmed from God and that the same God could recall life. Therefore they had to mop their eyes; hold back their tears, for crying would not bring the dead back to life. Okute had answered the common call. His family had to be informed.

‘Do you know any member of his family?’ Dr. Fred asked.

‘Yes. I know the wife very well,’ Mr Obiefuna answered.

‘His wife is still living?’ ‘Yes; but she is old.’ ‘Let’s go and see her, then,’ Fred

said. Okute’s wife reclined on a seat at

the veranda of the house relishing the cool evening weather. Okute’s house was big and old fashioned. It was built with bricks. One saw in the house Okute’s dogged determination to ‘belong’. She was surprised at seeing the Obiefunas.

‘Good evening, ma,’ they greeted.

173

‘Evi, my children,’ she responded. ‘Obi, or is that not Obi?’

‘It is, ma.’ ‘You decided to visit me today! My

daughter,’ she called to Madam, ‘you are welcome; wait let me bring a bench for you!’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll do that myself,’ said Fred who went into the house and brought out a bench on which they sat.

‘Obi, I don’t think I know this handsome young man with you!’

‘You wouldn’t know him, ma. He hasn’t been here before. He is a doctor,’ Master said.

‘Dokita? My son, it is good that you came along with them. I’ve been having headache since today and I don’t know why.’

‘Have you been sleeping very well, ma?’ Fred asked her.

‘Not quite; you know sleep finishes in the eyes with old age.’

‘I think you need to have a good sleep. If you do, I’m sure it would stop. If it doesn’t still after some days of good sleep, I’ll check you up.’

‘That is good, my son. Em, Obi, lest I forget, Okute has not been coming home since last week. His friends come here to tell me they were with him this day, that day. I was wondering if you had a hand in his decision to keep away from his home!’

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‘Not at all, ma...’ ‘Of course I know you won’t have a

hand in it, my son, I know! Okute is only a very stubborn man. I have told him again and again to endeavour to have rests. You know the kind of job he is doing is such that deprives one of one’s sleep every night. One needs, therefore, to rest in the day. But he won’t have any. He believes that he is still a young man. You won’t believe it, but his penis still stands erect at the sight of a beautiful girl with full, dangling breasts. I have told him that if he continues that way, one day, of course, he would have a stroke or a heart attack. I have never ever in my life seen such a stubborn man.’

‘Mama, in fact, that is why we have come. You see, Okute is in the hospital now. He slumped this afternoon,’ Fred said, with measured craftiness.

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‘Look, young man. I have lived seventy and eight years on earth. My old body has been subjected to all sorts of excitements. So, my senses no longer react to them. I have seen people die. I have attended almost sixty-and-three funerals. I have been among the people sent to delude women or men who lost their husbands or wives but needed to be shielded from news of the sudden death. My eyes have wept at nearly sixty-and-three burials so much so that my lachrymal glands have become dry. So, child, I shouldn’t blame you when you try to play your part in a bid to delude one of those women who has lost her husband. But I would rather that you hit the nail on the head, for I have seen rougher days than you. Tell me the truth; just tell me the truth, Okute is no more; he is dead!’ the old woman exposited, holding them spell bound.

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At that point, Obi landed the bombshell. ‘Yes, ma. Okute is dead. He died of

cardiac arrest,’ Obi said tearfully, drawing the old woman to tears too.

‘His children must be informed. They must be told that their father is lying lifeless in a mortuary. Yes, they must be told, for they killed him. They ask for money, they ask for food, they ask for salt; if you refuse to give them, they worry you to death. They always blamed their suffering on their father’s poverty. He had to bear the brunt of their wretchedness. But they have forgotten that they were told to study their books if they wanted to become successful, but they wouldn’t. They would rather go fishing, while other children went to school,’ the old woman recounted sorrowfully, with tear-filled eyes. ‘If they had heeded our advice, I know a father or mother won’t mislead his or her children, their father wouldn’t have done the kind of work he was doing at an age he should have been relaxing and depending on his children’s wealth. Now, he is dead and I’m left alone, all alone! Those who have no children are better than me,’ she lamented.

‘Never mind, mama,’ Mr Obiefuna started compassionately. ‘Don’t bother the little life in you, for you shall always find a friend in me and my wife!’

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‘That’s true, very true,’ Madam said for the first time.

‘But the burial, the burial,’ Okute’s wife started again.

‘You all know Okute is a titled man, an elder. Custom demands that his burial be celebrated. Those good-for-nothing children of mine can’t afford to bury their father, I swear. It is the relatives of a mad man that feel ashamed, not the mad man himself.’

‘That shouldn’t bother you! Okute’s burial rites will be performed to the very full,’ Mr. Obiefuna assured her.

Mama was shocked.

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“Son, you are a good man. I have always said it that if the world had a few thousand men of your kind, it would definitely be a better place to live in. We’ll think less of heaven above, when there is one below. You’ve been very good to me and my family; I can’t repay your goodwill. I can still remember when Okute came to you in search of a job. You employed him good-heartedly to watch over your house not because he was physically qualified, but because you had wanted to help him, having listened compassionately to his sympathetic story of how he lost his dearest brother, whom he had depended on, who died of stroke, too, having been sacked as a serving chief inspector of police of the federal republic for allegedly fighting on the side of Biafra during the war. Imagine someone being deprived of one’s livelihood—you could as well tie the one up on a pole and shoot him, that’s what it is like.’

We all rather chose quietness than discuss freely as if nothing had happened. Johnson, known for his flamboyances seemed rather unusually quiet; probably he feared that Okute’s ghost could appear if he was not truly mournful of his death. Death inspired a solemn reverence and fear in the hearts of men at its occurrence.

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In the morning of the following day I woke partly disillusioned: nothing of what I had expected happened regarding my fixation on ghosts, a fixation engendered by Okute’s death and the superstition that surrounded the dead. Nothing smacked of unusual visitation, flowerpots remained where they were; the small house that adjoined the gate remained strongly padlocked; there were no unusual footprints either!

I imagined how in death oceans of colours and pictures might unfold in the mind of the dead, probing into the mystery of the firmament above: Where did the human soul sojourn at death? Stories of judgement after death! Psychic manifestations on earth! Haunted chambers of death! Thought-forms seeking anchorage! Man lost in paradise. Life after death and death before life! Are Life and death one? I wondered.

As I swept the compound I nursed the fear that I could be tapped at the back by Okute’s apparition. I emboldened myself by trying to whistle away any traces of fear in me. I could hardly sweep for two minutes without looking at my back, for as I swept, I heard behind me sounds of sweeping brooms.

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Okute was taken home. He was a native of Onata, a village that had grown into a big, sprawling city. Here the noise of the siren of an ambulance hardly distracted a single soul in the street: those who sold sold; those who bought bought. The siren of an ambulance, or to be more precise, the death of anybody, had become so insignificant that it no longer deserved any attention. Here life mattered; and for life to go on comfortably, money mattered.

Friends and relatives raised tumultuous cries as the ambulance approached his ancestral home. Fourteen cannon shots welcomed the corpse home as sympathisers burst into a farewell song thereby charging thereby the atmosphere:

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Olusigo; onabago, na n’udo!Olusigo; onabago, na n’udo!Ezi nwanne nkem huru na anya,Olee mgbe mg’eji hu ya ozo; na n’udo!His work is finished; he’s gone, fare thee

well!His work is finished; he’s gone, fare thee

well!Dear brother, whom we love so dearly,

whenShall we see you again; fare thee well! This was a house Okute would have

loved. This was the compound he would have cherished. His old, big, out-of-fashion house wore a great look now. The solid reddish granite stones of which his house was built was polished and ridged with white paint. If beauty manifested this much in death, may we love death, my dear!

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Okute’s relatives were all at home. His sons and even his daughters, who had been married out to men of different clans had come home. People were feasted throughout the days of the funeral. His daughters and granddaughters danced about in the compound to the tune of the traditional funeral music, beautifully clad and holding in their hands otinris or horses’ tails. As they danced, they waved the horses’ tails to the rhythm of their dance steps. Their men were dancing also in beautiful wrappers of calico, with necks adorned with necklaces of beads.

When things were still fairly good with Okute, he joined the ‘Egberiobas’ or hunters. At his death, therefore, the hunters, in line with tradition, played a part in the burial ceremony. They bid farewell to a great friend and colleague with different masquerades and dance groups. The age-groups of Okute’s sons were there too with their izaga masquerades taking centre stage, luxuriating in her beauty.

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9 ‘You are in a college, mark the word,

a college!’ said the principal of the college as he welcomed us to what he called the Adian family.

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‘I hope you know now that you are no longer in primary schools, any more than you are in a backyard secondary school. This is one of the colleges earmarked to typify our Nigerianness. You all must be ready, therefore, to shine as bright candles and as one; you must be ready to carry the torch of the new-awakening,’ he spoke with a baritone. Singing the school anthem lifted your spirit as its content effaced any trace of ethnic feeling in your mind: you lifted your voices to God; you sang with all your might and sought the gift of light and wished you shone as one! You beseeched God for unity in spite of your differences and asked together that gift of light: the will to shine as one. You begged God to show the way; you knelt and prayed and hoped to keep that gift of light: the will to shine as one!

An aggressive preacher’s voice would echo and disturbed the quietude of Sunday mornings. Contrite faces enraptured in a vision of heaven imagining themselves sitting before Jehovah. What offence were you guilty of?

‘Now, having heard the word of God, how many of you are willing to give your lives to Christ? Indicate by raising your hands!’ The preacher would demand. Who would not, at least for the mere asking? One could see an ocean of hands.

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‘Now, if actually within you, you have decided to carry the cross to Calvary then kneel down before God; tell Him to forgive your sins; pledge also your determination to follow without looking back. Pray! Glory, Pray!’

Chike did not really like all those pretences: a very independent young man. ‘I can’t bring myself to make that nonsensical noise. I’m an Anglican. I have a problem with all this Pentecostal indoctrination,’ he would say.

He was very rebellious. He loved competition and wanted everything to be competed for. He always wanted to be the first in the class. It did not always work for him. Most times, he was aggressive and arrogant; less often, humble. He boasted of his copious vocabulary until we all started competing to determine who would know every word in the dictionary. He was not as good as Musa in mathematics and that made him very envious; for what Musa lacked in linguistic articulation, he made up in mathematical proficiency. Chike sought every opportunity to provoke Musa, making us see him as very aggressive and dangerous when pursuing a goal.

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To some degree he was honest and that was only when one recognised his claim to being the best. If he took your pen then, he would honestly tell you so. He behaved sometimes as if hard work was the only key to success. He seemed very reflective, creative and intelligent. He tended to rationalise everything happening around him quite unlike Bunmi, who would encourage you to attend church services but would always find a reason to go to the stream during fellowships and remained there until the sections were over. I found him quite unreliable. He had a tendency for frivolities and treated things with levity.

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At times he wondered why one had to work too hard to make a living. He was, no doubt, creative and intelligent; but either he hated or was too lazy to put these gifts to use. But whenever he did, the results were marvellous as he competed favourably with all of us both in vocabulary acquisition and mathematical solutions. We did not want to be any other things apart from lawyers, and doctors. It was only Musa who did not seem to be interested in becoming anything until he was sure of what those things meant. Somehow, Bunmi always confronted Musa when he pretended to be very simple and disciplined. ‘Don’t forget what you told me of how you peeped through the key hole whenever you father took one of his wives into his room to do the thing,’ Bunmi would tease him.

‘I didn’t tell you that,’ Musa would respond. Bunmi, being stronger and relishing in it would give Musa a very dirty slap.

‘Come on say you told me that,’ Bunmi would demand of him.

‘I told you that,’ Musa would answer.

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Musa’s sickly sentimentality sucked. He appeared very original; but Bunmi, his arch enemy, said it was a dubious simplicity. What I did not particularly like about Musa was his willingness to be deceived. Whether it was a ploy on his part to maintain peace through such means, I could not understand; for Chike, Bunmi and I believed that even if Musa wanted to be cultured by behaving like that, he should know at least that humanity had grown so wild that a little thought was needed before one believed whatever one was told. If not that he was always easily deceived, because he always easily believed, one would think he was only being wise. Whenever it was time to pray, being a Muslim, he always went to his small corner and prayed. For us that were hypocritical, we believed such observance of religious rules did not make any person any more righteous than others.

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For him Allah was responsible for everything: if a goat died, Allah willed it. If you came late to school, Allah knew you would be late, as if Allah cared about such irrelevances. For us, Musa simply abused the gift of reason if he ascribed everything to providence. He always said he feared the devil in us. Whenever he said that, I always became afraid and wondered whether really we did not have devil in us: Musa always prayed by the hour. I could not tell whether Chike and Bunmi prayed privately, but I for one did. However, the manner in which Musa observed his prayers made Chike, Bunmi and me look like pagans.

I was shocked when I received my first love letter from Maria. I was so nervous that I could not read it in the presence of anybody. I had to lock myself up in the store to be able to read the letter. My hands shook as I opened the envelope.

Dear Jamie,How are you? I hope you are not

miserable? Me I’m fine. I have never really known until now that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Jamie, you know how I have always been happy being around you. Now that you are not here, I really miss you. I wish I could hold you close to me and give you a warm kiss.

Think of me always. Love from me,

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Maria.

I had never really had lurid thoughts about Maria until then. What really touched my heart was the last sentence: love from me. I imagined this love coming to me from Queens College. Love from me! Waoh! Beautiful feelings surged through my system. I began to imagine us really in love. When I replied the letter, I was so happy I did.

I began to understand what made Bunmi and Chike to sneak out of the school every weekend, clad in their tail-shirts and smart trousers, to go to parties and make out with girls.

I envied their sophistication, but thought that they were heading for doom considering the way they carried on. By the time we were in class four, Bunmi and Chike were already chain smokers. They had become so involved in the world outside that it seemed they were doomed to fail in school, a place that was to prepare them for the world to which they were rushing.

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Bunmi was born in Latos, in the western part of Nigeria. His father was a wealthy businessman, who wanted his son to be strong enough to survive in a country like Nigeria. Bounmi said his father had so many business associates, who were overwhelmingly men of Biafra. This was when I had wanted to know why he chose to come all the way from Latos to go to school here at Adia.

Otunba Alakija’s admiration for the hard work and doggedness of Biafran people made him want to send his son to live and learn with them, for as he always said: environment contributes in the shaping of a human being. What really surprised Otunba Alakija, Bunmi’s father, was the way the people of Biafra rebuilt themselves after the civil war. He despised what he called the inability of the men of Latos to shoulder family responsibilities. He said that was why too many illegitimate children, with no sense of family were everywhere in Latosland. This probably explained the psychology behind the strict discipline that guided Otunba Alakija’s life: he married only one wife and had only three children.

Although he did not believe Biafran people to be better human beings than the people of Latos, he believed that the cultural diversity of the Nigerian state was a good thing: each ethnic group had something to learn from the other.

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‘But my mum was very afraid. She believed there were lots of cannibals in Biafra. But whenever she expressed such fear, my dad dismissed it as unfounded,’ Bunmi said.

Quite unlike Bunmi’s businessman father, who lived in Latos but sent his son to school in Adia, Musa’s father was a Brigadier in the Nigerian Army. He was commander of the 85 division of the Nigerian Army in Adia. Musa said he did not know if his father had any reasons for insisting that he went to Government College, Adia. But honestly was he supposed to have a reason for sending his son to a school in Nigeria? Musa had argued. Was Otunba Alakija not being prejudicial in believing that Nigerian ethnic groups had intrinsic characteristics that made them unique from each other? He reasoned. But if he considered himself pragmatic and felt his judgements were based on empirical realities, was it not cowardly to grudge his opinion as truthful? Bunmi had argued in defence of his father.

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Musa, of course, admitted that his father always blushed with shame whenever he heard about Hafana in the news. He said his father always felt even more ashamed of Hafana each time he visited his mother and returned to Adia to be confronted with the stark differences in the quality of life of the people in the region in comparison to the people in Hafana. Each time Brigadier Mohammed Aliyu, Musa’s father, was dealing with that reality, he was very calm and gazed morosely into space. You could notice that he was trying to figure out what to call that which was responsible for such differences without subscribing to the preconceived category built in the minds of other Nigerians in regard to Hafana people. He was after all a Brigadier in the Nigerian Army and had fought the war to keep Nigeria one. He was also aware of the state policy to keep Biafran people, to which Adia belonged, in check. He knew also that the people of Hafana had been ruling the country over the years. The knowledge of all these had made it obvious to him that having political power did not necessarily mean empowering the people. If it did, then Hafana people would not be so poor and ignorant as they were now. Then what would he call that which was responsible for such differences in the quality of life? He thought. Were his people lazy? He did not really think so, because he was sure that he as an

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individual was not. Could it be because of their neglect of education? He thought still. He knew something was responsible for that and he believed that thing was identifiable, but he doubted if he would ever have the time to identify it.

10

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When Lucky came back during the long vacation, one noticed great changes in him. He had become very reticent and showed a great deal of self-denial, opposed to his self-possessiveness. A reclusive tendency lurked, now, in his nature, as well as an extremist posture as against his liberality—he seemed to have gotten drunk with the wine of the new Christianity, he had become born again, an experience I also had in school. What I saw in Musa now reflected in Lucky. While Musa saw us, then, as little devils, Lucky despised all of us in the family as sinners. He could believe, anyhow, that difficulties were things a repented soul must encounter. But his father, who was not an atheist, but who was no better than one except for his fanatic belief in the cross and the holy Virgin Mary, would not have any of his eccentricities.

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‘I cannot have that in this house,’ Mr. Obiefuna barked with a tidal of indignation. ‘I cannot have a mere kid defile my orders. You caused all this,’ he turned threateningly to Mrs. Obiefuna, ‘I wanted this idiot to go to King’s College, Latos, when he was about taking his entrance examination to college; but you wanted him to be nearer home. Good for you now. He is nearer home, yet he seems very far away from it. Rather than have time learning heretic teachings, this fool would have had hectic days learning to accommodate youths of different ethnic backgrounds that would have occupied him very well! Lucky!’ he called to him furiously, ‘go and dress up. All of us are going to our church today, am I understood?’ Lucky did not say a word. Such silence meant insolence as far as his father was concerned. Therefore, he gave him a grim slap on his right cheek. He drew out his belt as well and started to thrash Lucky with it. He gashed his body with the belt before his wife could intervene.

Everywhere became charged as a result of the noise in the house. One would not expect any interference from the neighbours: everybody here minded his or her business.

‘Just look! Look at what you did to your son just because he renounced his faith in the Catholic Church,’ Madam said as soon as she managed, with effort though, to rescue Lucky from his father.

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‘You are supporting him! Aren’t you?’ ‘Why won’t I? Does everyone not

have a right to religious worship in any denomination?’ For Mrs. Obiefuna, everything had to be seen within the framework of the law.

‘Even if you like, you can quote the law from here to Lokoja. All I know is that I say what will happen in this house; not the law.’

‘Obi,’ Madam called to her husband in revulsion of feeling, ‘I didn’t mean to be rude by quoting the law. I only didn’t approve of the sort of thrashing you gave this boy. See, now, you’ve wounded him.’

‘That serves him right. I wonder why these kids should think they know any better than those of us who have seen rougher days in life. We the adults who know what the world is all about, tell them: do this; do that! But no, they must follow their youthful instincts. Tell me. Just tell me what you learn in that your church-of-those-who-only-clap which we do not learn in our own church?’

Lucky was sobbing by his mother. ‘Won’t you talk? Idiot! Come on, talk.

Tell me what you learn there before I ‘land’ you a dirty slap,’ his father demanded aggressively.

I had never really seen Mr. Obiefuna in that mood before; but now I knew that those who rarely got annoyed could kill if brought to bay.

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‘We...’ Lucky sobbed, ‘are... told... to... repent, if... we... must... see God ... on... the... last... day,’ he said jerkily, pushing back always his runny nose.

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‘I see—you want to see God. You won’t, my dear. You won’t. So, that is all they tell you? So they haven’t perchance told you that Muslims always butcher Christians like cows in Hafana at the slightest provocation? No, of course, they don’t discuss such things in their church. But they will tell you not to be yoked with unbelievers and such rubbish. Who are the unbelievers? I, of course! Your sisters and your mother! Look, look here, fool, you must not let anybody confuse you with nonsensical teachings, for nobody has ever seen God. Anybody who dares will have his or her eyes pierced. Do not let anybody frighten you with gory tales of hell, for nobody has ever seen hell or heaven. I know that if the world over there wasn’t sweet, many would be back to earth after death. Have you ever asked yourself how the world came to be? Question, eghu, goat, always question! If anybody teaches you anything about spirituality, which is not in line with the culture and tradition of our fathers, throw it to the dogs; I say, throw it to the dogs, for there are too many traitors about. My being a catholic is mere formality, God knows that. My faith in it won’t lead me anywhere. If you do not know, know it now: God dwells in everyman’s soul,’ Mr. Obiefuna said all the while.

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For the moment, he seemed not to be scolding at Lucky, even when he was shouting at the top of his lungs; he was educating him. Lucky was no longer weeping: he was pensively attentive.

‘You see,’ Mr. Obiefuna continued passionately full of conviction that he was talking sense. ‘The people of Biafra, who, I believe are the bulk of the Christians in this country, have gone so forward that they are at a risk of losing one precious thing that still makes them a people—their identity....’

A situation like this provided reason to give expression to the innermost worries of man. I could not sleep at night; I was in thought. Why did Mr. Obiefuna always talk about the identity of Biafran people; why did he harp on their religion; why was he so much concerned about Africa? A gentle but audible knock on my door distracted me from my reverie. Who could be knocking on my door at this hour of the night? I thought, for it was almost one o’clock. A thief could not be inside the house and choose to knock so gently on the door of an intended victim. I thought still. I hesitated in opening the door. I had to be sure the knock was intentional and on my door.

‘Popopo!’ It came again. A voice in bated breath accompanied it.

‘It is me, James,’ said the voice.

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‘Maria?’ I said with bated breath, too.

‘Yes!’ Then quietly and curiously, I opened

the door. She came in. Quietly, I locked back the door wondering what it was that stirred her to my room at that time of the night and in that mood.

‘What is it, Maria?’ I asked in hushed tone.

‘Nothing—only I feel like staying with you,’ she said, self-assured.

Ever since Maria and I exchanged letters in school we had grown fond of ourselves. Whenever we were home on holidays and alone in the house, we did always let cupid draw its arrows and saw them fly. Now that Maria came into my room at that very odd hour, it was obvious that teenage libidal-force was about to blow her up.

‘You want to stay with me? Isn’t it too late? Don’t you think your mum and dad would be offended if they saw you in my room at this hour of the night?’

“They won’t; they’re fast asleep,” Maria said, closing up to me so much that I fell back on the bed. She came atop of me, defying all timidity, desiring to live out an experience.

‘Jamie, sometimes I feel like bursting; don’t you feel the same way at times?’

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Every teenager of sixteen felt that way, no doubt, but it would take some like Bounmi and Chike to live it out, not me. Therefore I was short of words: I merely gazed sheepishly at Maria, totally taken aback and helplessly allowing myself to be foraged upon by her experimental hands and curious mind. There was a sudden hush, which was disturbed by the heaving of our chests. Caresses, wet kisses, soft breast with erect nipples: a catharsis!

Once Maria had gone back to her room at my behest, I began to confer by myself. What exactly did you do? Fornication! You are going to burn in hell, where sulphur burns with brimstone. Is this what you can show for all that good upbringing? Oh nature of God, spare me these torture! I said.

All efforts to keep my mind void of any thought of guilt failed. I was, however, spared the trouble by a dizzying feeling of tiredness which surged on me like a tide. Soon, I had dozed off.

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I was woken by the sound of sweeping brooms in the morning. I had to go and do my chores. While I was sweeping the compound, Maria was sweeping the rooms. I found it quite unusual that she should start now to do a work she had never been doing in the house before. My guardians could be suspecting this new intimacy between Maria and me: People in love broke most often, though, unconsciously, rules of moral behaviour in an effort to express their feelings for one another. I thought. You would think kids as we were had no proclivity to evil; but I knew that in the stream of my soul evil as well as good flew through the valleys of my heart. Okute of the blessed memory once said that persons tending toward a gad-about life start, if it was through wine, by sipping a little of it; then by gulping a cupful of it at a sitting, and, finally, they would begin to take a swig at the bottles—before you knew it, they have become bibulous. I had sipped a little of the wine, but was determined not to be bibulous. I started making a conscious effort not to show interest in Maria’s love overtures; but deep down, I knew I was falling in love with her; I knew I could let the cupid draw her arrow again and watch them fly; but still I was remorseful. While I swept, I kept whistling a song: What a friend we have in Jesus!

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Book three

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1How time passed. It was already

five years and I had just finished high school. This was the very month of September. Schools had re-opened for another academic session. Lucky was going to a higher class – class three; Johnson, too, was going to a higher elementary class – primary six. Maria and I were still awaiting the results of our West African school certificate examination scheduled for release by October. The month, in all, was hectic.

For five years now I had not set eyes on my family? Would letter writing be enough for one who loved his family so passionately? I doubted. There is a desire, which, if not satisfied, has a capacity to kill. Satisfy it I must: I did let Mr. and Mrs. Obiefuna know of my intention to travel home to see my family who I had not, for long, visited. Again, I knew September was always the month of the new yam festival for the people of Guzegu. How I wished I witnessed this year’s own. Mr. and Mrs. Obiefuna granted my request. What rejoicing there was for me at that great opportunity to be with my family again!

‘James, are you ready?’ Mr. Obiefuna had asked

‘Yes, sir.’

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‘All right, when you get home, greet your people for me. Tell Philip that I would have liked to visit him during the new yam feast but that there isn’t any chance for me at the moment. Tell him I said we shall do our own hunting in the heart-land of the grass-cutter at the very day of hunting.’

‘All right, sir.’ ‘James, greet your people for me,

too,’ Mrs. Obiefuna said. ‘I will, ma.’ ‘When should we expect you back?’ ‘Two weeks from today,’ I said. ‘That is good. Well, em, James, you

see, you took us by surprise with your decision to go home. However, you must go. Take this,’ Master said handing over to me some naira notes. ‘It is a thousand naira; five hundred for you; five hundred for your parents.’

‘James, make do with the little amount, eh?’ said Mrs. Obiefuna.

‘Aah! Madam, the amount is by no means little ... it is big.’

‘Aah, it may not be to people who don’t show gratitude,’ Mrs. Obiefuna said.

‘Jamie,’ Maria called to me as we were walking along the road that led to the park where I would board a Taxi. ‘I‘ll miss you,’ she said with schmaltz.

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‘I will miss you, too. But, my being absent in the house for a period of two weeks won’t turn you from being Maria, would it?’ I asked her, unexcitedly.

‘No, darling ... but, at least, the affection,’ she said still with sickly sentimentality.

‘What affection? Don’t think I’m happy for the thing we did some time ago. Of course I wouldn’t have done it – you pushed me into it. ... I really regretted doing that with you.’ I said in revulsion of feeling. Maria seemed a little flabbergasted; but still she said: ‘James, what we did was natural.’

‘Who told you that? Could you have been so badly influenced in Latos? Think of it, just think of it, could your mum and dad believe that we could do such an atrocious thing?’ I said ready to match her wit for wit.

‘James,’ she cut in, ‘I’ll stop here. Safe journey. See you two weeks today,’ she said obviously trying to avoid any conversation that would make her feel guilty of what she did.

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Whenever I looked at Maria, I always saw a hot-headed rationalist, who would rather stop short of living than not follow her rationalised drives. I called her as she turned back towards home and told her that vanity was an abyss into which no one should fall; that love was a virtue, after which I was striving and that it was such that must transcend sensuality. I told her still that dishonesty was a fault of character which should remain in the subconscious; that ingratitude was an evil for which there was karma; and that I’d rather not be seen by her mum and dad as dishonest, any more than I would want them to consider me ungrateful if found indulging with her in such whimsicality that was supposed to be love. I told her I would not for the sake of our parents; for the sake of my nature; for the sake of the advice Okute gave us; for the sake of my future; for the sake of God and the sincere love I felt for her.

She seemed transfixed for some seconds as I spoke, wondering probably if I really thought she was some bundle of sinful flesh. She felt disappointed at my utterances, which seemed to her to be too judgemental of her. She muttered something inaudibly, dejectedly, in a very low tone.

‘Bye!’ And slowly, in a very thoughtful

mood, she walked back home.

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We seemed to be at the middle-passage of modernity and tradition as we drove out of the city vicinity into the rural area; and there were differences: fewer vehicles plied the roads of the countryside; serenity hung upon its milieu like the grace of God. The verdant vegetations that flanked the macadam spread out like gracious hands hanging down from the shoulders of an invisible holy statue of God, whose imposing head was the firmament above and whose trunk was the palpable space between heaven and earth. The city-weary, who were seeking rest, drove into these gracious hands of God. Unlike the cities, there were, here, more of people carrying firewood working home; more of people carrying water-filled earthen-pots arriving from the streams; more of little kids playing about naked; more of village gatherings ridden with elderly men and women; more of tapsters walking or riding on their bicycles towards the bush to tap their palm wine; more of trees than flowers and more of unpainted bungalows than high risers.

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Soon, we were at Guzegu. The driver knew exactly where to drop me. Quickly, I alighted from the Taxi, and moved promptly towards my home. I did not want to be the cynosure of attention for people too eager to know who every car that stopped brought home. However, even as I moved towards home, I still heard people who lived near the road saying to themselves in very low tones:

‘It is Jemis, the son of Philip Ndudim.’ I never minded. I simply walked on without turning left or right, avoiding, consciously, being subjected to arduous rituals: greetings, enquiries and so on.

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Guzegu had not changed much: The roads were still as crudely macadamised as they were before I left the village five years earlier. Rusty roofed-houses could still to be spotted here and there. Grape, orange and pear trees, bent over by the weight of the fruits they were carrying, stood out still on every compound one passed by. Gigantic oha-trees, passed their usefulness, stood imposingly behind thatched houses and gazed despairingly at you as you walked by. Palm trees waved their palms about as if they were saluting you. At night the owls and the nightingales engaged your attention with their songs, while the canaries entertained you during the day. Modern life expressed itself here on houses roofed with zinc sheets as well as on people being sent to school to learn.

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From where I was some yards away from our country house, I saw a young woman washing clothes in a basin. She, too, had seen me. She kept calling on Papa to come because Jemis was back. She ran towards me and embraced me to the full. She took my big bag from me, and walked ahead towards home, excitedly. Already, other members of the family had come out of the house. They were at the veranda. They seemed overwhelmed with joy. As the young woman forged ahead of me towards the house, I kept probing her frame: a picture of who she was became clearer in my mind. How could I not know her? She used to be very thin then. I could bet my life that she would never be as big as she was now. She was my immediate younger sister; and her name was Ngozi. My attention was now riverted. The entire clan had gathered and everyone was overjoyed at seeing me.

‘My son, welcome,’ Mama said ‘Nna, my son,’ Papa called to me, ‘I

thought that, may be, you’ve been carried away by the sweetness of wealth that you no longer think of coming home to see your poor aged parents, not to talk of your sisters. I know we have been communicating through letters but seeing you in flesh and blood has more effect than writing legions of letters. Anyhow, you’re welcome. How is the family you live with? Obi is doing fine, isn’t he?’

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‘Yes, Papa, he sent his greetings.’ ‘What about his wife and children?’

He asked still. ‘They were all fine before I left for

home this morning. They sent their greetings.’ ‘Thank God they’re all fine,’ Papa

said. ‘How are you finding your studies?’

Papa asked still, seeming to want to exhaust himself of all the questions there were to ask.

‘Not bad. I’m awaiting the result of the West African School Certificate examination we took.’

‘That means you have finished secondary school, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, Papa.’ ‘How time flies. Won’t Obi come for

our new yam festival?’ ‘I‘m not sure he will. He seems to

have too much work to do now. Em, I had almost forgotten … He gave me some money,‘ I said, put my hand in my big travelling bag after I had unzipped it, and brought out the money. ‘Here is it,′ I said handing it over to my father. It is a thousand naira …he said you should take five hundred, while I take five hundred, too.′

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‘Mama Jemy! Did you see that? God knows I’m much indebted to that man—Heaven! I have nothing with which to show my gratitude! What has he not done for me …oh what a man of tremendous goodwill …only God can repay him for all the things he has been doing for this family,’ Papa said euphorically. ‘My son, you’re welcome! There is peace in Obi’s family, no doubt, it is written all over you. My joy today is ineffable. Thank God,’ Papa said all the while.

After the euphoria of my arrival had, to some extent, subsided, Papa called me and told me that today was the eve of our new-yam feast; that the elders of Guzegu would be having a meeting by seven in the evening at Ikeka’s compound, the village chief. They were going to decide on the location the festival would be formally declared open.

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‘You know there is nothing our people enjoy more than argument: some elders had said that it was our custom to always launch the feast at the village square; others said that it was always at the compound of the village chief. Where the feast will be launched will be the topic of our discussion this evening. Son, tomorrow will be another period of learning for you. You know, in this village, nobody loves his or her brother: people conceal poisons even in their fingernails: They could poison your food. Don’t eat, drink or even chew the kola that would be presented wherever the feast will be launched. Be only an observer. Certainly, you will learn.′

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Mondays were known to be busy days but today was not, for no villager was going to his or her farm; no student was going to school, no teacher, either. Today marked the beginning of a new yam feast that was to last for four days. The villagers were all trooping to the village square, since it had been resolved, after a long deliberation by the elders that the feast would be launched for the year at the village square, not at the Chief’s compound as some elders had proposed.

Every family in Guzegu was expected to be represented by an elder at the place of gathering. These elders symbolised truth and unity among the group of families, ndi nze na ozo! Titled men! In a short while the village square began to teem with men. Women were not allowed at the place of gathering. Myth had it that any woman who defied this order was always visited with a strange ailment, which, too, defied remedy. But my maternal grandmother, Ugomma, was in the gathering. I had gone to greet her in the night of the day I returned.

‘Nna, my dear son, how are township people? What about your guardians? I know they are fine? Five years of absence … it was just like five days. You came home for our new yam festival? You are welcome, my son,’ she said, highly elated.

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I was aware she was a member of the masquerade cult, of which I was an initiate. Every male child remained a boy until he was initiated into the masquerade cult of legends: one entered through the ant-hole, walking a tight-rope from the land of the living to the land of the spirits and back. Fearful spirits scared one as one walked by on the tight-rope, intending one to fall and become food. The fearless, who survived it, became men and initiates. Grand mother survived the tight-rope walk. She was one of only three women in the whole of Biafra who were initiated into the masquerade cult. What this meant was that they had become men, with all the rights that men had. They had been members of secret societies purported to have knowledge of the hidden things of life.

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A cloud of silence hovered over the heads of the gathering of people that circled the village square. The villagers struggled for space; each wanted to have a good view of the ritual. Kola nuts and alligator peppers were put in a wooden plate and placed at the very centre of the square under the watchful eyes of the people foregathered. An elder was sitting on a little chair at a little table on which the Kola nuts were placed. He was definitely the eldest of the elders of Guzegu. His name was Nwaokeke. He was a man who was always sober and who was also very suspicious of modernity. He possessed the wisdom that accompanied age, but lacked the flexibility that life needed.

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Occasions like this revered aged and glorified tradition; and men like Nwaokeke were the custodians of tradition. He was aro, like we were. Stories had it that it was because he needed to have a say in Guzegu, which he considered his home, even though the natives considered people like him as strangers, that he immersed himself in native occultism. He was said to have made himself invincible. He was the only man that people like Okeofo feared in Guzegu. They made sure he always got a farmland. While the natives planned not to renew the lease on land with the aros, Nwaokeke had portions of land he cultivated. And these portions of land belonged to the family of Okeofo. He was respected and feared at the same time, not so much because he was old, but because he was believed to possess great charms capable of wiping out the whole of the native population. As he stood up quietly, he picked the kola from the wooden plate and raised it up to the heavens whilst his hand quivered.

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‘Ndi Ichie; ndi Ozo,′ he called to the titled men among them. ‘Kola is here before us!’ He said holding the Kola up for all to see. Having shown the kola around to the crowd, the elders and the unseen God high above in the heavens, he brought down his hand amid solemn silence. He maintained a calm and calculated posture peculiar with age. One saw life being dramatised.

‘Ndi Ichie na Ozo kwenu!’ ‘Heeh!’ The crowd responded

simultaneously. ‘Kwenu! Kwezuenu!’ ‘Heeh!’ They responded, stretching

the vowels for emphasis. There was something peculiar about

the old man: everything about him was old, weak and fragile, except his voice: it seemed a force propelled his voice from behind. There were still tumults of murmurs as the elderly man appealed for calm in order to commence his speech.

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‘We all know,’ he began, ‘what today is. No one needs to be told. But I must say it, just for the sake of saying it: Today is the beginning of the four day feast, ‘Otute’ or ‘Iriji’, whichever you choose to call it. That is omenani, tradition. But as you all know, things have changed a great deal and men have changed also having time; in other words, they dance the dance prevalent in their time. If it were the good old days, when the tree top was still the domicile of the squirrel, there would be, in this gathering, signs, strange signs which would, actually, show that a feast was about to commence: Only those, who have assumed the toga virilis, would have been here—no fledgling would have been found in our midst. But church has come and all the things we were known for are said to be devilish. Consult a dibia and you are said to be dining with the devil; to visit soothsayers is now like consulting the demon. They have destroyed all our traditions! But they shall never be held guiltless by Ani,’ the old man said, seeming to be very proud of their past. There was this belief that whoever stood on earth and did evil was always punished. The earth was considered a sacred thing, too sacred to be defiled.

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‘I’m happy though,’ he continued, ‘that this vestige of our battered culture still lingers. We must hold fast to it until our generations go to their graves. But this trend portends something evil; maybe of a day when all men of various races will be dispossessed of their culture. Who knows what the world would be like then, when men would live without culture! Be it good or bad, I pray God to take my life before then as I cannot live to see the abomination. May this world not be too much for us! You, who are not seen, this is kola!’ he said, breaking off a tiny piece of the kola with his fingernail and then throwing it on the floor.

‘Eke, this is kola! Afor, have yours! Nkwo, chew kola! Orie, partake of it!’ he said still, inviting all the four-market-day spirits to the breaking of kola.

‘I say,’ he continued, ‘may the plans of all those people who intend to wipe out our culture from the face of the earth be fruitless!’

‘Iseh!’ the people roared. ‘I say, as the eagle perches on a

tree, may it also allow the kite to perch!’ ‘Iseh!’ ‘Did they not say that it is better to

heed a wise man’s rebuke than to listen to the song of fools?’

‘So, it was said!’

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‘That wisdom preserves the life of its possessor?’

‘So, it was said!’ ‘That whatever wisdom may be,

that it is far off and most profound!’ ‘That is true!’ ‘Whoever can fathom it, then?’ ‘Nobody can, of course!’ ‘My people, kwenu!’ the old man

vented. ‘Heegh!’ the crowd roared. ‘Hm, old age is a bad thing,’ the old

man lamented; he seemed filled with the force of tradition. ‘But I must do it,’ he said, adjusting his toga, getting ready for the show of virility. He made a short impulsive run and jibbed. And, fast, as his old body could permit, he raised his leg and flung it. As he let the leg land on the ground with relative energy, the crowd welcomed it with a peculiar shout, ‘iyoo!’ He repeated the exercise and the crowd welcomed it like before with the same shout: iyoo! He did that three consecutive times before a young man full of life held him to a stop. Whoever stopped the action of the other was openly indicating that it was his turn to do a round of action.

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After the show of virility, which was characteristic of the people, a young man started to break the kolanuts. After breaking them, he carried them round the gathering for people to take. Soon, the young men around began to put yams in an already set fire to roast. There were earthen-pots in with red-spiced oil to be used in eating the yams. After the yams had roasted, they were brought out of the fire and sliced into a wide-mouthed earthen-pot. Then, they were shared out to all the age groups foregathered. Nwaokeke had to offer prayers before they could start eating. He greeted the people as was his wont.

‘My people, the yams are done. All you who have gone before, food is ready! Obije,’ he called upon the name of one of their own long dead, ‘this is your own,’ he said and threw to the ground a piece of yam. ‘Okike, eat this! Chukwueke, this is yours! Earth, have this,’ he said still and threw the last piece of yam he had in his hand to the earth. ‘My people eat! I say eat, for the gods have blessed our food!’

The villagers began to eat. There were also kegs of palm wine to accompany the food. Unfortunately, there was a feeling of insecurity that pervaded the air. Some declined to eat; those who ate seemed to exercise great caution.

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My grandmother took me along to the gathering. I was very proud walking with her to the village square. She was greeted with great respect by titled men as we walked to the square.

‘Nna, my son’ do you see anything?”

I said of course I was seeing people all around the village square.

‘So you don’t see anything?’

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I shook my head side-ways in negation. Grandma went to a tree in the bush around the village square, plucked a leaf from the three and returned to me. She mashed the leaf, squeezed it until tiny bits of green liquid began to drop off from it. She told me to open my eyes. When I did, she squeezed in a tiny drop into my eyes and immediately I began to see things that were oblivious to me before: scorpions and snakes with wings flying towards targets, passing through bodies of unknowing people. I saw trees dry up and fall on human targets. I saw goblins eating targetted children. I began to sweat profusely and held my grandmother tightly. She shook me and told me to open my eyes. When I opened my eyes, she squeezed another liquid from a different type of leaf into my eyes. I closed my eyes and opened it again. Shocking. All the things I saw had disappeared. Or better still, I could see them no more. She patted me on the head and whispered in my ears.

‘Those were thought forms.’ I disengaged myself from her and

ran back home. I could not linger a while there, for I had not yet assumed that toga Nwaokeke said fully-fledged men assumed: the toga virilis.

Not too long after I had gone home, Papa returned, too. Having seen me, he walked into the outhouse, where I was, grinning.

‘Jemy, you did see it, didn’t you?’

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‘I did Papa,’ was all I could say. Papa nodded and walked out of the outhouse into the main house. The nod was pregnant with meanings. What I understood from it, however, was that he, my father, was glad I had seen something that would constitute knowledge for me.

3I knew I was returning to my

benefactors that day. I had already packed all my belongings in the big bag I brought the previous week. My family knew as well that I was going back to Onata today. Papa called me to the outhouse as was usual of him. Everyone else was around.

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‘Son,’ he started after a spell of silence, ‘at your age now, you don’t need to always be told: do this or do that. You must always use your initiative. You’re not doing badly anyway; you’ve always lived up to my expectations. You shall surely succeed, for the cow that has no tail her god chases away flies for her. When you get home, greet Obiefuna for me. Tell him I said he is a good man, a man whose goodwill is yet to be equalled under the sun. You see, I have nothing with which to equate his generosity towards us; but the little I have, I shall give him,’ Papa said and walked out of the outhouse to his yam-barn to fetch some yams.

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‘Son,’ Mama said, pending Papa’s return. ‘I’m short of words; but suffice to say that our future hangs breathlessly on your fate. Remember that we are still only eking out a livelihood by tilling the soil. Your sisters too are in school and must be seen through. Don’t ever underrate the power of prayer. Talk always with your Chi. Know that a call is upon your life. I know how I pelted heaven with prayers before Olisa gave you to me: an only son that is not two. You did not die like two of my other children, God bless their souls. The world was too much for them. I did not complain, for Olisa gives and Olisa takes; though they were fruitless travails. But Olisa has put laughter again in my face. A word should be enough for you, son. When you get to Onata, greet Obi and his family. Tell them your mother said God will repay them for the good things they’ve been doing for us!’

‘Ehe, son,’ Papa cut in on entering the outhouse with some tubers of yam he had packed in a bag. ‘Give Obiefuna these yams! Tell him that on the day of hunting we shall hunt ours’ at owerre nchi, the backyard of the grass-cutters!’

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Accompanied by my father and mother, and my sisters, who were carrying my loads for me, I walked to the road, where I would board a taxi to Onata. They stood by the roadside with me, while I waited. Neighbours were all around the corner; some just peeped through their windows hoping to clap eyes on me without risking any conversations; others were bold enough to come out of their houses to bid me safe journey. Soon, a taxi pulled up. My sisters loaded my things in the boot of the car, a Morris minor. The driver started off once I got into the car as I kept on waving. As the car gathered speed, I felt a sense of emptiness. Then, tears began to trickle down from my eyes.

‘Is anything the matter?’ A fellow passenger asked me.

‘No,’ I said, sobbing, as my nose began to run.

‘But you’re crying. You miss your people?’

‘Yes. …Yes,’ I said spasmodically, giving vent to my emotions.

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The passengers and the driver of the car began to console me. I heard one say: ‘That is what it should be; fancy a child of his age living far away from his parents; it is only natural for him to feel miserable. All the same, dear, don’t cry—wipe your eyes. It is one of those stages to manhood—don’t worry you’ll live to tell of this!’

A heavenly tune was playing on the car radio and no one could resist it no matter how unfeeling one was. I was surprised that they did not know that the music playing on the radio inspired me with a feeling of sorrow and love. Sorrow because I was leaving the people I loved. Love because of the hope I held for them. The song reminded me of my father, of my mother, of my sisters, of God’s unending presence:

Holy Father, in thy mercy Hear our anxious prayer keep Our loved ones, now far

distant ‘Neath thy care. Father, Son and Holy Spirit, God the one in three Bless them, guide them, save

them Keep them Near to thee.

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By evening I was already in Onata, trudging towards Mr. Obiefuna’s residence with my luggage which constituted a burden. While at the gate of the house, I heard the door creak and l noticed somebody coming out of the house. I was sure that it was Maria from the sound of her footsteps.

‘James, welcome,’ she said as she opened the gate, helping me with the loads. ‘How does the world fare with your people at home?’ She asked me as I entered my room.

‘The world is fair to them,’ I answered smiling at the expression. ‘What about mum and dad? Have Lucky and Johnson come home since I travelled?

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‘Mummy and Daddy went to the recreation club; Lucky and Johnson came home last weekend,’ Maria answered. ‘Lest I forget, James, our West African School Certificate Examination results have been released.’ At that statement, I became solicitous for I least expected the results to be released so soon. It was still about a week to October. Maria said she was also surprised when it was announced the previous week over the radio. Apparently, she had gone to her school to collect her result. She scored credits in English, Chemistry, Mathematics, Biology and Physics. She said she passed Additional Mathematics and Literature and was, therefore qualified to study medicine. My guardian had gone to collect my result, too. I had distinction in English and credits in Government, Economics, Biology and Chemistry. She said I passed Literature and failed Mathematics.

‘Law here I come,’ I said ‘Which University would you

choose?’ ‘Zamad Bell University, Zina,’ “Zamad what?” Maria asked in

astonishment at my supposedly strange choice.

‘Zamad Bell University.’ ‘Why Zamad, James?’

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‘Why not, Maria? You see, my good friend Musa made me want to go up north to study. He is from Hafana, but he schooled with us at Adia. I also liked the way he carried himself, a very simple human being. The way he told us about their people in all honesty, even about his family, made me believe that they are just a very simple people, these Hafanans,’ I said.

‘Stop that joke, please. Do you know what you’re doing? Dallying with your fate! Those people aren’t truly so real as you see them. If you were impressed by the ones you schooled with, I wasn’t impressed by the ones I schooled with. How I hated their guts, always thinking the country belonged to them, even when they contribute little or nothing to its growth,’ Maria said. While she spoke, I was seeing her father in her.

‘Musa communicated simplicity and honesty to us. Although we somehow doubted if he was really genuine.’

‘He wasn’t, James. He wasn’t. They see as us inyamiri. Only heaven knows what that means. But I’m sure it is not positive. Moreover you are not a Muslim. But what simplicity are you even talking about, anyway? Have you not seen their rich? They delight in the suffering of their poor, and by their conduct encourage poverty? And they are never tired of being rankadeded?’

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‘What have our own rich done particularly for you? What about those of our rich who send an apprentice home with trumped up charges just to avoid keeping their pledge of settling them? What about those unscrupulous rich businessmen of Biafra who only think of profit, even if it means sacrificing the lives of their customers?’

‘Don’t start with your notion of world citizenship, whatever that means!’ Maria said.

‘Well, my belief in the common humanity of man is not of my making; it is in our family. It runs in our blood’

‘What is in your family? What runs in your blood?’

‘Belief in the common humanity of man ... Zamad Bell University, Zina is not in the moon; it is here in Nigeria and I’m a Nigerian as well as they are, I believe in merit. It stands above ethnic suspicions!’

‘Well, I wish you the best of luck in your choice. As for me, I think I can study medicine in any of the universities down here, not very far away from home!’

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4Mr. and Mrs. Obiefuna had just

returned from the club. It was already getting dark though the reddish hue of the setting sun still hung over the sky as if it was resisting nightfall. Okute, whose duty it had always been to man the gate had passed on to the great beyond; therefore, I had to be in his stead—not that I became a paid gatekeeper, not that I had to start sleeping in the small house that adjoined the gate, as Okute usually did. No, I merely took it to be one of the duties I had to perform in the house even if unconsciously.

They all were happy to see me home again. Mr. Obiefuna had asked me particularly how the world fared with his good friend, Philip, my father.

‘Not bad, sir,’ I answered. ‘What about your mother and

sisters?’ ‘They’re okay, sir. They all sent their

greetings! Papa and Mama thanked you particularly for your magnanimity towards them!’

‘James,’ Mrs. Obiefuna called to me as she came out of the kitchen into the sitting room where we all were. ‘You brought those yams?’

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‘Yes, ma. Papa said I should give them to you; he said he had nothing to offer you to compensate for your goodwill to his family. He said it was just a token of his appreciation for your kindness, sir!’

‘He shouldn’t have bothered himself giving us these yams; he probably needs them more than we do. You father is just a good man; and any good man deserves something good!’

‘Thank you, sir!’ ‘How was the new yam feast,

James?’ He sat down on one of the sofas in the sitting room lethargically, changing the topic.

‘It was fine, sir.’ ‘I knew it would be. Why not! It is

probably the only surviving tradition that still unites us and reminds us of whom we are,’ Mr. Obiefuna said excitedly, seeming to have shaded off the lethargy that once overwhelmed him. ‘In the good, old days,’ he continued, ‘yam feasts were to our forefathers what Christmas is to the Children of today. When we were still young,’ he said demonstrating with his hand, ‘we used to organise ourselves into groups during the days of the festival. Each group was required to come to the village square with its masquerades. The ones that never stumbled at the slightest charm used to test it were chosen to represent our village at our neighbouring town, Guzegu!

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It was at Guzegu that we held our Mmanwu festival. Whoever that had not assumed his toga virilis never appeared at the place of the gathering of masquerades. Those who had the third eye saw charms as they were being flung from place to place. A victim of this flinging of charms, who, perhaps, had not fully his toga virilis, suffered a strange ailment that defied all cure. Great medicine men, who could not use their charms on their fellows, as a result of these fellows having fortified themselves against the effect of potent charms, poured these charms on trees.

Under your very eyes you would see the trees dry up and fall. Imagine what they would have used on somebody who had no knowledge of charms! It was a horrible but exciting sight to see. Those of them that had assumed the toga virilis, that had great medicine, were looked upon with awe. ... But things have changed a great deal: people are now becoming born-again and our culture is on the verge of being exterminated. Ah, memories of things hard to forget. Well, James, has Maria told you that your result is with me?’

‘Yes, sir’ ‘You didn’t do badly at all. You now

need to pass the universities entrance examination.’

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‘Daddy, James is planning on choosing Zamad Bell University, Zina; he said he would like to live and learn with the people of Hafana, like his friend Musa, who comes from there but studied at Adia. He said he admired their simplicity and honesty and things like that,’ Maria said

I felt very uneasy as Maria spoke. In fact, I was annoyed with her, because of the way she presented the issue. It did seem as if I was just stubborn by nature, never heeding all the things Mr. Obiefuna had been saying about the messy state of the Nigerian nation. However, the matter had been tabled. I did not have any alternative than to listen to whatever Mr. Obiefuna had to tell me with regard to my decision to apply to the university at Zina.

‘You want to choose Z.B.U, James?’ Mr. Obiefuna asked me unexcitedly.

‘Yes, sir,’ I answered slightly afraid. ‘Why?’ ‘My father always told us, sir, to

always try to be at peace with all people, to lead a detribalised life,’ I said in all humility.

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He laughed and said he knew Philip would say such a thing. ‘But, son,’ he continued, ‘we have been involved, and are still involved in the politics that is Nigeria; we also know where the shoe pinches! I’m in the position to tell you more about this country than your father, Philip! If you do not know, know it now, son that your identity as a Biafran, for a fact, does not augur well with some people: Your presence as a Biafran will spark off feelings of uneasiness in certain circles; you can’t escape the experience. Reasons: You fought a daring war of self-determination; you have both the mental and material resources; you are adventurous; you’re self-assertive. These are virtues that put you at a disadvantage but unfortunately qualities needed in men for a nation to grow. But many would prefer to remain subconscious spirit germs than allow those who have come to full consciousness to blossom. I will never prevent you from choosing the University, for every man, out of relative obscurity, discovers his mission, fulfils it or betrays it.

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It was Fanon who said that; but blessed is the man that doesn’t necessarily need to wallow in obscurity to fulfill his mission. I shall never be found wanting in the discharge of my duties, regarding your upbringing! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha,’ he laughed in mockery. ‘When you exhort the ear, and it refuses to heed your exhortation, when then the head is cut, that ear goes with it!’ Mr. Obiefuna said, very annoyed at the obstinacy of man. He walked into his room.

But I knew I was being propelled by a force greater than I was towards something I knew not. There was a bursting urge to always say the truth, a great pressure to represent the real. I took umbrage at what Mr. Obiefuna said which implied somehow that my father was living in a fool’s paradise in regard to life. Something always told me that truth always came out of something strange. Something also told me that once something strange became truth, it ran a risk of becoming conventional and as such needed only an unconventional approach to be able to derive another new truth from it; the circle was exhaustible!

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I had only been a victim of a very tiny aspect of the Nigerian condition; to be seen as a stranger in my own village among my own kith and kin. Didn’t we speak the same language, after all? Didn’t we have a common culture? Still I had no right to land ownership there. I had to for-bear that “estrangement.” I was yet to experience other sordid conditions synonymous with Nigeria, which Mr. Obiefuna made ceaseless allusions to; therefore I could not believe they existed.

I had only to live “nigerianistically”, taking cognisance of the fact that men had their petty hatred of their fellow men, their petty jealousy of success and so on. There was no denying the fact that men ran to evil; and that evil was so common and contagious that it could not be ascribed to any particular nation or tribe or race! Still I wondered why educated men always had a way of rationalising whatever they believed in, be it evil or good. What was the use of education when educated people became victims of prejudice and hate? I thought. Why was my father very cultured in spite of his lack of university education? Was the aim of education not about making us better human beings? And should that state of being a better human being not be concrete and practical? I thought still.

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Eventually the results of the

universities entrance examination were released. Candidates whose scores met the cut-off point got admission letters. Maria and I passed creditably; we scored very high points, much above the cut-off points of the courses we had chosen: Maria chose Medicine; I preferred Law. She got admission to the University of Nigeria, Loko, Loko Campus; I was offered admission to Zamad Bell University, Zina—Konti Campus.

Not long after, the facsimiles of the admission letters arrived. Could you doubt the authenticity of my claims of having passed the examination? Would the reception of a letter like this not make you proud of your achievement and as well redound to your scholarship?

There was great rejoicing in the family on both our admission. I heralded the news to my people at Guzegu through a letter. Things moved so fast that shortly I was travelling the first time to Hafanaland to my university. The commuter sharing the same row of seat with me, a relatively elderly man, ventured to ask whether I was a student. Naturaly, I answered in the affirmative.

‘And you’re going on a holiday?’ ‘Not really on a holiday. I got

admission into Zamad Bell University, Zina.‘

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‘So you passed the entrance examination?’

‘Yes, I did,’ I answered and proceeded to show him my letter of admission. I was always quick to show people my result, being very proud of it. He took the letter of admission from me and began to go through it.

‘A fine one,′ he said after perusal. ‘The Board sent this letter to you, I suppose?′

‘Yes, sir.′ ‘Well, since you have a letter of

admission, which means your admission is based on merit. You may be registered by the university.

‘You may be registered...’‘You see, dear, those of us who live

in Hafanaland live in fear, for you can not say if something you’ve just said without any ulterior motive is interpreted as an insult to Islam. At the slightest provocation they begin to destroy our shops, making you suspect that they are envious of the material success of non-indegenes in their midst. They even say we kill for money, because they do not understand how we turn every challenge to opportunity. They say we are everywhere. I cannot deceive you, my son, you may have made a wrong choice. You are not the first person to have chosen that university. Personally, I live and do business in the university town. I have two grown-up boys as you are.

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They had sought ceaselessly for admission into that university, but all their efforts yielded no result; not because they did not pass the entrance examination but because they come from the so-called educationally advantaged area. I had to take them down to Biafra; and, now, they have successfully secured admission at the University of Nigeria in Loko. One is studying political science; the other is studying English and German languages. Merit counts there more than anything else as regards admission. All one requires is to pass the exams and be offered admission into the university, nothing more than that!′

I did not know what to believe of what the man was telling me. I had always felt that no one had the right to deprive me of my rightfully gained admission; for, according to the Board whose responsibility it was to offer admission to its successful candidates, the exam I passed was a highly competitive one; therefore merit was given priority.

The journey from Onata to Faduna in Hafana was a very long one. We arrived at Faduna in the morning of the following day. Being in this new environment and seeing an entirely different race of Nigerians were two unique experiences for me as a growing young man. I got off the bus, which had pulled up in the garage, weak and puzzled.

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‘This must be a new experience for you, my boy. Just follow me,′ said my neighbour in the bus, who had told me about the fate of his children at their effort to study at Zamad Bell University. I followed him. We crossed to the other side of the road, which was near a hotel. Alsahad Cosmopolitan Hotel was boldly written on the neon-signboard of the hotel.

‘You’ll take a mini-bus from here to Feri. Then, from Feri, you’ll board another mini-bus that will take you to Zina. It is not complicated at all. As soon as you hear the conductor of the bus shout Feri, Feri, reply by saying: Feri, Akwei mesoka, which means: ‘you’ll get off at Feri.′

‘Thank you, sir,′ I managed to say, being rather overwhelmed by the new experience I was making as well as the anxiety of what I could encounter at my chosen the university.

‘Don’t mention. I wish you good luck, my son. What is that your name?′

‘James Ndudim,′ I said. ‘I’m Mr. Patrick Ikedi. My son

Lumumba is almost your age. All the same good luck,′ the man said and then walked off.

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Hafana was not after all some strange abode in outer space: it was in Nigeria. Theirs was a flat savannah-land that evoked some mystic déjà vu feeling in you as you drove by the large stretch of potentially fertile lands. The beauty of the African world stretched out before you.

Faduna was relatively developed; but its development concentrated along the major road into the city. Unlike Onata there were less of high-rise buildings there, and none at all in Zina. However, unlike Biafra, Hafana had beautiful road networks. Once I saw the beautiful network of roads was, I wondered why the roads in Biafra were not like the ones in Hafana. Why was that robust entrepreneurship and rugged individualism characteristic of Biafran people absent here? Why were there beggars at every corner of the streets, here? Why did it seem as if they were making a profession of their weaknesses?

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Muslim worshippers lounged around like refugees, gazing vacantly at nothing particularly while counting the beads they had in their hands in prayer. They stood up, took a gaze at the sun, raised their hands up to heaven, genuflected, sat down again, bowed their heads to the ground, raised them again, muttered some inaudible sound, stood again and repeated the whole cycle. Seeing these worshippers in their hundreds made me remember my good friend Musa. We had looked down on him at the time for what we felt was a seemingly religious idiocy, while we all were at Adia. I did not see Musa thereafter as idiotic because if he was, all these people I had seen could not all be. They worshipped under the shady baobab trees around that provided shade against the sun. After worship, they relaxed back under the tree as the air buzzed with flies which seemed to sing songs of decay.

Palatial edifices adorned the campus of the University. It had facilities that made both social and academic work easy. Registration took place at the office of the Registrar and I had come for registration. A passer-by walked across and I asked him if he could direct me to the office of the Registrar. He listened with attendant humility and said with a jerky burr:

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‘Sura, I can,’ he said. ‘Can you see that tall building there?’ He said pointing at the direction.

‘Yes, please.′ I answered. ‘Good. Then follow this way; it leads

to the senate building, the tall building I just showed you right now. When you get to its patio, you’ll see many other people. Ask them of the registrar’s office. Is that okay?’

‘Yes. Thank you, please,’ I said gratefully and then walked on.

The young man made a timid impression. He seemed simple. He was tall, black, and lanky. His face had some tribal marks as well. He exuded humility and spoke with a jerky burr that betrayed an apparent uneasiness, seeming very careful as not to expose some moral or intellectual weaknesses. I noticed a great burden he had on him, compounded by inexplicable jealousy and awe of me. That same jealousy with which I was being looked upon at Guzegu, that same awe … that same hate.

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Following the descriptions of the boy, I came to the very patio of the senate building. You could not but be as confused and as desirous of information as I was in this magnificent place, I bet. Two young men proceeded in my direction. I decided to make more enquiries from them. I made overtures toward them. I needed to be directed from there on how to get to the registrar’s office. They rebuffed my overtures and walked on, having all the exaggerated airs of scholarship. But, of course, I was not the type that would cringe to fools that saw themselves as my superiors; therefore, I spoke out my intention and boldly at that.

‘I only want to know how to get to the Registrar’s office, nothing more dudes!’ At that statement, of course it portrayed me as somebody cool, they stopped, however, superciliously, to know why I was pestering them. First, with a view to lightening the tension between us, I stretched out my hand to shake them; they would not shake me, either; they did not even seem to have the slightest intention of bringing out their hands from their pockets.

‘Yes, what is it?’ One of them asked brusquely. ‘How may we help you?’

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How I hated their guts and despised their exaggerated sense of superiority. I refused to be humiliated. I expressed my purpose boldly: ‘Please would you mind showing me the registrar’s office?’

‘Were you offered admission here?’ One of them asked me.

‘Yes, I was.′ ‘You should see the academic

secretary; that’s what we call it here. However, the school has not resumed. The academic secretary’s office is on the first floor and the whole of the first floor is the academic office, right?’ he said and started off with his friend, conversing with him in a language I did not understand.

With my big bag strapped on my back and the little portmanteau, which I was holding in my hand, both of which constituted a burden, I ascended the stairs that led to the first floor of the senate building, which, supposedly, was the academic office, and hastened to the academic secretary’s office having been directed there by a girl I chanced upon on that same floor.

‘Good morning, sir,′ I greeted the man in the office as I dropped my luggage on the office’s floor.

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‘Good morning,’ he reciprocated in a subdued tone. Neither his intonation nor his accent sounded like that of a man from Hafana. But he had such a round face which tapered at the jaw and sported a greying goatee characteristic of the people of Hafana. If he was not from Hafana, then he had imbibed their simplicity, with an aura that betrayed a never-caring-of-worries attitude.

‘Sir, I have come to submit my acceptance form to the Registrar of the university; I was offered admission into this university,′ I said confidently with all the airs of achievement.

‘Em … em … we haven’t started registering fresh students.′

‘But, sir, I was directed to submit this form to the registrar of the university having indicated my acceptance of the offer of provisional admission.’

‘All right … go to the next office … the man there will tell you what to do; I’m just a secretary as you can see.′

Quickly, I proceeded to the office I had been directed. A very prim and smartly dressed gentleman was sitting at a table in the office. His well groomed shiny afro had a parting by the side and he wore black-framed glasses. He was Lanky, dark-complexioned and sported a well trimmed moustache, exuding thereby an intellectual aura.

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‘Good morning, sir,’ I said in all humility.

‘Good morning,’ he reciprocated with a cheerful mien.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked. ‘Yes sir. I was offered admission

here to study law. Here is my admission letter.’ I said to him. I always took delight in presenting my letter of admission as well as my result slip wherever I went. He began to scan through the letter, listening at the same time attentively to what I was saying.

‘I’ve come as I was directed to do, to submit my acceptance form to the Registrar of the university,’ I said again.

‘Well’, he said, moving his eyes from the letter, facing me, eyeball to eyeball; ‘registration is not yet on for freshmen at the university … the school hasn’t reopened, either. But there’s still one thing you have to know,” he said smiling with a feeling that foreboded something ominous. ‘Before one is said to have been offered admission here, one’s name has to be on the list of those admitted into the university … a letter of admission into the university is then issued to those lucky ones… It is that letter you use for registration,’ he continued, still smiling.

‘But, sir, what list and what letter of admission are you talking about?’ I asked.

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‘The university’s admission list … You see, the Board’s admission is one thing, while the university’s admission is another: The university doesn’t give countenance to the Board’s admission letters: they do their own admission their own way; nobody questions the legality…’ he said smiling, amidst an ominous silence.

‘Thank you, sir,’ was all I could say after gazing hopelessly at the man.

‘You’re welcome,’ he reciprocated. Still anxious and curious to obtain

more information regarding admission procedures in the university, I headed for the faculty of law block. Two young men wearing kaftan were standing outside in front of the block conversing.

‘Sanu,’ I greet them in their language, knowing fully well that my greeting them in their own language would make them give ear to whatever I might ask of them.

‘Sanu de zua,’ they reciprocated simultaneously, expecting me to go on with their language. But I switched over to the English language to their chagrin.

‘Please could you direct me to the office of the head of the faculty of law?’

‘Is he your relation?’ One of them asked suspiciously.

‘No,’ I answered.

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‘Probably, you two are from the same tribe? – Are you a Yoluma?’ he enquired still.

‘No. I am from Biafra.’ ‘Why then do you want to see the

head of my faculty?’ he asked, still very anxious.

‘To make enquiries … I was offered admission into the faculty,’ I said, giving him my letter of admission even when he was not asking for it. Surprised, he began to peruse the letter curiously, as if he hadn’t seen such a thing before.

‘What of your result slip?’ his friend asked.

I opened my little portmanteau once again and give him the slip.

‘Kai,’ the one with my result slip vented. ‘Allah kwa, you scored a very high mark. Bello, see,’ he showed the slip to his friend who was busy reading my letter of admission.

‘Allah! You will be admitted,’ said Bello, the one with the letter of admission.

‘You said you would like to see the head of the faculty?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ ‘Why then? Your result is good.’

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‘Yes, but I was reliably informed that only those whose names appeared on the list of those offered admission by the university would be registered.’

At that statement, the two men looked at each other, as if afraid that I had discovered an illegality that had thrived for years undiscovered; the University’s system of admission. I felt also that they were humbled possibly by the fact that they may not have passed the university examination, but had been admitted to study courses of their choice in the university.

‘Brother,’ Bello’s friend called to me, ‘You’re lucky to be early though you could still have a problem. Climb upstairs, then turn right. Along the passage you will see where it is written boldly, on the door: Head of the Faculty of Law – knock twice on the door and enter…is that clear?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I said.‘Tooo–yowa.’

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They seemed to be those radical students favoured by the system, and who, however, have turned round, due to learning and exposure, to question the legality of the status quo. Or probably they were acting so well that I was not able to notice that they had no sympathy for me…. How did they know that I was going to have a problem? Why had they, who appeared to oppose the system not openly challenge it if they did not like the way it favoured them? I thought. But I did not want these doubts to defile my mind.

The inscription on the door was accurate. I knocked twice, opened it and walked in as I was told to do.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ I greeted the man who was typing as I entered the office.

‘Good afternoon,’ the dark-complexioned, tall, handsome and bearded man reciprocated in all humility. His name, carved on a plastic material, rested on his table.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked. ‘Sir, I would like to see the Head of

the faculty.’ ‘Is there any problem?’ ‘Not really … only to make

enquiries.’ ‘All right … sit down and wait for a

while … He’s with somebody.’

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As soon as the man in the office of the Head of the faculty left the office, the secretary motioned me to the H.O.F.’s office. And here I was face to face with a perfect gentleman, scholarly in the main.

‘Young man,’ he called to me, ‘how may I help you. Do sit down, please,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir.’ ‘What is the problem?’ He asked.‘Sir, I was offered admission into

this faculty. I simply want to know whether or not my name is on the list, sir. I have come from far-away Biafra and ought to go home with reasonable information.’

‘Can I see your result slip and admission letter?’

‘Here are they, sir,’ I said handing them over to him.

Carefully, he read through the slip and the letter of admission.

‘I see – you performed very well; but, let me see,’ he said scanning over the comprehensive list of those offered admission into the law faculty.

‘Em … Em, James, you said you’re from which State?’

‘Biafra, sir.’ ‘Em … em, your name is not here.

Only two people from Biafra were admitted by the University. Who did you say gave you this letter of admission?’

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I told him.‘You see, James, sincerely speaking,

I don’t know how this University carries out its admission. As much as I know, you have a respectable score, high enough to merit admission, despite the fact that the two boys from Biafra, whose names are on my list scored higher than you. However, I suggest that you come back two weeks from today when registration would have started. I should do something about your case, eh…. Don’t weep, don’t weep – just get back home – come back two weeks from today and I will do something about this, ok?’

‘Ok, sir,’ I said, sniffing, pushing back my running nose. “Thank you, sir,” I said still. I got up and left the office. Dejected, I sauntered out of the faculty block, ignoring the two men who had given me directions earlier. They, too, were not eager to ask me the outcome of my enquiries. They obviously knew that I was going to have a problem.

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It was past noon and hell had been let loose. During such hours of the day, when the sun basked in its masculinity and men suffered under its chauvinism, thieves and pick-pockets sprawled around with keen eyes on potential victims on whose faces they notice the impatience of being exposed anew to such hostile weather. Eager to find shade over my sun-beaten head I jumped into the taxi that pulled up by me, and whose driver was already carrying two people I assumed to be passengers.

‘Take me to the bus station, please,’ I said.

‘At your service, sir,’ the driver vented, but then took off into a lonely road.

‘That road does not lead to the bus station,’ I complained.

The two passengers with me at the back seat started moving themselves in ways that suggested they were feeling very uncomfortable in the car. They asked me to seat properly by moving over a little. I did that. They said my bag was occupying space I had to hold it very well. While I wanted to move over a little, one of the passengers at the back of the vehicle dug his hand into the pocket of my jeans trousers and took my money. I pleaded with the passenger at the passenger’s side in front to help hold my bag while I shifted for the passengers at the back with me.

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The driver himself told me that he had decided to head for a different direction; that I could get down at the lonely road to take another taxi to the bus station. I agreed and got off, having taken my bag back from the passenger at the passenger’s side in front. It hardly occurred to me that he was a member of the gang; he took my shoes and sandals from the bag as fast as he could.

Once I got off the taxi, I frisked myself and noticed that the money I had in my back pocket was gone. The only money I had on me was the one I put inside the pocket of my shirt. I opened my bag and noticed that one leg of my shoe and sandal were missing. It was obvious they were taken in haste by the man to whom I had given my bag while I tried to make space for the persons I thought were passengers. Before I could shout, the taxi sped off with great speed, with the men laughing at me.

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5

‘James! What happened? Didn’t they register you?’ Maria asked me as soon as she opened the gate and saw me, for nobody was expecting me back that soon.

‘They haven’t started registering freshmen; in fact the school has not reopened. Those I saw were those re-sitting the papers they failed. I was told that the school would reopen in two weeks.’

‘But, did you submit your acceptance form?’ She enquired still.

‘How could I when the school isn’t in session?’

‘I submitted mine even though the university hasn’t started registering new student.’

‘May be that is the way it is done there,’ I said.

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Maria handed me a letter and said it came just yesterday. Curiously I opened it. To my surprise it was from my very good friend Musa. I read it very curiously.

Dear James,How are you? I hope you are fine. We

have all lost touch since we left school. How about Bunmi? I learnt Chike has travelled to the US to join his brothers. I’m happy for him. Me, I just got admission to study medicine at Kantuo University in Hafanaland.

My brother you know how it is: I didn’t want to face too much competition in Biafra, so I thought I could easily get a place here: Moreover, you know we are educationally disadvantaged so I was going to be admitted anyway.

What of you? I’m sure you got admission too? Do write me so I can know how the world fares with. Be the James Ndudim you have always been.

Love,Musa Aliyu.

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Even Musa understood the politics of Nigeria, I thought to myself. He chose to study at the university in his part of the country because he did not want to face the competition in Biafra. He also knew they were educationally disadvantaged and he took advantage of that.

A car horn sounded amidst our conversation and I hastened to the gate. It was Mr Obiefuna. I guessed he forgot something very important.

‘James! You are back already? I hope you have been registered,’ he asked.

‘They haven’t resumed; they haven’t started registering freshmen, either,’ I said.

‘I see. I was wondering whether they refused to admit you as I had envisioned. I cannot count on them,’ he said.

‘It seems you forgot something very important, sir?’ I asked.

‘Yes, an important document!’ he said and darted into the house and out again with a file.

‘Maria,’ I called to Maria as I entered the sitting room, ‘I am very weak. I need to rest,’ I said, walking to my room lethargically.

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In bed, thoughts bespattered my mind, for only I knew the predicament into which I had fallen. It was very easy to become depressed at this point in time and feel rejected. But I knew I had a right to study at any university of my choice in the federal republic until somebody told me I did not have such rights. If merit was no longer a criterion for getting a place in the university I wondered what was. I had no choice than to be optimistic that, after all, the anomaly would be rectified by the Zamad University authorities.

I found time to tell Mr. Obiefuna about my ordeal in Zina, while we all were in the sitting room after supper.

‘Such things do happen in Nigeria. I had the premonition that you could be a victim. It is quite insecure for a kid as you are to choose to undertake this rigorous adventure: travelling miles and miles away from home in the name of studying in a university when we have universities here in Biafra. It portends something bad,’ Mr. Obiefuna said after I had related the robbery incident to the family. He had never at any point in time hidden his disapproval of my choice of university.

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‘But that he lost his things to armed robbers shouldn’t give one cause to believe that he won’t be admitted. I believe, as the elders say, that one cannot stay at a place to watch a masquerade if one ever wants to have a complete view of it …,’ Mrs. Obiefuna chimed in.

‘If he was killed by the robbers, nobody would be talking of admission?’ Mr. Obiefuna cut in.

‘Providence didn’t will it. Let’s leave James to his destiny, please,’ Madam said still.

‘But no one is holding him back from his destiny. He elected to study in that university, and he’s going to if he’s admitted, because I still doubt if he would be admitted. I said ever before James applied to that rotten university that when you exhort the ear and the ear refuses to give heed to your exhortation – when the head is cut, the ear goes with it – didn’t I?’

For the second time in my stay in that house I saw Mr. Obiefuna get annoyed – seriously annoyed. I refused to utter a word, whilst he raved. I was calm, ruminating.

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‘Why should this boy be so consumed by this unity thing? Why? Why? I told him, didn’t I that his going back to that university is just to waste my hard-earned money because he would never be admitted. Ask him, he hasn’t told us the real story. He must be hiding something from us. James, tell us everything that happened. Didn’t you see anybody at the university when you got there?’

‘Sir, I saw only students that came to retake the courses they failed. They were the people who told me that the school hasn’t, formally, resumed; that it would resume in two weeks,’ I said in self pity.

‘Are you sure?’ Mr Obiefuna asked.‘Yes, sir,’ I answered quivering.‘All right, you’ll go back in two

weeks. We’ll see what will become of you. All I know is that I will never be blamed for your not securing admission. I don’t pray for that, anyhow. Your things have been stolen. I‘ll buy those things again for you. But if you had common sense, you should be wondering why all these things should be happening to you. I haven’t scolded you before, have I? You never knew you would be robbed, did you? Nothing happens without a cause,’ Mr. Obiefuna raged. He walked into his room and slammed the door.

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Mrs. Obiefuna was short of words. She seemed disillusioned; she merely got up from her seat, and, quietly walked into her room. Maria stood up from her seat, too. She looked at me sympathetically and then, quietly, walked rather into my room. I was sitting motionless on the sofa in the sitting-room – completely overwhelmed with thoughts. After some minutes, I stood up from the couch, switched off the lights in the sitting room and walked, dejectedly, into my room. While in my room I refused to lie down in bed. I paced the room up and down. The air seemed tensed as if I had already been deprived of my right of being admitted into my chosen university.

‘You really made a wrong choice, James. … Believe me you did,’ Maria said, breaking the looming silence.

‘Probably I did. Probably I didn’t,’ I said courageously.

When, after two weeks, I went back to the university in Zina, I had to lodge in a hotel, because I knew I was going to be around a little while to make sure I got everything under control. The campus was a beehive unlike before. I joined other freshmen, as I was, at the patio of the “Senate building”.

‘Is it true that the admission offered by the Board is not binding on the university?’ I overheard one of the freshmen ask his friend.

‘I learnt so.’

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‘I doubt if we will find our names on the list.’

‘What did you score?’ ‘275/400.’‘What course is that?’‘Law.’ ‘Hm, not bad; not bad at all.’‘Look my friend,’ I cut in. ‘I scored

282/400, but I never saw my name on their so-called list the first time I came to this university to submit my acceptance form.’

‘And what did you do?’ the second freshman asked me

‘I did everything within I could. However, I was asked to come today. The head of the faculty said he could correct the anomaly.’

In a short while, the lists were placed on the notice boards of all the faculties. I searched with effort for my name, but to no avail. I took a hard look at my letter of admission and thereon was written: A Primary Admission Letter.

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Early the following day, supplementary lists were placed on the notice boards. Surprisingly, I did not find my name on those lists. I became disillusioned, as anybody would be. I began to make plans of staying longer to see if I could get justice. I proceeded to the office of the academic secretary, a mini god in his own right. I overheard him addressing a group of aggrieved candidates: ‘Go to the University of the Board responsible for admission – this is Z.B.U!’ He was responding to the question of an aggrieved candidate on why our admission letters did not matter to the university.

‘Is this the reply we get for a colossal injustice done to us in our own country? Did we not pass the matriculation exams? Oh yes we did! We did, my dear!’ A vehement voice asserted itself for the crowd of abused youths.

As I walked by the faculty block dejected and desirous of help, I stumbled on a name on the door of one of the offices that looked familiar; I followed a primordial instinct that drew one to one’s kind. I entered the office, wanting to take my chance: perhaps he would listen to me; perhaps he could help.

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‘Yes, what is it, young man?’ The professor asked gravely, without even looking up to see who it was that he had asked to come into his office. He was preoccupied in his studies.

‘Sir, I am James Ikpo Ndudim. I come from Ozurumba Local government in Biafra.’

The professor looked up slowly with interest, removing his glasses to get a proper view of me; perhaps he was also reacting to a primordial instinct.

‘Ndudim,’ he called with solemn sympathy, ‘can I help you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said, nearly running to tears.

‘What is it?’ he asked with curious empathy.

‘Sir, I was offered admission into this university but I couldn’t find my name on their lists.’

“You don’t have to cry, Ndudim. No, you don’t. Let me see your result slip and your admission letter.”

Sorrowfully, without hope of remedy, I handed them over to him for his perusal.

‘Look at this – just look at this,’ he said on perusing the credentials. ‘This is a respectable result. You said you didn’t find your name on the lists?’

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‘Yes, sir,’ I answered slightly hopeful of success.

‘All right, we’ll see the dean of the faculty of law. I mean this result is too respectable to be ignored!’

We headed for the office of the dean only to learn from his secretary that his boss was not around.

‘Can I see the complete list of all the people offered admission into this faculty?’ The professor demanded.

‘Yes,’ the secretary said hesitantly. He brought out the full lists from a drawer and handed them over to the professor. Carefully, the professor began to study the lists, flipping over pages and studying them carefully. I, for my part, simply peered, anxiously, through his shoulder to the lists. These were what I could see:

ADAMU AHMED - (140)/ COMMISSIONER OF POLICE

BELLO ISMALLA - (120)/COMMISSIONER OF JUSTICE

ABUBAKAR ABUBAKAR- (112) / EMIR OF KARIA.

TAKAR A. TAKAR - (130)/ VICE CHANCELLOR.

IBRAHIM ISMALLA - (110) CHIEF OF DEFENSE STAFF

YAKUBU YAHAYA - (186) BASIC STUDIES

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AHMED BELLO - (186) BASIC STUDIESSHINKAFI CIRONIA - (189) BASIC STUDIESABUBAKAR MOHAMMED - (189) BASIC

STUDIESABDUL A. ABDUL - (189) BASIC STUDIESMAGAJI A. MAGAJI - (189) BASIC STUDIESABDUL A. MAGAJI - (189) BASIC STUDIESABDULRAHAM C. CIROMA- (178) BASIC

STUDIESAHMED C. DANTATA - (186) BASIC

STUDIESYAKA A. HAMZA - (192) BASIC STUDIESIBRAHIM O. KADIL - (180) BASIC STUDIESSOKOTO E. MANZORO - (189) BASIC

STUDIESSHAGARI B. JIBRIL - (189) BASIC

STUDIESKASTINA A. AMINU - (187) BASIC

STUDIESRILWANU C. KAMO - (185) BASIC

STUDIESBELLO C. BELLO - (188) Basic studiesUTARKA C. ATA - (172) Basic studiesMOHAMMED C. AHMED - (173) Basic

studiesISA C. RAMAT - (174) Basic studiesITA O. ISMAILA - (174) Basic studiesATA B. YAKUBU - (179) Basic studiesE.T.C.

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The professor went over and over the lists, searching diligently for my name, but all to no avail. Satisfied with what he had seen, he walked out of the office and I followed him behind. He stopped by a pillar that was about a yard or more away from his office. He leaned unhappily on the pillar, looked into vacancy for a while, bent his head thoughtfully, and finally looked up towards me solemnly, ready to speak:

‘That is it. They don’t want you. You see, my dear boy, I am only here as an expert: I have only to disseminate the knowledge I have acquired, research for the betterment of humankind, get paid for the job I do, nothing more. I am yet to be convinced that I belong here, either; neither will you be. I cannot change my identity; neither can you. So son, don’t worry. Despite all these deprivations, if providence willed you to acquire university education, you will acquire it. Get down home; see whether you can secure admission in any of the universities in Biafra. Don’t weep, son; don’t weep, our chance will come,’ exhorted the professor. And with tears rolling down my cheeks, I sailed forth, completely dazed.

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Justice had been murdered! Merit disregarded! Indolence and mediocrity celebrated! Sentiments worshipped! Whom would I tell my story? Who would believe me? Oh fatherland, could you give me hope? I raged within.

While on the bus that was heading for Biafra, whence I come, I was disinclined to talk with my fellow commuters. I was at war with myself: Did not Mr. Obiefuna warn me against choosing Zamad Bell University, Zina? Did he not tell me that the country’s unity was a hollow sham? Did he not say that there was an unhealthy rivalry among the ethnic groups? That the world was such a messy place? And, my father, what did he tell me: that I was a citizen of the world with inalienable rights; that I should seek towards being detribalised of my tribe.

I got home at night. As the door of the house creaked and I felt somebody walking to the gate, I saw Mr. Obiefuna peeping through the chink.

‘James, didn’t they register you? They did, I suppose,’ he said as he opened the gate excitedly.

‘No, sir. They didn’t,’ I answered, downcast.

‘But what was their reason?’

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‘Nothing, sir! We even seemed as people who never took the matriculation exams, not to talk of passing it.’

‘Is everything ok, James?’ Mrs. Obiefuna asked me as I entered the sitting room, carrying my big bag.

‘They didn’t admit us, ma,’ I answered disappointedly.

‘On what grounds …? Did they give you a rejection note?’ Madam asked with all the airs of jurisprudence.

‘No, ma.’ ‘It is illegal, then. We must take

legal action against the university authority, dear,’ Madam raged.

‘But James,’ Master cut in, ‘why did it have to take you so long to return home, when you knew you wouldn’t be admitted.’

‘I hoped they would, sir. I pleaded, begged, cried for them to consider me even though I had no cause to beg. I took a very competitive exam, passed creditably and was offered admission to that university,’ I said, nearly running to tears.

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‘That is Nigeria for you. Anyhow, James, you go now and have a bath, eat and then go to bed. Do not worry; tomorrow, we will drive down to the University at Loko to see if they can admit you there. The admission exercise should have ended by now, but I shall plead. I know the admissions officer; he was my classmate.’

***********

Seeing themselves after so many years was wonderful. They all had made it somehow, Mr. Obiefuna and his friend, Ken, thought. Ken was familiar with such visitations being the admissions officer of the university. He only hoped that it was possible for the visitor’s wishes to be fulfilled. He detested bribery and acted within the confnes of his duty. He could say no to anything beyond his capacity or was impossible. That made him very much at peace with himself.

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After he had exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Obiefuna, he pretended to be busying himself with the piles of files of potential students lying on his desk, while he waited for Mr. Obiefuna to table his case. Mr. Obiefuna therefore introduced me as his ward and said I was offered admission at Zamad Bell University, Zina, but was refused registration by the university. He told him that many of us from the south could not locate our names on the lists of those admitted into the university. And no reason was given for the anomaly.

‘Do you have his admission letter and his result slip?’

‘Yes! Here are they,’ Mr. Obiefuna said handing the documents over to him.

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‘Damn it! But this is a primary admission letter. In fact this boy is more than qualified. Look, Obi, you mustn’t take this lightly. This is a very serious case. You have to go to Latos to see the Registrar of the Matriculation Board. He should do something about this; this is gross injustice! You see, Obi, I could have been of great help to him, if he had made this university his second choice; but he didn’t. Moreover, we have just sent the final list of those we considered for admission to the board. I cannot do anything now. The only person who can act on this right now is the Registrar of the Board. He alone can mandate us to admit the chap! But who advised this boy to choose that university, anyway?’

‘I advised him against choosing that university but you know the children nowadays, they must have their way!’

‘You’ll have to go to Latos first; thereafter, we will know what to do,’ Ken said.

‘All right, then. Tomorrow we will set out. Anyhow Ken, I remain very grateful. I’ll keep in touch,’ Mr. Obiefuna said

‘Don’t mention! You just meet the registrar and we will know the next line of action.’

‘All right, Ken! It is my pleasure.’ ‘Don’t mention,’ replied the

admissions officer.

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6I was alone in the house, with

nobody to talk to. But I loved my solitude: There were things to think about: was I going to lose this academic session just like that? What if I did, would that mean the end of the whole world? Papa must be going about now priding himself as the father of the second lawyer Guzegu would produce after Mrs Obiefuna. Mama’s head must be standing high now in any women’s gathering for mothering an illustrious son of Guzegu, who had found his way into the university to read one of those “uncommon” courses that portended wealth.

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My sisters must definitely be looked upon with awe for being posterity to men of transcendent intelligence. Their ego would definitely be punctured once they know that I could not get into the university after all, I thought. Could I really stand the shame, the shock, and the disappointment? Could I really hold my head high, beat my chest proudly and say I was refused admission by the university of my choice because I come from Biafra? Could a crusader for unity, for cosmopolitanism, like my father, believe such an excuse? Would he not term it very flimsy? Would he not see it as mere subterfuge on my part to avoid being criticised for my unsuitability for admission? Honestly, I had no answers to these questions. They merely aroused a feeling of rebellion in me.

The following day, Mr. Obiefuna started off to Latos to see the registrar of the matriculation board, as he promised he would. Mrs. Obiefuna had just left for work. I was alone again in the house, ruminating! Surprisingly, I was thinking about something else totally different from the predicament of my university admission; the relationship between Maria and me.

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I did not know whether my cold posture in our love affair was as a result of my desire to lead a righteous life or not; or merely as a result of my secret desire to string her along. If I could be sincere to myself, considering the circumstances I found myself in, I should say I did really love her. Fact is: I was jealous at that moment.

Maria could be having affairs with other guys on campus; she could despise me now, knowing fully well that I could not get into the university this year. There was this pride that was associated with being in the ivory tower! It was a stage in the life of youths when parents or guardians granted them some freedom, being full-blown adults. Why would fate deal me such a terrible blow at a time like this? Was it wrong to choose to study in a university in my country? Was it wrong to be born in a country as this? Was there any rationale in stagnating ambitious people just to uphold federal character? Was there a will to revenge in being persecuted, in being suppressed? Did the will to power, on the part of the persecuted, engender this will to revenge on the part of the persecutor? Or was persecution merely a reactionary feeling aroused out of apprehension? I thought.

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Why do people want to acquire university education? I asked myself. Is it because they want to invest in themselves and thus acquire that intellectual mould concomitant of learning? Or they only seek to restore their dignity as men, so that everything they do, no matter how it seems, would be appreciated by those chauvinists, who appreciate nothing, no matter how important, no matter how intellectual it seems, unless it comes from one with chains of degrees? I had no answers to those questions.

************ When Mrs. Obiefuna asked me to

follow her to the Ridge Club in the evening, I was half glad and half sad; partly glad because I would have the opportunity of easing tension; partly sad because I was aware that no amount of distractions could make me forget that my chances of gaining admission that academic session lay between the Scylla and the Charybdis: The registrar of the matriculation board could refuse to render any help. The admissions officer at the University of Nigeria had already said he would only admit me if the Registrar of the Board approved it.

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An air of propriety and luxury saturated the ambience of the Ridge Club as it teemed with men and women of high society, who lounged and sat around the beautiful gardens and lawns, flirting and carousing under the beautifully thatched huts doting every strategic corner of the Club. Some of the members engaged themselves in one sport or the other; some obese ones jogged for survival. An alien in this type of gathering would certainly detest the vanity and shallowness that exuded from the majority of people here foregathered. You could not but feel that only a few people cared one bit about the way things were going in the country. Mrs. Obiefuna, relishing the sophistication around her, took extra care to show me who was who in the club:

‘You see that big, pot-bellied man over there? He is the Commissioner of Justice. We all were together at law school,’ she would say. I always said to myself once she showed me any of the big men or women in Biafra: what does that bundle of fat care about a poor boy that got admission but was refused entry into the university of his choice because of his state of origin? Do these people not know what is going on in their country? Have they chosen to act on as if everything is ok? Or have they chosen a quiet life since they were all comfortably off? I thought.

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A car horn sounded from outside. The bell of the house rang just as well. It was Mr. Obiefuna. We did not know he was going to come back home today.

Mr. Obiefuna had met with the registrar of the board and did let him know of how his ward was offered admission to Zamad Bell University and how he was prevented from registering by the university.

‘Why? What happened?” The registrar had asked.

‘I don’t know; but I do know that my ward took the entrance examination, passed very well and was offered admission to that university.’

‘Yes, and what do you want me to do,’ the man had asked.

‘With due respect, Sir, it is the responsibility of this body, which you are heading, to ensure that everyone offered admission gets placed by the university of his choice, isn’t it?’

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A knock on the door distracted their attention. The door opened a crack and someone peered as if trying to ascertain that somebody was in; and suddenly five hefty boys barged into the office furiously. The registrar’s eyes popped out in surprise. He seemed confused but the gaze on his face seemed to say: ‘yes, what the hell can I do for you. Aren’t you mannered enough to know that I’m still talking with somebody; that you have to wait outside till I’m through with him?’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ one of the boys, supposedly the spokesman of the group started. ‘I’m John Chima; do you still recognise us?’

The registrar giggled at what he thought to be the most stupid question ever put to him in all his years as a public servant. And to let the boy understand how stupid he thought his question was, he said: “I’m not bound to recognise every face that I see in my office, am I? What insolence! What arrogant boldness! The boys must have thought.

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‘Well, you need to be reminded: We are the boys that complained to you about the refusal of Zamad Bell University to give countenance to our admission letters, in spite of the fact that they are the tokens of our success in the matriculation examination. Sir, you did promise to write to the registrar of the university to urge him to abide by the rules of the central body which is responsible for all the admissions. But, sir, you did not write the letter after all. The university has matriculated without us. We demand that justice be done!’ the boy said forcefully.

‘What justice! What justice is greater than being offered admission by the Board? If the university of your choice refuses to take you, should it be the problem of this Board?’

‘What then is the duty of this Board?’ the boy asked, furiously, shouting at the top of his lungs.

‘To offer admission to its successful candidates! And this it has done. It still depends on the universities to choose who they want to choose! They probably considered people within their catchment areas ... I would rather advise you boys to go and purchase new forms that are now on sale before the exercise ends and then retake the examination,’ the registrar said with a wry smile on his face.

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At this statement, hell was let loose. The boys became provoked so much that they pounced on the man and beat him to a state of coma. The scene attracted the attention of every member of staff. Soon anti-riot policemen began to arrive at the compound in their combat trucks. Quietly, Mr. Obiefuna sneaked out of the premises, entered his vehicle and started back home. The incident was featured as breaking news on the network news at nine.

‘That is to say James has lost this academic session?’ Mrs. Obiefuna asked her husband after he had narrated the event.

‘I’m afraid so. It should serve as a lesson.’

I was at my lowest ebb, opening a gateway for negative thought forms to bombard my depressed soul.

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7 ‘First, you had to adapt to the

university environment. You had to adapt to the eccentricities that were characteristic of lecturers. You had to accommodate the different-ways-of-life of people of other ethnic groups. The campus was a beehive of activities. Students hustled up and down from one lecture hall to the other. On weekends, there, usually, were carnivals. One was confronted with different life styles. But there were very hardworking students; at other times one experienced the very carefree ones. There were students, who talked nothing except ideas and ideologies: depending on the degree of inclination; left, right or centre. Some felt their lives had meaning only when they were rebellious; rules and regulations were taboos to them.

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This set of students was easily recognised, for their faces knew no laughter and their bodies no feelings. They neither partied nor had time for assignations. They were either reading their textbooks or were reading any books that espoused revolution. When they were not having lectures, they were holding secret meetings. They were always ringleaders of riots and demonstrations,’ Mrs. Obiefuna reminisced on her days as a student at the university, while we all of the family listened. We were beguiling ourselves with tales under the shady ogbu-tree at the corner of the compound. We had travelled to the village for Christmas.

‘Mummy,’ Lucky called to his mother. ‘Were you a member of any of those radical groups?’

‘No ... But I had sympathy for them, for they seemed to be the very voice of the common man. No public servant, for the sake of his or her job, would take to the streets with a view to showing his grievances.’

‘We still have those youths on campus today,’ Maria cut in.

‘But they seem not to know the real problems of the Nigerian youth,’ I chimed in, intending to show off my knowledge, struggling with a feeling of inferiority.

‘How do you mean?’ Maria asked. ‘The injustices,’ I said.

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‘Of course they are aware of all these problems,’ Maria said.

‘But they haven’t demonstrated against them for once. Probably they tolerate them! But I know they demonstrate whenever their pipes run dry or whenever there is no light on campus,’ I recounted as if I had really been part of the demonstrations.

While we drove home to the village, we saw children, young men and women and even elderly men and women of the different villages we drove by wearing on their faces the happy look suggestive of the festive period. Many who were returning home for Christmas make the solitary country roads agog with vehicles. The anxiety on the faces of those still awaiting the homecoming of their kith and kin was palpable: The approach of any vehicle from afar made them more anxious.

All the nooks and crannies of Isu, Mr. Obiefuna’s country home, were agog with people, who seemed to be relishing the festive mood of the countryside. A group of men by the road-side who had recognised Mr. Obiefuna’s car cheered him as he waved to them for they were his age-mates. He beckoned them to come over to his house as he turned off to the dusty motor-path that led to his compound.

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His aged mother was sitting in front of the compound’s magnificent gate, probably anticipating her son’s arrival. Soon, we were home, and her joy knew no bounds. Mr. Obiefuna was not particularly happy to see his mother sitting outside. He pampered her so much and wished she would never die.

‘My dear, I have experienced eighty and three harmattan seasons; this one won’t kill me,’ she said boastfully.

Mr. Obiefuna’s mother watched Mrs. Obiefuna rapturously as she drove her car into the compound. She seemed so excited and happy that a woman could drive just like a man.

‘Come, my dear! Come and shake my hand! You are the daughter of your father! You have brought respect to the womenfolk!’

Soon, Mr. Obiefuna’s age-mates began to arrive. They kept cheering him as they arrived at his compound in their twos and threes until the compound was full; singing and dancing in excitement. To boost their morale, Mr Obiefuna emerged from the house with his double-barrelled gun and fired some shots into the air. At that, they began to sing more frantically, stamping their feet forcefully on the ground. Soon, beer and wine were served.

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‘Let he who does not know,’ the eldest of Mr Obiefuna’s age-mate started, ‘know that we are in the compound of one of the great men of this village. Obi is a man one would feel privileged to travel with. He has attained man’s estate. Today, we are in his house because we are in a season of great joy. These cartons of beer and wine attest to what I am saying; therefore, there is no need for those who cannot drink to be here. We will keep drinking until early morning sweepers would have begun sweeping their compounds. Ndi ogbom, my mates, kwenu!’

‘Yaa! Your speech was very fine!’ They said.

Then, they fell to drinking as if they had been starving of drinks. In a while, with each one of them holding a bottle of beer in his hand, they burst again into a song, stamping their feet forcefully on the ground as they sang.

While Mrs. Obiefuna was still telling us about her life as a student, Mr. Obiefuna beckoned to me. He wanted to go and buy a goat at the market. He needed me to go with him.

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By the time we got to Nkwo market, which was located at Guzegu, my village, it was already teeming with people. As Mr. Obiefuna parked his car by the roadside we became the cynosure of attention. They were taken back at the sight of a car sitting down for Mr. Obiefuna drove a Citröen.

‘Wonders shall never cease!’ exclaimed an elderly man, who was just about piling a ‘fingerful’ of snuff into his nostril when he saw, to his surprise, a car sitting down on its tires.

‘Okeke! Okeke!’ he called to a man sitting by him, ‘Did you see that? A car sitting down? The white man has given us food for thought. These people are challenging their Chi to a wrestling match.’

‘Who are those: I mean that man and that boy that just came down from the car?’ Okeke asked the elderly man.

‘He looks like Unonma’s son, Unonma of the Isu village. The one educated in the white man’s land, said to be very rich!’ the elderly man said with a tinge of exaggeration.

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‘Ewoo! You are right! The Unonma that used to come to Guzegu with white missionaries, those people who said Amadioha and Ogwugwu had no powers and that God has a son but refused to tell us about his wife. They made that great wrestler, Okonkwo, of Umuofia to commit suicide; you still remember? We were still kids then!’

‘Yeah, you are right!’ the elderly man said. ‘Unonma was also known for being a good diochi, tapster!’

‘Yes! That is true! What about the small boy with him? Whose son is he?’ Okeke asked the elderly man. “Or is he also the man’s son?’

‘Aah! I don’t know! I shouldn’t know anyway! It is the responsibility of kids as he is to recognise their elders, not the other way round: I cannot cudgel my brain to know a small boy as he is, who, yet, doesn’t know how to clean his anus very well after shitting,’ the elderly man said.

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From the market, we headed for my father’s compound. I had taken my things along to the market since I was going to celebrate the Christmas with my biological family. What rejoicing there was in my family when Mr. Obiefuna brought me home! Mr. Obiefuna did not stay long. Papa had wanted to offer him kolanut, but he declined and said they should leave that for another day. Before Mr. Obiefuna left, he told me to try and attend the youth seminar at Isu holding on the Boxing day. He said Maria would be attending it too.

‘Nna, my son,’ Papa started after the euphoria of my arrival had subsided. ‘We all heard of your ordeal in your bid to secure a place in the University. But there was no way I could call you to sustain your downcast spirit. But, my son, believe me, there is no condition that is permanent. Do not ever give up on what you believe to be true because of tribulations. The ravenous cloud will not dominate the sky for much longer! That you lost your right to education in Hafana should not make you give up the hope of becoming a detribalised man,’ Papa said in all solemnity.

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8Today was Boxing day. A seminar

was being organised for the youths at Isu, not very far from Guzegu, my village. I decided to walk there a journey partly obstructed by masquerades that were in all the nooks and crannies of my village. It seemed very difficult to distinguish human beings from masquerades. A masquerade with a reputation for carrying a pot full of coal embers on its head was very conspicuous in the crowd. People avoided direct confrontation with it because it was said to possess great ‘medicine’.

Its welcome companions were all medicine men, great and small! They all seemed to share some peculiar deformities. Some were withered in one hand, while some had only one eye. Some limped on one leg, while some hobbled with age. They all had their divination bags hanging across their shoulders and walked with iron-staves that had jingling objects running through their lengths. It was rumoured that those staves could transfix people to a particular place once it was fixed to the ground before the one for whom it was intended.

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At Isu, the few masquerades I saw were merely junketingand seemed not to have anything that indicated possession of juju. That there were a few masquerades here was because Isu was becoming more and more permissive, so much that such things as masquerades, possession of charms as criterion of manhood, and so on were considered by them as trivia and old fashioned beliefs and customs. Isu people accepted the new religion as well as western education earlier than the other clans and villages and seemed thus determined to master very well that very art of self-denial.

The venue of the seminar was already teeming with youths, old people and children from the entire Biafra by the time I arrived. Rumours were rife that Comrade Odumegwu would deliver the lecture on The Principles of a Revolution.

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Comrade Odumegwu considered himself a revolutionary. He had founded the Ikemba front and had hoped he would be able to educate the people of Biafra on a comprehensive scale using the front. He was a fierce-looking young man with great oratorical powers. He was not particularly handsome, but he possessed an electrifying charm and the fierceness of a lion. He was gradually balding. You would think that his great learning contributed to his baldness. He targeted the youth, especially college students, because as he always said, ‘They have the fire to burn down a nation.’

The mere mention of the name as speaker had a pull on the people to the venue. Many people had questioned the need for the seminar. For people like my father, Comrade Odumegwu was only a demagogue, whose words should not be taken serious. All this talk of change and tearing down the walls of hindrance sounded to him as being very lofty. But for Odumegwu, the youth of today ought to be made conscious of the past, so that they would be prepared to deal with the future. He taught that our leaders cared only about their pockets and that all the institutions needed to be transformed. He always argued that Nigeria was sick.

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He was able to articulate the needs of the people as well as their fears: as far as he was concerned, justice was what the Nigerian state needed very badly and domination was what each ethnic group feared. Therefore his revolution would stand firmly against injustice, against any attempt to stagnate his people, Biafrans, against any attempt to destroy his people’s security and right to amenities and education; his revolution was against any attempt to destroy the identity of his people. He argued that all Biafrans were brothers and sisters bound together by ties of trade, inter-marriage, culture and common misfortune in Nigeria and should therefore be united by the desire to create a new and better order of society which would satisfy the needs and aspirations of all and sundry.

But suddenly a voice from the crowd interrupted him by shouting, ‘we don’t want any more war in this country!’

The crowd began to murmur agreement or disagreement with the voice. Comrade Odumegwu waited patiently for the noise to die down in order to answer the voice.

‘We want freedom, Biafra must prove itself or die!’ shouted another voice.

‘Shurrup!’ another intercepted. ‘Eh, no noise!’ some other voices

said.

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Comrade Odumegwu motioned for silence and the crowd became calm.

‘Who is that person who said he didn’t want war? What does he understand by war? Do you consider war to be war only if weapons were used?’

At that statement the crowd became very quiet.

‘A strange teaching is about to be taught,’ the look on their faces seemed to say.

‘Do we not encounter war in our lives every day?’ Comrade Odumegwu said. ‘Do you think there is no war going on in our society right now; and even in the world? Wars without weapons? Is it not a war situation when you are denied job placement on account of where you come from? or maybe because you’re just black or white or African or European and what have you? Or you are afraid of war so that the false edifices in your life are not destroyed by a sudden swoop of ‘eagle truth’? Or are you just afraid of the consequences of a universal purification? I tell you, nothing shall support your fall; you shall crumble, do you hear?’ Comrade Odumegwu said.

‘Long live Biafra!’ members of the Ikemba front in the gathering shouted.

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Other members of the front were given a chance to speak and each one of them devised a way of creating strong impressions on the people, inspiring them with a fiery spirit strong enough to tear down the sky. Soon, the crowd transmogrified and seemed like volcanic mountains about to erupt.

Two days after the seminar, I prepared to leave for Isu, to rejoin my host family. Papa advised me as he deemed fit knowing the implications of a seminar like the one I attended at Isu on Boxing day. He encouraged me to always live in peace with Mr. Obiefuna’s family. He said our family could see the light through them. He said I should forget all the ethnic bickering as nobody benefitted from quarrels.

‘After all,’ he said, ‘those who spearheaded the past war, who whipped up ethnic sentiments that caused the war, paid the price; none of them is alive today. Those still alive are facing the shame of their failure. Therefore it would pay off if we all lived in peace with one another. There is a lot of work on earth begging to be done; souls are perishing, begging to be saved! We must all get to work! We must allow peace to reign in our souls and minds, so that it would reign all over the world,’ Papa said all the while.

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December thirty-first was another exciting day. Everyone was anticipating the new year. Pagans made sacrifices to the earth to ward off the evils of the old year; and by so doing, usher in the benevolent spirits that, supposedly, accompanied the new year. Some, too, believed they could ward off evil spirits from encroaching on the new year by means of fireworks: Squibs were being thrown all over the place. You could see instantaneous flashes, then the explosions!

The morning glimmered as the mild sun lavished itself on the milieu; greetings of a ‘happy new year’ met one wherever one turned to go. Grass assumed new brownness; trees fluttered under the cold dry harmattan wind, shading old leaves, making way for new ones. Birds, innocent as they seemed, flew and perched and whistled the songs of the New Year. Ants emerged from old holes and burrowed new ones, signs of a new year!

*********** Three days into the new year, we

started back to Onata. The city seemed deserted right now. The dry cold harmattan weather had dried up all the trees and grasses in the city. Dust covered the zinc roofs of the houses.

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By mid-January everything had returned to normalcy. Christmas celebrants had all returned. Schools had reopened. Universities and polytechnics had all resumed for the new semester. Johnson had left for school as well as Lucky and Maria. I was alone in the house. What was more? There were books to read and I loved to read. I immersed myself into books in preparation for the forth-coming matriculation examination. Mr. and Mrs Obiefuna encouraged me to read harder and to still choose law as my first choice of course. To read harder, I could; but I to choose law again was something I could not do: I had lost interest in the law profession. It had been so idolised and revered, as if one could only make it in life if one studied it. And I detested idolatry. I had elected to study German language and literature. Mr. and Mrs Obiefuna did not want to dissuade me from my wish; they rather advised me. They were looking ahead. I could be self-employed if I studied law. They seemed not to know that there was more to self-employment than just having a legal chamber. Entrepreneurial ability was the ability to evolve an idea and be faithful to it. It still held the key to self-employment and self-sufficiency. While they recounted the benefits of being a lawyer, I flattered myself with the idea of becoming an ambassador to Germany, a translator of texts and a writer, whose works would have the opportunity of

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being translated into different languages; I told whoever cared to know of the limitless opportunities that abound with the study of languages; the broadening of the mind, and so on. They argued that my father and mother would not be happy with me if they found out that I abandoned law for a mean course like German!

There was reason in those arguments, because, to the average Nigerian, one was either a lawyer or a doctor to be counted as somebody. But I knew I could not die of hunger in this life for choosing to study what I had chosen. I knew I had the brain, the ability to make somebody out of me: I possessed original thoughts and ideas and the power to give expression to them; I could bring the stories yet untold by man to earth; that meant, I could express the mind of God! These I assured myself I could do. However, if I had to study German language and literature at the university, I had to pass the matriculation examination. I did not want to fail. I had already shown enough obstinacy in doing what I wanted: I had chosen, despite opposition from Mr. Obiefuna, to study at Zamad Bell University. Now again, I had made another choice despite his disapproval. I loved challenges. I felt challenged once one implied that the course I had chosen to study was mean. I was determined to prove my detractors wrong.

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To be sincere, I had no obvious reason for choosing to study languages, except that I craved to utilise, to the full, that latent creative energy in me, to satiate my nature of its craving for intellectualism.

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9Of the two hundred thousand

candidates that took the exam, sixty thousand candidates had their papers cancelled as a result of their involvement in examination malpractice. Of the sixty thousand successful candidates, only forty thousand had chances of being admitted into the various universities of their choices. There was an eighty percent chance that the remaining twenty thousand might not be admitted into the universities of their choices, in spite of their success in the examination. The media carried the news with certain nonchalance. In this conscious collective reticence, justice would be murdered, and merit would be sacrificed on the altar of ‘state disadvantageism’: a fate I had suffered.

I passed the examination as I anticipated. My admission letter was sent to me by post. A feeling of scholarship, a feeling of great achievement thus possessed me. Mr. and Mrs. Obiefuna congratulated me saying that ‘the ball was now in my court’. They said I needed to face up to the challenges that were before me regarding my course of study and to grasp those boundless opportunities you made I had mentioned.

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I had developed quite a lot over the years. I was far from being the naïve kid I used to be some years back. I still remembered the very day I left my country home with my guardian for Onata. I still remembered how I felt on seeing the city, never had I seen a city as enchanting as that before. But owing to the years I had spent in the city, its magnificence that had startled me at that time was no longer there.

I still remembered how I felt on seeing what was supposed to be my room at Mr. Obiefuna’s residence; never had my common body felt such uncommon things. I was sure I felt common to those uncommon equipages then, because I thought I was destined to be common; memories of things hard to forget! I was more confident of myself now than ever before and I had succeeded in getting rid of the guilty conscience that always haunted me in my relationship with Maria: There were no hard and fast rules between us anymore. I wondered if enlightenment engendered permissiveness. Mrs. Obiefuna had become aware of my intimacy with her daughter but I doubt if Mr. Obiefuna knew of it.

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‘James, you and Maria are no longer kids. I’m also old enough to be your mother. I’m aware that you two are having an affair ... It is natural my dear. But I must give you two some motherly advice. When a girl and a boy are involved in a relationship, there will always be that urge on both sides to experience each other sexually. You must know that there are risks that are attendant to such acts—unwanted pregnancies, and so on. There are many other healthy and less risky ways of demonstrating affection for each other,’ Mrs Obiefuna once said to us as her husband was away in the North, where he had gone to take inventories of stock at the branch office of his factory. I was shocked at Mrs. Obiefuna forthrightness. I felt very shy hearing her talking so openly about sex. I enjoyed greater moral and intellectual freedom here quite unlike my own original home. There my father always hammered on the need for us to strive towards righteousness, ‘not earthly morality, but heavenly righteousness,’ he would always say.

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10The month of October always brought

back memories of not being admitted into Zamad Bell University, Zina. These were memories of things hard to forget!

I was overjoyed to be part of the community of intellectuals at the University of Nigeria at last, where I got admission to study modern European languages and literatures with emphasis on German language and Literature. I was given accommodation at the famous Nkrumah Hall, where I had to share an apartment with two other students of political science and history, who had introduced themselves to me as Lumumba Ikedi and Tamuno Akrabi. Lumumba was already a third-year student of political science when I came, while Tamuno was a final-year history major.

Once Lumumba introduced himself to me, I remembered that I had once met a man on a bus, while I was travelling to Zina, who had introduced himself as Mr Patrick Ikedi. Lumumba said it was his father and that they lived in Zina. Lumumba also told me he was the current president of the National Association of the Nigerian Students. But he did not need to tell me that because I had been reading of his activities in the newspapers. He had been arrested several times for what the government termed his radicalisation of student unionism.

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Lumumba was a very young man full of life. He was short and lanky. His face was always in such a smiling mood that you would think he hardly got annoyed; but his eyes were so fiery that it made that smiling face look very fearful at the same time. He had little or no hair on his body making it smooth and shiny as the skin of a black cobra. He was always smoking; and when he puffed, he let the smoke of the cigarette cloud up his face, as if he drew strength from it. One thing very remarkable about him was that he was always cracking jokes and was always the first to burst out into a kind of laughter that was like a thunderclap. One was always amused by that peculiar laughter than by the jokes he cracked.

Tamuno was a depressed student. He always complained of the hopelessness of his people’s condition. He felt powerless at what he considered the horrendous neglect of the people of the Niger delta by the Nigerian government and the multinational oil companies that were drilling oil in their land. He seemed to grow fat from his depression and I feared he could soon become a mental case. What could a single person do? He always asked.

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I was always careful with him because I felt he was a time-bomb. Our rivers, our land ... all polluted, he would always say. But what he could not understand was how his people had lived alongside these degradations of the environment. Why did the government and these multinational companies think his people were going to carry on like that?

But Lumumba seemed to enjoy his depression because he believed it would make him vulnerable to exploitation. Lumumba never stopped believing that because I noticed that every time he was arguing with Tamuno, he always ended up being in control of the argument: he always forced Tamuno to listen and accept what he was saying. When Tamuno said their people joined forces with Nigeria to make sure Biafrans never got independence since their independence would mean ruling his people and taking their oil, Lumumba laughed and said he did not know why everything boiled down to oil for them. Tamuno kept looking at Lumumba as he talked as if he believed what he was saying was right. But, somehow, I felt Tamuno was not actually buying Lumumba’s arguments, but that he was feeding on them with all the implied insults. I felt also these were making him fat, just like his depression was. I felt that one day all this would expand to a point where they would burst.

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Being in the ivory tower, I began to experience all those things Mrs. Obiefuna had once said about life on campus. The danger of immersing oneself so completely in the vortex of campus life was the risk of forgetting sometimes the pains it took to be where one now was; for, obviously, most people, whose lives were degraded by the Nigerian condition while trying to secure a place in the universities, could once again value their lives and the enjoyments therewith. They could secure for themselves a high standard of living in the country and readily pass by their problem-ridden countrymen. They could close their eyes to the fact of the undisturbed evolution of a monster: a democratisation of wrong all in a bid to sustain a united nation. Their greatest enemy could be that monster that was growing, that monster that was hemming in life, which many lives were nurturing as revenge on progressive humanity, I once thought to myself.

Just when I felt I was getting really involved in life on campus, I was jolted back from cloud nine. Someone had knocked on the door one day. When I opened, l saw a fairly old, tall and lanky man.

‘Good day, sir,’ I greeted the old man.

‘Good day, my son.’ ‘Are you not Jemis?’

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‘Yes, James,’ I said looking at the man suspiciously, cudgelling my brain in that moment to remember who he was; but failed. The man realised that my efforts had failed.

‘You don’t remember anymore, do you?’

‘I’m sorry I can’t remember who you are, sir.’

‘Do you still remember anything that happened in 1982,’ he asked still.

‘Yes,’ I said, trying to recall pictures of past events in my mind. ‘That was the year I left to live with Mr. Obiefuna.’

‘Good. Do you remember the man that came with your master to your father’s house that year?’ he asked, taking me down memory lane.

‘Yes, yes, I remember. Kenta is his name; my father’s good friend,’ I said excitedly.

‘Good. That your father’s friend, who made it possible for you to live with Obiefuna, is the same man standing here in front of you,’ he said smiling. I embraced him excitedly, saying: ‘Welcome! Welcome, sir!’

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‘Child, it’s good to see you again,’ he said as he walked into the apartment. ‘You’ve really grown very big; I could only recognise you because you look very much like your father. We all heard that you were deprived of your right of admission into a university in Hafana. I felt really sorry. When would all this nonsense stop? What have you been doing all this while,’ he asked as he sat down on the settee in the sitting room.

‘I took the examination again. That is why I’m here now.’

‘That’s very good. It is only a fool that learns he would be killed and still not run for dear life. And what are you studying?’

‘German.’ ‘Which one is German?’ ‘The language and literature of the

Germans.’ ‘And what do you intend to do with

that?’ ‘A lot, sir!’ ‘Well, you should know better.’ ‘Sir, how are country people?’ I

asked, with a view to changing the topic. ‘Well, they are fine. Only your father

is somehow sick. In fact, he wants to see you; that is the reason I came. I went to Onata and one of Mr Obiefuna’s children, Lucky, directed me to this place. He gave me the address.’

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I experienced a sudden revulsion of feeling. All my feelings of happiness disappeared in that very moment: I became solicitous. Mr Kenta had noticed the mood into which l had fallen, ‘Mark my word, son, he is ill not dead.’

‘For how long has he been ill?’ I managed to ask him.

‘Some four days now, you know.’ ‘And he wants to see me? Are you

sure he’ll see tomorrow?’ ‘By His grace, he will.’ ‘But we could go to Maria’s father’s

office immediately, if you don’t mind,’ I said. ‘When does he return from work?’

Kenta asked. ‘At about four o’clock, sometimes at

six. It all depends on what he still has to do at the office.’

‘Let’s go back to Onata, so that when he returns from work, he would meet me in his house,’ he said.

After about an hour we returned home, Mr. and Mrs. Obiefuna returned from work, surprised at seeing Kenta. Maria, Lucky and Johnson were all at home.

‘Kenta, is anything the matter?’ Mr. Obiefuna asked him as he came into the house. ‘Is my mother dead?’

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Madam stood transfixed to the ground, waiting anxiously to hear what Kenta’s answer would be.

‘Oh, no … it is Philip that is ill.’ ‘Philip!’ ‘Yes.’ ‘When did the illness start,’ Mr

Obiefuna asked in anxious expectation. ‘Some four or five days ago; I

visited him only to find him very sick. He never even recognised me when I entered. It was his wife who told him that Kenta was around. Groaning, he was only able to mutter, ‘fetch me Jemis.’

That statement evoked a picturesque scene of my home in my mind: There, was my father lying restless on his bamboobed. By him was my mother. She was fanning the sweltering man. My sisters were all around, weeping. The picture was so alive in my mind that I broke down to tears. Everyone else began to console me.

‘James, stop crying. Your father isn’t dead—he is only ill. Don’t worry, tomorrow we’ll drive down to Guzegu to take him to the hospital,’ Mr. Obiefuna said.

I could not sleep that night. What would become of my mother, my sisters and me if my father died? Would God suffer the man to die without reaping the fruits of his labour?

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Early the next day, I started off to my village with Mr. Obiefuna and Kenta. At about eight that morning, we were at Guzegu, in my father’s compound. As I had envisioned, the house seemed deserted; no sign of life. Curiously we alighted from the car, slammed the doors to and walked to the main house. Before we got to the door of the main house, it opened a crack—it was opened from within. And the manner in which it was opened smacked of gloom. We entered. Behold, every member of my family was in the sitting room. We hesitated to speak to anybody on entering the house, being sure that nobody would muster courage to speak to us. However, Mama ventured to tell papa that Mr. Obiefuna and I were around. Then, with great effort, he opened his eyes; with great effort and an unsteady voice, he spoke.

‘Jemis, I’m glad you’re here. I could die any moment, but I know where I’ll spend eternity. Son, do not forget all that I had been telling you. Be your brother’s keeper. Look after your mother and sisters… they shall see the light of life through you. Tell Obiefuna that God will reward him for all his goodwill to my family. Tell him not to relent in his effort …’

‘But why are you saying all these things, Papa?’ I asked.

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He did not bother to answer. Mr. Obiefuna ordered that he be carried into the car. We all joined hands together to carry Papa into the car. Already my mother and sisters had started crying. We consoled them. We got into the vehicle, ready to start back to Onata. Before driving off, Mr. Obiefuna gave my sisters some money for feeding. He also told Kenta to always call on them to see how they fared.

‘Stay well. I’ll bring back word to you sometime,’ Mr. Obiefuna said to my sisters and Kenta as we started back to Onata.

Once we were at Onata, Mr. Obiefuna drove straight to the general hospital, where he had a friend, who was a doctor. Dr. Fred made sure Papa got admitted as soon as we arrived. Thereafter, Mr. Obiefuna and I left for home. Mama had to stay behind to look after her husband.

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This was a very gloomy period for everyone of the family I lived with. Nobody in the house felt even inclined to watch television. Nobody felt disposed for conversation, either. We even forgot we had to eat. I for my part was in thought: Why did man fear death? Why could man not love death as he loved life? Was it fear or a sad feeling that arose out of eternal loss? Why was there life and death? In bed, even, thoughts bespattered my mind still: Would my father survive this illness? There was great doubt in my mind, for I had seen what remained of the man known for his rude health. He was debilitated by the illness, with deep-set eyes and flabby muscles that merely slid over starved bones.

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Tears began to trickle down my cheeks as I lay in bed, and gazed vacantly at the ceiling. What would the gossiping villagers in Guzegu say if Papa died of this sickness: ‘Philip has eventually died of the devil’s sickness … he had persistently refused to offer propitiatory sacrifices to the gods of the land … he has refused to identify with us …he is not also a very good friend of the later day Christians,’ they would say. Mama had told me how some people, who had come to see Papa on his sick bed always told her to go and see some medicine men to know whether Papa’s illness was of a natural or artificial cause. Mama allowed them to make their suggestions; but whatever they said entered through one ear and passed through the other. After all, most of these people were the natives of Guzegu, who felt that aros were desecrating he land. There was nothing l could do right now to thwart a natural course other than to have recourse to prayer. I began to pelt heaven with prayers, passionate prayers that were capable of moving God.

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Early the next day, we left for the hospital with grave faces, uncertain of our expectations. We got there only to find papa worse than before. His breathing had become glaringly irregular; he was marred beyond recognition. And my mother? Her eyes were as red as blood. She had been crying all night. She had also lost her voice and could no longer cry; she merely gazed like one transported to another world.

‘Did he eat last night?’ Mr. Obiefuna asked solemnly. Mama merely waved her head sideways in negation. Mr. Obiefuna and her daughter, Maria, looked on compassionately.

‘Has the doctor seen him again?’ ‘Yes,’ said Mama in a crackled tone.

Apparently, the doctor had come with a team of doctors to examine him. They took his urine and blood for a laboratory test. He was also x-rayed by some radiographers.

‘Was it this morning or last night?’ Mr. Obiefuna asked still.

‘It was last night.’ There was a sudden hush as we all

kept watching Papa as he battled death. I remembered what he always said to assert life: ‘I will not die yet; l will live to a great age to see the great man you will be, my son.’ That was a powerful wish of a man willing to live. Would his volition to live not save him? I wondered.

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Early the next morning, the doctor invited Mr. Obiefuna to his office. From the results tests, Papa seemed to have cancer of the large intestine and had undergo an operation to have the complications excised. I was expected to sign an undertaking to exonerate the medical team in case of any ‘mishap’. There were no alternatives. I had to sign and reposed all hopes of my father’s survival in God.

At the very depth of night, when man seemed at rest from the very battle of life, Papa was carried on a wheel-stretcher into the theatre. My mother and I nestled together on the settee along the wide passageway of the theatre, too shocked to speak or even look at each other. I gazed hopelessly at the floor, with my hands anxiously folded under my armpits. My mother placed her head on her right palm, seriously in thought, oblivious of the beautiful renditions that emitted from the background.

Despite the soothing song that was playing, my mother and I were far from being soothed, for a life of one too dear to us was hanging breathlessly on the balance.

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Five hours later, the door of the theatre creaked open. A nurse dashed out of the theatre to a room that was close by. The air around us seemed to have stretched to its very breaking point. In a short while, the nurse rushed back to the theatre with reeled bandages as anxiety heightened! Then, sluggishly, one of the doctors walked out from the theatre.

‘Madam ... young man,’ he called to Mama and me solemnly. ‘Come this way,’ he said, showing us the way with his hand. ‘I’d like to have a word with you.’

Anxiously, we followed him to his office.

‘Doctor, my husband is dead, isn’t it?’ Mama asked with tear-filled eyes. And having sensed some courage in my mother, the doctor gave an approving nod. Suddenly, Mama gave vent to a shout, which resulted in inconsolable cries. For my part, l felt a great load had been eased off my shoulders.

In a short while, Mr. and Mrs. Obiefuna and their daughter Maria arrived at the hospital. Mrs. Obiefuna and Maria began to cry as they entered the ward, where Papa’s lifeless body had been moved to. They must have heard Mama’s cries from outside and knew that Papa had given up the ghost. Mr. Obiefuna too was moved to tears. The sight of him weeping brought tears to my eyes.

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11We all gathered in the sitting-room

of Mr. Obiefuna’s house at Onata. Papa’s box was on a table at the centre of the sitting room. On the box was also the key to its padlock. In the hush that was the sitting room, Mr. Obiefuna stood up from his seat, walked to the centre table, on which was the box, took the key on the box, opened it and began to unload, however, carefully, the clothes and relics that were carefully packed in it. These were the contents of the box: two woolly tiger-head traditional dresses, two costly togas, necklaces of beads, two woolly traditional caps, a bible, photographs of Papa and his father. There was also a rolled parchment tied up with a light rope. This particular parchment aroused our interest. Curiously, Mr. Obiefuna picked it up from the box, untied it and then unrolled it. He began to read what was written on it.

‘Serious,’ he said, on taking a first glance at the words thereon.

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‘What is it?’ Mrs. Obiefuna asked him, surprised. Maria, my mother and I looked on with anxiety. Mr. Obiefuna did not answer Madam’s question: he merely held up the parchment to us. All I could see and what I supposed others were seeing was ‘A Legacy of Righteousness’ written boldly at the head of what seemed to be a letter. Non-plussed, we merely exchanged glances.

‘Awesome!’ Mr. Obiefuna exclaimed as he read on.

‘Why not read it to our hearing?’ Mrs. Obiefuna wondered.

Mr. Obiefuna read the letter by heart, first of all; and thereafter he read it aloud to our hearing. It was written in Igbo.

Nwam nke m’huru n’anya, Nto-ala Ezi Omume!

Nkea bu akwukwo ozi nke ona abughi mmasi mu izipu ezipu. Enwerem olile anya na iga ahu akwukwo ozia, oge mu onwem hapuworori uwa ojoo nkea. Kama, o buru na Chukwu kwadoro na gi onwegi ga ebukwa uzo hapu uwa nkea—Chukwu ekwela—Onweghizi ihe mu onwem nwere ike ime karia idipuga ndum na uwa, hapukwaya dika otu nime ndi gbaliri idewe Iwu Chineke.

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Akuwom nkpuru. Sitekwa na enyem aka Obiefuna, nkpuru ahu g’efu ome, tokwa, buru oke osisi—Ekene diri Eluigwe maka nkea. Chukwu goziekwa nwokea, nke nwere mmuo inyere mmadu aka. Ekwerem n’onwu: Agam anwu kwa anwu. Ekwerem na oburu na nwuo, Chukwu igwe ga akwazi muo gi nebe akpatia di, ebe m’ g’edewe akwukwo ozia. Oge omere otua, iwere meghe akpatia, enyinyekwele ozum akwa ndia di n’ime akpatia. Agbanyekwalam ihe olu ndia nke dikwa nime akpatia. Dobe ha; dobe foto ndia dika ihe iriba ama diara ndi aga amu amu. Onwum abukwala ihe onu. Onye emekwala ili ozum k’oburu odi iche. Ka m’ gafe nwayo na ndu nke di n’iru.

Ihe iriba ama ndia iga edewere ndi aga amu amu nwegasiri ihe ha na akowa: Foto ndia bu maka okwukwe nebe ndi gboo no. Akwa ndia na ihe olu ndia bu maka okwukwe ha nwere na omenala—omenala abughi maka ikwado ajo ihe—kama nke bu maka ndu. Akwukwo nso na onwe ya bu maka ncheta obibia ndi ocha na Biafra.

Ya mere nwam, anana nti ihe ndi uwa n’ako maka onye ibu, na megide ha nile. Kwere na ha ga anara opipia na aka Chineke.

Agam akwusi ebe. Amam na iga ekwusa ozi oma ndu ohu na uwa nile—Ka omesia!

Dear son,

A Legacy of Righteousness

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This is a letter, which I do not intend to post. I am optimistic that you will read this letter after I would have departed from this world. I shall lock it up in my box for future times. However, if providence willed that there must be a turn of event, whereby you depart from this world before me, God forbid, then I would do nothing other than to live out my days on earth and die peacefully as the last vestige of those that endeavoured to live up to God’s instructions.

I have sown a seed, and through the help of Obiefuna, that seed must grow into a big tree, thank heavens! May good things always come the way of that man of tremendous goodwill!

I believe I must die. I believe when I die, God will steer your heart to this box wherein I shall keep this parchment. When he does and you open the box, do not clothe my corpse with any of the apparels therein—do not adorn my neck with any of the necklaces of beads, either. Keep them—including the pictures—as relics for posterity. Let my death not be celebrated, nor my grave be decorated—let me pass silently on to another life.

These relics that you must keep for posterity after I am gone have their signification: The pictures signify consistency on the part of my pedigree. The apparels and necklaces of beads signify their belief in culture—not as a means of perpetuating evil—but as a means of asserting their being. The bible itself will serve as a memorial for the coming of the white man to Biafra.

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Son, don’t bother yourself about their questions on your identity, and their tribulations against you. Believe they will reap whatever they sow.

I shall stop here. You will carry the message of life and salvation to the whole world.

Adieu!

‘Strange unto death!’ Mr. Obiefuna said, referring to my father. ‘Well, no one ever disobeys the voice of a god … but I have never heard that Biafran people bury their dead without ceremony.’

‘But we just have to do what he bade us do: That is his will, per se,’ Mrs. Obiefuna chimed in. My mother was short of words: her eyes merely followed the mouth of whoever was speaking. My sisters, too, seemed to be under shock.

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Early the next day, we all started off to the mortuary. An ambulance hired by Mr. Obiefuna was already waiting for us as we arrived at the place. Some members of staff of his glass company, who had been informed of the itinerary, were already waiting in front of the mortuary, ready to join the motorcade to Guzegu, where papa’s corpse would lie in state. Once the casket, in which the corpse was, had been carried into the ambulance, the motorcade, which the ambulance led headed for Mr. Obiefuna’s residence to pay him homage. Thence, we headed for Guzegu.

As we drove by the roads of the countryside, we saw men and women, boys and girls, who, having heard the peculiar sound of the siren, rushed to the roadsides with anxious faces, wondering who had died. Some even started to cry at the sight of the white ambulance that was carrying the corpse. Soon, we were at Guzegu. The response to our arrival was predicable as many had become aware that Papa had gone to meet hhis ancestors. A great crowd began to troop down to our home. Many could not as yet believe that Papa was really dead. Those who knew he was sick and that he had died of the sickness expected his arrival to be heralded by some cannon shots as was the custom; more so when Papa was a respected person in spite of his enemies.

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The casket was carried into the outhouse and placed on an improvised catafalque. It was kept open so that people could pay their last respect. Some as they walked by the corpse showered it with encomiums: ‘Good people die early … what an unjust world. Death should have spared Philip some more years on earth, for the living still have something to learn from him … But just when we think we are in the fullness of life, we die … And when we think we are at the very point of death, life begins afresh,’ they would say.

How papa would be laughing at their praises! How he would scorn their pity: Were they not the ones who maintained that he was a stranger in Guzegu? Did they not say he had no right to land ownership? Did they not call him a wanderer and desecrator of the land, who did not know the difference between right and wrong, evil and good?

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Contrary to what papa had willed as regards his death, which was to pass silently on to another life, a controversy arose about whose responsibility it was to bury the corpse. The elders of the village knew they could not be involved because papa, in his lifetime hardly identified with tradition. The Christians, because they did not understand my father, felt he was no less than a pagan. But, owing to importunities, the Reverend-in-charge of the makeshift Anglican Church at Guzegu hesitantly agreed to let his church bury the corpse on condition that every church ceremony must be observed.

At his behest, therefore, the members of his church undertook to dig the grave, where Papa would be interred. Before the break of dawn, Papa’s corpse was readied for interment. The Reverend instituted a Church service at the graveside: a ritual of death: the members of the church choir were wearing black and white gown; every other member of the church adorned a white blouse or a white shirt. Family members wore white too as a sign of mourning.

The reverend read from the book of ecclesiastics,

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There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heaven: a time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to uproot; a time to kill and a time to heal; a time to tear down and a time to build; a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance; a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them; a time to embrace and time to refrain; a time to search and a time to give up; a time to keep and a time to throw away; a time to tear and a time to mend; a time to be silent and a time to speak; a time to love and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace, he sermonised.

After reading the text, the corpse was lowered into the grave. Then as was required of me, I poured two handfuls of sand into the grave, saying: ‘earth return to earth; dust to dust.’ Torrents of tears oozed from my eyes as I performed this funeral rite. Thus, we bade farewell to Papa as he journeyed to the great beyond. And as Kenta had said, ‘May he be our eyes in the land of the spirits; may he intercede for us in God’s bosom.’

Four hefty men began to shovel in the earth into the grave while the congregation sanga farewell hymn, ‘Now the labourer’s task is over.’

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My sisters could not be consoled, they cried out their eyes. For me, these hours were hours of reflection. The wise sayings of my late father ran through my mind’s screen like a news bar: ‘Son, in this village of Guzegu, I am a stranger…The world is not a permanent place of abode …Let my death not be celebrated…Let me pass silently on to another life …’

Papa’s testament absolved us from the burden of tradition. Tradition in Guzegu required that the widow of any man be placed in isolation for some period of time. During this period she was neither allowed to work nor was she allowed to move out of the room in which tradition required her to stay except at night. Even after the dead had been buried, the burial ceremonies continued for about four more weeks. Condolence visitors were entertained till the very end of the burial ceremony. There was no more need for us to abide by the stipulations of the custom of the land. We had to forbear running the gauntlet of people’s criticisms.

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In Guzegu, Christianity notwithstanding, an average Christian carried out the requirements of custom. It was obvious that Papa floated as he could never be regarded as a Christian, any more than he could a pagan; he lived his own life his own way. But because he always made references to the bible, one ran the risk of saying that he had the new testament as beacon … the world obviously had no place for him, his righteousness notwithstanding.

The day was still too early for condolence visits. Everywhere was calm and cool. The early morning sun smiled on the ambience, lightening its sepulchral mood.

‘Let them cast their aspersions! We must do what Philip bade us do,’ Kenta cut in. Kenta stayed with us ever since Papa was buried. He always came to our house before dawn every day.

‘But this is custom … isn’t there nemesis for deviants?’ Mama asked.

‘That is my fear!’ Mrs. Obiefuna said.

‘That is exactly my fear, too,’ Mr. Obiefuna said.

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‘Fear for what! I am a traditionalist, you know! Truly, Philip lived against social, religious and cultural mores, but the reality is that the man himself, by saying these things should not be observed, has automatically absolved all of us from the effects afterwards. Had it been that he said we should do these things, but we refused to do them, we would have been liable to great punishment from the ancestors. Philip was a respected elder in this village, eventhough he held very radical opinions sometimes. When an elder dies, he joins the ranks of the ancestors; his will melts into the collective will, willing beliefs to life. But his will was not even part of the collective willing of beliefs to life. Therefore, none of the things willed into existence has any hold on him, whose will was not part of the collective will,’ Kenta said.

It was resolved that, owing to my father’s death, I should no longer live with Mr. and Mrs. Obiefuna and their family—I should stand in my father’s stead. Mr. Obiefuna also pledged to always be there for us.

**********

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For us still in mourning, the thrill of Christmas and New Year feasts was absent; but we never let the gravity of the loss rob us of some merriment. After all, Papa was never really burdened by death; he did let his coming be like his going. He had passed silently on to another life.

Once the universities resumed again for a new semester, l left for Onata, where Mr. Obiefuna, my benefactor, lived with his family. My visit aroused mixed feelings of sorrow, love and happiness: Sorrow because the family was solicitous over my situation—‘fatherlessness’! Love because I had become part of the family so much that my absence was always felt; and happiness, because my sudden visit brought back memories of days gone by.

Now that my father was no more, I began to really understand the man and his outlook to life. I began to see why he was concerned about living a peaceful life; life was very transient to be spent making enemies. And there was this uplifting in one’s soul once one was able to take life a little above the mundane. I could see his soul taking a joyful leave of the earth, pitying us ordinary mortals and wishing that we saw the real reason for being alive.

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Throughout my years of studies in the universities l was guided by the sense of the power that knowledge offered. I saw the need why life should be ennobled and believed that somehow my knowledge or knowledge for that matter should be functional. I was convinced that my literary studies, if not for anything else, was definitely going to make me a better human being. I knew that if I became a person, I should affect lives.

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12Lumumba became the best

graduating student of his department in his final year in the university. Being a member of the Ikemba Front, a radical organisation that was committed to actualising the sovereign state of Biafra, he was offered employment by the founder of the organisation, Comrade Odumegwu in his very popular and reputable publishing company, The Sixth Estate. The publishing outfit was based in Onata, the capital of Biafra.

Comrade Odumegwu had kept a keen eye on Lumumba’s development. He knew the young man had talent and he was convinced he would need him in his company. What he loved most was Lumumba’s weekly articles in The Sun newspapers, which he felt was political dynamite. He not only loved his articulation of what he termed the state of the nation, but also the belligerence with which he wrote. A fearless young man like that needed to be nurtured, he thought. Therefore, Lumumba was never jobless for a day.

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Lumumba had epitomised activism for us while he was still in school. He urged us always, in the course of arguments among ourselves, to become involved in students’ struggle. I did not really understand why he saw it as his duty to be critical of the government. He rarely saw anything good in any government policy. Whenever he said Biafran people could do it better I cringed; and Tamuno always stood up and quietly left the apartment. And whenever Tamuno was talking passionately about the sordid condition of the people of the Niger Delta he always said, ‘Just come to the creeks and see the shanties my people live in.’ If he left the room, Lumumba would look at me and poke his nose disparagingly at Tamuno as he left. Then he would say to me, ‘they even expect government to come and build mansions for them.’

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Tamuno had once come into the room with a newspaper carrying the news of how Shakata, a state in Hafana, was going to spend three hundred and fifty million naira study allowance on its only eight hundred students scattered all over Nigeria. He had dropped the newspaper forcefully on the table and said to us, ‘just read this and see what these bastards are doing with our oil money.’ Lumumba responded sarcastically by saying, ‘Haven’t you heard that they are educationally disadvantaged? They have to be encouraged. Sometimes we have to even wait for a cattle-grazer, who is forced to go to school against his will before we can move ahead. James can tell you better.’ At occasions like this, when they had reason to be angry with Nigeria, a momentary friendship would exist between them.

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While Tamuno’s frustration made him fat, Lumumba’s made him lean and big-headed. I saw that both Tamuno and Lumumba were dissatisfied with the system, but did not know how to channel their anger and frustration. I for my part did not know how to tell them what I thought was eating them up. I knew deep down that there was a story both of them wanted to tell. And because they did not know how, it made them grow fat and thin. Each day that I saw their frustration and understood their anger, I felt it was my duty to tell their story. I felt that it was in understanding their anger and frustration that my knowledge should be functional. But I still doubted if I could tell the story that could carry the weight and colour of their experiences; Tamuno’s suffering and hopelessness as well as Lumumba’s anger and frustration.

He loved to call his first day on the job “inductive”, because Comrade Odumegwu had called him into his office to have a word with him as he termed it.

‘I have known you for some years now,’ said comrade Odumegwu, ‘and young men like you make me believe that our struggle will not be in vain.’

‘No, it will not, sir,’ Lumumba said.

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‘But I think our struggle has to enter another level. Obviously what we want is a nation of our own, where we can all realise our latent potentials begging to be utilised.’

‘Yes, sir. That is what we want,’ Lumumba said. He had decided to answer in monotone until he really understood the reason his boss had summoned him to his office on his very first day on the job.

‘When I hear people say that independence couldn’t be achieved without violence I tell them that Nigeria’s Independence was achieved without bloodshed.’

‘That is true, sir’, Lumumba said. ‘But if the monster that our present

nation has become makes our task unrealisable through peaceful means, we should be more than ever determined to use violent force.’

‘That is true, sir,’ Lumumba kept saying.

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It was obvious that even Comrade Odumegwu did not know the reason he summoned Lumumba to his office. Lumumba thought that even if he wanted to plan a strategy on how to carry out his plans, he, Lumumba, was the least qualified to be consulted. Or perhaps he wanted a catharsis for his emotions that were beginning to become some species of dementia; for as far as Lumumba was concerned, what anybody should be talking to him about right now was how to be good at the job. But Comrade Odumegwu went on and on.

‘We could seek the support of wealthy individuals in and outside of the country who share our beliefs too, but who are not ready for a direct confrontation with their oppressive state, couldn’t we?’

‘We could, sir,’ Lumumba answered, certain that Comrade Odumegwu was losing it.

‘We could even mandate a committee of five and empower them to reconnoiter the military strength of the Nigerian Armed Forces. They would work underground, in top secrecy, using any available means to get needed information, couldn’t they?’

‘They could, sir,’ Lumumba answered.

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“At the failure of our non-violent strategy, the committee has to ensure that all the military weapons of war of the federal republic are destroyed, making it impossible for any military aggression to take place, isn’t it? At the same time, the independence of the Peoples Republic of Biafra would be announced …how about that?” Comrade Odumegwu relaxed back on his chair and looked vacantly at Lumumba.

‘I think it is a very good plan, sir,’ Lumumba said. He looked terrified because he concluded that Comrade Odumegwu was going mad and could pounce on him.

But once Comrade Odumegwu said, ‘I’m sure you will find your job fulfilling and quite challenging,’ Lumumba became a little relaxed and thought that maybe he wasn’t really going mad. Maybe his worked up nerves needed to let off steam. Maybe these were what he had allowed to develop in his subconscious because these were probably what he desired. Lumumba wouldn’t know. But he became aware now that there was a very thin line between genius and madness, for comrade Odumegwu was known as a man possessed of a very high intellect and as such under close observation by the powers that be.

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His first day at the office was a confirmation for him that he now had a job. He had told his father that he would come home at the weekend once he had confirmed that he was now employed. The very Saturday he left for Faduna to rejoice with his family over his employment was the very day his father was murdered. His joy turned to sorrow; and he has lived with that sorrow till today. His family left Faduna in Hafana and relocated to Onata in Biafra, where Lumumba worked.

He had never really had time to think over what his mother told him led to the death of his father. But the thoughts always came to his mind. One thing he knew was that there was tension in the relationship between the people of Biafra, who lived in Faduna and the people of Faduna themselves. He had tried to understand the reason for that tension; for only when he understood it would he really understand why his father was so gruesomely murdered. He knew his people were envied because they were rich. He knew that the great majority of the natives of Faduna were poor. What he wanted to understand was why it was so. It was understandable that they were ignorant because they were not educated. Could that be the reason for their poverty? He thought. It could not just be education alone, he thought still. Maybe the values were also responsible for their situation.

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His father was not a ritualist and so using the private part of Ismail Musa for money ritual was unthinkable. He had even gone twice to the prison to see Ismail after the incidence to really confirm if Ismail’s private part was really missing. When he read the medical report on him, he was relieved: Ismail was only confirmed impotent as a result of the prolonged syphilis infection. Now he was not going to be convicted after all because he has been confirmed insane. But what about the people Ismail had recruited to kill his father and burn the shops of Biafran people? Were they also insane? Lumumba wondered. The whole thing made him angry. He remembered all he had had to go through in Hafanaland. He had sought ceaselessly for admission into Z.B.U. but all to no avail. He spoke their language and was born in Faduna. Ordinarily, he should be a citizen of that state, but it wasn’t so in Nigeria. He had to apply to study at the University of Nigeria in Koko because he was not admitted in Hafana. There were still issues the country needed to confront: issues that were, indeed, the common man’s burden, he thought.

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He had just entered his office. A mail was lying on his table. When he picked the mail and saw that it was a query, he remembered he was in-charge of queries. He sat down and tore the envelop open. As he began to read the query, he smiled and began to tap his forefinger on his desk and said, “I knew this guy was going to do this.”

I had written the Sixth Estate Publishers about the possibility of publishing my work with them. I had addressed my letter to an address I found in one of the newspapers regarding submissions from intending authors. Lumumba had replied me asking me to feel free to send them my work. He said they would publish it if it met their commercial or at least ideological needs.

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While I was writing Memory Lane, I kept sensing a speaking intuitive perception, which always told me: ‘you are writing a controversial book; therefore, you have to know that people don’t just read a book for reading’s sake: they also read between the lines. Not all would realise though that you are only human with personal opinions that could be bought or scouted. Only few still would see you as a messenger whose message could mould people for the better, if it could be accepted objectively or mar people all the same if, in reading between the lines of the book, meanings found are not put into good use. All the same, a writer just has to do the work for which he or she is living, a stone in your sling, the devil’s advocate!’

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13Maria had visited me on campus.

She wanted to travel home and wondered if I might want to go with her. I decided to go with her. Her parents were glad to see us home again.

I had been looking for a way of letting them know that I had been engaged in a literary endeavour. I took my chance as we were beguiling our time with amusing tales about the state of the Nigerian nation to show them the typescript of my book. They expressed great surprise at my preoccupation. I’m sure they never suspected I was doing anything close to writing a book.

‘What are your plans for publication?’ Mr. Obiefuna asked.

‘I have written to the Sixth Estate Publishers to see if they could publish it.’

Mr. Obiefuna flipped open the front page of the book like a literary expert and started to read the first chapter. He kept nodding in admiration as he read on.

‘James,’ he called to me in the cause of his perusal. ‘Why would the character you call Urobo think that values in Igboland, where the character, Ajaonuma comes from, are determined by money?’

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‘That was something I was also trying to understand. I also wanted to understand why Ajaonuma pitied other ethnic groups as cursed, as unable to understand the reason they were even created.’ I said.

‘One could easily understand why he thought that way. He was described as a businessman, who saw opportunity in everything around him. The way he took time to analyse a situation in order to understand the inherent benefits it could offer made one think that he thought like an entrepreneur. Don’t you even see how he tried to understand his neighbours, who belong to other ethnic groups? He had analysed each one of his neighbours and had stored his evaluations of them in the various compartments of his structure of feeling,’ Mr. Obiefuna said, not hiding his love for the character, Ajaonuma, with whom he identified.

‘I was trying to identify him with the perceived characteristics of his people,’ I said.

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‘Even when Urobo knocked on the door of the common bathroom the whole tenants shared, where Ajaonuma was taking his bath, he did that with anger, showing that he had been seeking to confront Ajaonuma, to really take him down a peg or two, to puncture his arrogance and make him see how he despised his “ill-gotten wealth” as he called it,’ Mr. Obiefuna said.

‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘Now see. I really like how

Ajaonuma opened the door of the bathroom with panache, not even bothered to give Urobo the chance of a confrontation. I like the way he sized him up from head to toe, sighed and walked away,’ Mr. Obiefuna said.

‘That was why Urobo started throwing tantrums, because Ajaonuma’s action struck him in the heart like an arrow, confirming what he had always thought about him and his people, for whom he thought nothing but money mattered to,’ I said.

Mr. Obiefuna started to read the novel aloud to our hearing. He was very excited as he did that, for it somehow pandered to his lofty opinion of his people of Biafra:

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‘Whenever Ajaonuma woke up in the morning before going to take his bath, he always came out of his apartment with his chewing stick in his mouth, spitting every now and then. He always raised his hands up to the heavens and uttered a provoking prayer: my dear Lord. I thank you for my life. I thank you for my business. Above all, I thank you for making me an Igbo!’

This particular passage made him very happy, because he too was very proud of his Biafranness and he knew that he too always uttered that prayer. So I had only echoed his thought in the novel. But when he read that passage to our hearing, I had thought he would go a little further but he stopped. I had to make a mental recollection of that portion.

‘Bakinzuwo and Dele had always observed Ajaonuma as he regularly performed this ritual. Dele had wondered if Ajaonuma was going mad or perhaps had some complexes he was dealing with. Whenever he opened his window during that hour of the morning to let in fresh air into his fart-polluted room and saw Ajaonuma, he muttered to himself: this bushman is at it again. Bakinzuwo, with the way he was looking at Ajaonuma, you knew he was wondering what that infidel was doing. Whenever he opened his window, he shook his head and said, inyamiri!’

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Then Mr. Obiefuna turned to the last page of the novel to see how it closed, for according to him, the beginning and the end of a book determined how well written a book was.

While life went on in other parts of the world, the respect for human life in Nigeria kept degenerating: Nigeria kept killing its own in the name of curbing treasonable tendencies.

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You were woken by the finger of morning! You were smiled upon by the day. Was it so? This was the day that God had made, wasn’t it? People moved around as if they were happy, but they were not. All desired to work as if they loved it, but they did not. You were hard put trying to explain life to yourself, weren’t you? Life was not what it really was, my friend! Now thoughts assumed human forms, wearing upon themselves names. They exchanged pleasantries each time with one another, asking after one another’s health. Fancy hate discussing with pride, jealousy conspiring with envy, avarice asking after bigotry and racism pecking tribalism! A beautiful day became sad: clouding up and rumbling: the wind so wild: trees shouting and roofs trembling at nature’s fiery anger. Soon, they gave in and began to fly. How nature cried … Oh, how it cried! Could its tears be contained by mother earth, whose children have become homeless? Another carnage! Youths set houses and cars ablaze. Thieves have a field day. Anti-riot police men fire into the crowds of protesters. Wasted human lives lay about. Their souls send powerful volitions to God for their desired republic. The president is murdered! The ordinary civilian is at a loss on what to do. Death tolled almost at every man’s door after endless nights of carnage, engendered by

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ethnic and religious sentiments. They obviously waited too long for this October!

‘Wow, very poetic. This must be a very good book; I can tell a good book once I see it,’ Mr. Obiefuna said. ‘I’ll take it along with me to London. I’ll definitely find a publisher for this book there.’

‘Thank you, sir. That would be very wonderful of you!’

‘Writing is a very risky profession, James, I hope you know that?’

‘There is risk in every profession,’ I ventured to say.

‘But not when one makes oneself the watchdog of the society and custodian of life.’

‘Ours is not a much closed society; we may be poor, but certainly not too ignorant to place a fatwa on a writer’s head,’ I argued.

‘Don’t tell me, James, you’ve attempted the Nigerian version of the Satanic Verses.’

We continued that way into the middle of the night, talking about writing and writers, until every one of us began to feel drowsy. Then, one after the other each person disappeared, ostensibly to go and give the body a deserved rest.

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14Before the end of October, Mr.

Obiefuna travelled to London to engage the services of a leading agent who would help us find a good publisher for the book. We had thought about the possibility of a ban on the book and wanted therefore to be ahead of the game. We did not rule out the option of publishing with the Sixth Estate Publishers. In fact, Mr. Obiefuna had gone to see his very good friend, Comrade Odumegwu, who was very excited and happy to publish the book. Comrade Odumegwu had requested that Mr. Obiefuna send him the manuscript, which Mr. Obiefuna did. After about four weeks, Mr. Obiefuna received a letter from the chief editor of The Sixth Estate Publishers saying how willing they would be to place the work for publication under their imprint. Comrade Odumegwu had also appended his signature on the letter, adding a brief sentence at the bottom of the letter: ‘this work is very close to my heart.’

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When he reached a deal with Mr. Obiefuna, he suggested that it would be better if they let any publisher abroad have the copyright of the book, so that even if it was censored in Nigeria, the publisher overseas could still go ahead and publish the work.

Upon publication, Memory Lane came off with a bang! Whichever newspaper one bought one read about Memory Lane. One of the dailies even had as its headline: Memory Lane: Another Satanic Verses or What?

Lumumba’s job in the Sixth Estate Publishers was publicity. He launched an aggressive publicity campaign in the newspapers on Memory Lane. He succeeded in prompting a major newspaper to review the book. The editor of the newspaper had written that he believed the writer of the book wanted to prove that literature was an instrument of change.

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It was never my intention to whip up ethnic sentiments any more than I was interested in ethnic bickering. I wrote Memory Lane to show the world the consequences of domination and to show Nigeria what was at the end of the road they had chosen without proper reflection to continue on. I intended to let them know that my belief in a new Nigeria was based on a conviction that, for Nigeria to move ahead, every falsely raised structure must collapse either by itself or by an external prompting; that for Nigerians to realise their latent possibilities, they must start the struggle, not by the elimination of the western spirit, which itself is a spark of God’s mind, but by the assertion of the Nigerian spirit, another spark of God’s mind.

Once the review of my novel was in the newspapers, people wrote rejoinders, insisting that the writer of the book was a bigot, who wanted the total disintegration of the country, a total ‘disunification’ of the human race and should not be allowed to exist in any society. The writer of the rejoinder wrote in bold letters at the end of his thesis, “This is not penmanship; it is ‘killmanship.”

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I supposed many people were angered because the book was able to recreate their prejudices, fears, misperceptions and anger. In their anger, they failed to understand that reliving all these human flaws that aided conflict ought to serve as clarifications for eventual understanding of the situation. In their anger they closed their eyes to the fact that there was dignity in self-determination when it meant freedom from an oppressive state, as the radical separationist-character, Oguguo, in the novel, had said. He was, of course, arrested by the secret service at the behest of the executive and remanded in prison. His followers never relented in their efforts to realise their dream, which was having an independent state for their people. Their quest for self-determination only exposed them to much hatred and violation. Their properties and businesses, at the slightest provocation, got destroyed out of a repressed primordial hatred of them.

The book was banned, because of what the government perceived as its destructive ability. It became a punishable offence to find anyone with it. The government said it was better not to read at all than to read books as that! Creativity should sustain life not destroy it!

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Creativity would soon destroy me, if I did not run for my dear life. He keeps watch over him that is surrounded by enemies. Mr. Obiefuna arranged, therefore, my departure to London, being aware that my life had become vulnerable to attacks by people who sought to destroy life than sustain creativity. I could not, therefore, stay around till April when my course-mates were due to travel to Germany for internship.

Once in London, I walked the streets like a colossus; but I was not sure whether I was a friend to it or foe. I was compelled to grant interviews to many a journalist on my book and on the anarchic situation in my country, which, supposedly, was caused by the publication of Memory lane.

The reporter for the Times Broadcasting Corporation (TBC) had asked me:

Reporter: Sir, you are aware of what is going on right now in your country, aren’t you?

Writer: Yes, yes, I’m aware of it.Reporter: You’re accused of being the

cause, of being a propagandist! What do you say to that?

Writer: Well, Tim, do you think, having read Memory Lane that it is a work of irresponsible writing?

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Reporter: Whether or not it was responsible or irresponsible writing would always depend on your motive for writing the book.

Writer: Do you consider the work propaganda?

Reporter: Like I said before, it would always depend on the motive. What is your motive for writing the book?

Writer: I’m one of those who believe that literature is about human beings and as such a social phenomenon. In writing, a writer tries to capture the realities of his or her time in relation to his or her society and the world of course. I also believe that the decision to be a writer arises out of the urge to express one’s ideas about society, life, nature and what have you. Ideas in themselves are vehicles of change; in other words, a writer writes with a view to making a change.

Reporter: What change did you want to make in writing a book whose ideas are destroying your society; the same society you want change?

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Writer: Every right-thinking person knows that the country has a problem. The fact of it being a country makes it rather suffocating. In the first place, the groups that make up the country did not decide by themselves to be one country. But that is by the way now. The problem is: now that we are one country, how do we live together without creating situations that will always remind us of the fact that there is something basically wrong with the very foundation of our nationhood?

Reporter: In your book, you subtly talked on the injustices in your country, on tribalism, corruption and nepotism.

Writer: Yes?Reporter: Don’t you think all these

problems could be traced back to bad leadership instead of tracing it back to the multi-ethnic nature of your society?

Writer: Good. Leadership in my country finds expression in the ethnic origin of the given leaders in power. And the fact of not wanting to entrust political power to particular groups is basically prejudicial as well as a case for accepting the fact of our inability to live together as a nation.

Reporter: Do you advocate military uprising against the existing state?

Writer: Not at all; but the belief that compliance can be enforced through the use of force is to dare the devil.

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Reporter: Can you people afford another war?

Writer: I do not think so; but I can only say that knowledge can do a lot to a people.

Reporter: It could destroy a people, couldn’t it?

Writer: It could also sustain a people!The interview, in far-away London,

generated a lot of adverse criticisms. The criticisms, which were always biased, were such that made me feel guilty at times. However, let it not be as if I took delight in the suffering of humanity; no, not at all! I am human. Thus, in my quiet moments I sought justification in my cause for writing that book. I mortified, at times, at the arguments of the men within: When have you become the sole arbiter of men’s character? Are you sure you were not propelled by pride as regards Biafra and prejudice towards others different from you? The voices within me argued. But the one committed to a particular cause refused sometimes to be bothered by these feelings of uneasiness even when they bothered one: One ought not to lose faith in the discipline required in whatever ‘great cause’ one embarked on. Is that it?

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From London, I flew over to Germany to join my course mates, who had started studies in earnest; withthe advantage that I had become well known as a writer. In Germany, publishers who wanted to translate my book from English to German and subsequently publish it kept asking for the copyright. I could only give my consent to the highest bidder, a humanly thing to do. After a couple of months, a new German version of the book was on the market. Some lecturers, with whom I had struck up acquaintance at our host University, urged me to stay back when my colleagues would be heading back home at the end of our eight-month programme, a prerequisite for the award of the degree in German language and literature.

They wanted to help me get support for further studies; but the precondition was that I had to continue with German studies. I heeded their advice because it provided me the opportunity of furthering my education so as to put myself at a vantage point, whence I would have a good view of the happenings in my country. Conditions there had become very unconducive for writing, especially if one wanted to write without caring whose ox was gored.

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Germany was for me like a charged atmosphere of unseen thunder-claps, because you saw age bent with hate, you encountered youth averse to co-existence, and had walls speak hate to you. The land ate you up; but yours sucked.

15At about nine-thirty in the morning,

men of the state security service invaded the premises of the Sixth Estate Publishers and prevented the workers from leaving the one-storey building. They started searching every place for what they called evidences of treason. The editor of the publishing house as well as Lumumba, who was in-charge of publicity, was taken along to the headquarters of the state security service and they were locked up in solitary confinement cells.

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Comrade Odumegwu, who was the chairman of the Sixth Estate Publishers, had not come to work. He was informed by an unknown caller, who had seen the invasion of his company. He had to leave straight for his village, knowing fully well that they would soon come to his house. He was, however, later arrested in his country home and taken to the headquarters, where Lumumba and the editor of the company were being held. It was obvious that Comrade Odumegwu had been under close observation. The men of the state security service knew about all the conferences and seminars he had been organising and they had been waiting for a favourable time to rein him in. The publication of Memory Lane offered them the opportunity. The reviews it received in the newspapers provided them with what they called evidence.

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But while the federal government thought they had succeeded in nipping the growing evil of Memory Lane in the bud, Tamuno Akabri, who was both my roommate and Lumumba’s roommate in the university, and who also had succeeded in building a band of militants, whom he said wanted justice for the people of the Niger Delta for the bastardisation of their environment by oil exploration companies, had begun to terrorise the country. It was obvious to me that this was a way Tamuno could heal his depression, which was caused less by the realisation that Nigeria had short-changed his people than by his inability to understand why his people, even before oil exploration began in their area, had not been able to conquer poverty.

He always grew fatter when Lumumba told him that it was not completely true that the government had neglected them, because the government had built a modern city in the region as catalyst to the development of the whole region. Whenever Lumumba said that, Tamuno cringed; but because he was not particularly articulate to engage Lumumba in a serious discourse about the state of the nation in regard to his people, he kept growing fat from the depression.

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When the noise of my new book became too loud, Tamuno sought ceaselessly for the book. When he got it, he was overjoyed. Day and night he studied the book. In fact he told his group that it was going to be the bible of their agitation: He began to associate the struggle of Oguguo, the separationist-character in Memory Lane with the struggle of his people, it became obvious that he was going to be considered a security risk. Like Oguguo, he felt it was better for his people to be independent of Nigeria, because as he said, Nigeria was eating them up. He began to emulate Oguguo and felt he had to apply the insights of his struggle to his own struggle. He felt that the banning of Memory Lane was proof of the fact that one could impact on one’s environment if one wanted. It also demonstrated that the pen was mightier that the sword. He knew he could not express his innermost thoughts and ideas in a paper, but at least he could talk to newspaper people and they could publish what he said and make money from it while he made fame and spread his message through them. He smiled at the thought, and for once he thought himself intelligent.

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Oguguo and his group had blown up an oil pipeline in a bid to sabotage the economy and force the Nigerian state to listen. Therefore, Tamuno felt his group had to also blow up oil pipelines in their region in order to draw attention to their struggle, because he knew the press would feature the story. He enjoyed the publicity the undercover operation received, but he also knew he was now treading on dangerous grounds. He could no longer identify the thin line between fiction and reality in his obsession with Memory Lane and its protagonist, Oguguo. He felt he would avenge the death of Oguguo’s people, who were massacred in the north for being Igbo. To do this he needed to charge the people of Hafana living in the Niger Delta, his place of origin and Biafra, for being lazy and parasitic respectively.

At the death of a Hafana herdsman in the Niger Delta and the wanton slaughter of all his herds of cattle, reprisal killings started in Hafanaland and things began to fall apart. Mobile police personnel were dispatched to all the nooks and crannies of the country to halt the killings and maiming that had gained currency. The Niger Delta had to be dealt with with a sledge hammer. Brigades of commandoes were sent to hunt down Tamuno and his group and prevent further sabotage of oil pipelines.

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Nigeria was again on the precipice!

The end

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